Page 22 of SALT

He gets up from his seat and crosses the room. Opening the fridge, he pulls out a jar of picante. "I'm not eight. I prefer my tomato sauce spicy."

I scoff, "Adults eat ketchup on eggs all the time. It's practically un-American not to."

He pours the picante over his eggs, ignoring my comment. Right before I'm about to defend my stance and get up and shove a ketchup-covered egg in his mouth, he says, "I could teach you how to cook."

I nearly choke on my dry eggs and reach for my glass of orange juice as he takes a bite of his eggs, now doused in salsa.

"Sorry," I hit my chest. "Went down the wrong pipe."

"No it didn't. Don't patronize me. If you don't want me to teach you, all you have to say is no thank you."

"It's not that. Everett, I've lived in this house for almost five years. I've never seen you cook."

His brow slightly furrows, and I can tell I struck a nerve, though I'm unsure why.

"You've seen me grill plenty of times. In fact, you witnessed that before Connor left for Florida."

"Grilling and cooking are not the same."

"I would disagree. Grilling and stovetop cooking both accomplish the same thing. They heat the food. One is just done over an open flame."

He has a point. I'm not against him teaching me how to cook. Cooking with him equals spending more time with him, and that's something I crave. So I stop teasing him and move on to my next undisputable point. "Okay, fine. Let's say you do cook. When exactly do you expect to have time to teach me?" Cooking abilities aside, we both know time is something he has never had.

Wiping his mouth, he lays his napkin down on the plate, and his deep ebony eyes, framed with thick dark lashes that women would kill for, find mine. "I'll make time."

Chapter 11

Everett

I've been poolside alone for almost three hours, which is something I didn't expect. I came out here because I couldn't stand being inside. It didn't matter where I went in the house; if I didn't see her, I smelled her, and when I wasn't smelling her, I could hear her, and fuck if all three weren't a lethal combination. Coming outside offered me a small reprieve. As it turns out, I don't like her here, but I hate her gone. When she decided to stay at Connor's, it practically killed me.

Before she left, I thought her absence would be the answer, but it was only wishful thinking on my part. I was gone for months. If time and distance didn't manage to cure my sick heart from wanting what it can't have then, I'm not sure why I thought her living a few miles away would. But that's what we do when we're infected. We frantically try to search for a cure to heal us of our affliction. The problem is, I know there is no cure. She is poison in my veins… but fuck if it isn't everything. Life is hard, we are all cursed, and nothing worth having ever comes easy unless it has a hefty price tag, one that usually costs you a pound of flesh and your soul. But I'm starting to understand why people make deals with the devil. A pound of flesh and an empty soul seem like a fair trade to feel alive.

The back door opening draws my eyes to her, and I'm half surprised she's not prancing out here in one of her thong bikinis to taunt me. After we ate breakfast together yesterday, I worked in my office and she went to her room, where she has been ever since, only leaving to grab snacks.

Marching up to my lounger, she sits on the end and says, "I'm hungry."

"Is there a reason you bypassed the kitchen to come out here and share that with me?"

She rolls her eyes, and my finger involuntarily twitches on the keyboard of my laptop.

"Um, yeah, it's almost dinner time, and yesterday you said you would teach me how to cook. Why not now?"

The wind picks up, and I instantly smell roses. The smell I've been running from all day. My mouth ran away with my good sense yesterday when I offered to teach her how to cook. The last thing I need to do is offer to share more space and time with her when I know she's my kryptonite.

"I have a few more emails I need to send out. Tomorrow is a big day at the stadium. All the managers will be on-site to start training crew members. If you're really hungry, maybe order us some takeout."

"I can wait," she says with a shrug before standing and unsnapping the buttons that run down the center of her denim dress, unveiling her white thong bikini. "I could use a little vitamin D after being in the house all weekend." Then, walking around to the other side of my lounger, she flips open the top on the storage table next to me, pulls out a bottle of sunscreen, and sits down on my chair before asking. "Can you put some of this on my shoulders? I don't want to burn before I get a base tan."

"Cameron, I am not rubbing lotion on you."

"Why not?" she says, pulling her hair over to one side and exposing her bare shoulders to me.

Answering that question is an admission I don't want to give. She already holds enough power without knowing how deeply she affects me. Considering her request is a misstep and poor judgment on my part, but taking the bottle out of her hand is definitely a bad decision. Closing my laptop, I set it on the table beside me before wordlessly flipping open the cap. When my palms meet her shoulders, I hear her pull in a sharp intake of breath.

"Sorry, I didn't think it was cold."

When she shakes her head, I know the words she doesn't say: "It's not the sunscreen." I can see the goosebumps running down her arms. It's eighty degrees outside. She's not cold. I couldn't tell you the last time I applied sunscreen. Hell, I'm not sure I ever have, at least not to another person. I overestimated the amount I would need. My hands effortlessly glide over her soft skin, quickly coating her shoulders. The last thing I want to do is pull away when my hands feel like they were made for touching her. I take liberties and allow my hands to drift further down her spine. After all, I'm nothing if not thorough. Her shoulders aren't the only part of her that could burn. When I reach the string that wraps around her back, I dip my fingers beneath and run them along its length. There's a slight tremble in my hand as I find the strength to abandon the string when all I really want to do is pull it. However, the farther I let my hands drift down her back, the more pulling that string might have been the better option.

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