Page 41 of Hunter

When she came into the living room, she found him sitting in front of the television set with the sound muted.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he said without looking up.

“But you can’t hear anything.”

“I can read their lips,” he answered, his gaze flicking briefly to her before focusing on the screen again.

She nodded, no longer surprised by anything he told her.

He had barely looked at her, but he must have heard her getting dressed. Was he fascinated by the weatherman’s report of a high-pressure system building over the Ohio Valley, or was he trying to avoid talking to her?

“Read my lips: no new taxes,” she said.

“George Bush,” he replied in a monotone.

How many facts did he have at his fingertips, she wondered, even as she felt the sting of his rejection—even as she told herself he had a perfect right to privacy. They had connected intensely last night, and he might be having trouble handling his emotional and physical responses. He might be trying to distance himself from her. She’d been lying in bed wondering how to do just that. She should be grateful to him for taking the initiative. Instead, she couldn’t help feeling hurt.

Very professional, Dr. Kelley, she thought. Annoyed at herself, she crossed to the kitchen and found a loaf of bread and some crumbs on the counter and a steak knife in the sink. On it were the dregs of some peanut butter. It appeared that he’d licked the knife. Another distinctive scent also lingered in the air. Peering into the trash, she found a banana skin and couldn’t repress a grin. It looked like Hunter had fixed himself a breakfast sandwich.

She walked to the kitchen doorway. “You like peanut butter and banana?”

He shrugged. “Granger talked about it once. I wanted to see why he liked it so much.”

“What did you think?”

“It was strange.” He glanced briefly toward the counter. “I should have cleaned up better.”

“I’ll do it later.”

When he turned back to the television, she pulled open the nearest cupboard. “Did you leave room for some pancakes?”

That got his full attention. He focused on her with an undisguised look of naked hope. “Do we have any?”

“I bought a box of mix. Why don’t you get out the syrup while I start making them?”

He trotted into the kitchen, rummaged in the cabinet, and came up with a plastic bottle of syrup. Not the real thing, but the only alternative available.

“I can set the table again,” he offered, and she wondered if he was feeling guilty about his lack of communicativeness.

“Thank you. And you can make coffee.”

“How?”

She handed him two of the pods next to the machine on the counter. “Read the directions.”

He read quickly and followed instructions exactly, she noticed, as she mixed the batter.

“Good,” she complimented him as she ladled batter into the pan.

“It takes a long time to make them,” he said, licking his lips.

“You can have the first two.”

He looked torn, but finally said, “No. Finish making all of them. We can share.”

“Why do you want to do that?” she asked.

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