Page 40 of Welker

He closed the door behind her and rounded the vehicle.

Once Welk was in his seat, had started the car and joined the line of vehicles leaving the property, he figured some small-talk might be a nice way to spend the fifteen minutes it would take to get to the store.

“So, what do you like to eat?” he asked pleasantly. “Or more to the point, what do you like to cook so we know what to buy for food?”

Moira shrugged. “Whatever you enjoy is good with me.”

Welker huffed. “That wasn’t what I asked, Moira.”

Geeze. Had no one she’d lived with ever considered her tastes? “What, in particular, are your favorite foods.”

Her brow wrinkled, and she appeared to be pondering, deeply.

What the hell? The question wasn’t rocket-science.

He changed the direction of their conversation for a moment.

“How long have you been living on your own?” he asked instead.

“Twelve years,” she mumbled at his change of subject as she eyed him with some trepidation. “Why?”

Welker knew, in his gut, that something had been wonky in Moira’s household growing up, so he’d purposely chosen not to make her talk about that time in her life. Welker was patient. He’d eventually get to the bottom of things.

“A long time, then. And I remember you saying you like to cook. You also, obviously have to eat,” he chuckled. “What do you feed yourself?”

“Whatever is on TV,” she answered without hesitation.

Welker blinked. What the hell did that mean?

“On TV?”

“Yeah.” She blew out a breath and gave a lift of her shoulders. “I watch cooking shows. Whatever my favorite chef makes one night, I buy the ingredients the next day after work, and…that’s what I make.”

Okay. This was interesting, and something he could work with.

“How many of those dishes you copy do you make, again, because they were a success, and you liked them so much?”

“Uh, none?” She looked confused.

“None?” he repeated, letting his own perplexity show.

“Yeah,” she confirmed, tipping her head slightly. “Once I know I can cook something, I…move on.”

“Even if you find the food you made, delicious?”

Moira nodded, and the scowl line between her eyes returned.

There was a story here, and Welker would be damned if he didn’t, eventually, get to the bottom of it, but right now, Moira was looking uncomfortable, so he went with the flow.

“Okay. I’m not sure I get it, but…what did you watch last night before you went to bed? Before the shit hit the fan?”

Ten minutes later, they pulled into the box store to park.

Welker couldn’t believe it. Moira had launched into an animated description of a dish; more excited than he’d ever seen her. The recipe she expounded on was an amalgamation of puff-pastry and bolognese, served with a side dish of green beans almondine in some fancy garlic sauce.

It all sounded freaking delicious.

“Okay, then,” he told her, rubbing his hands together and smacking his lips before opening up the phone app he had for lists. “Give me a complete rundown of all the ingredients, and while you’re clothes shopping, I’ll pick up everything we need. That is, if you’re okay cooking?”

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