Page 22 of Blood and Buttercups

“You’re the best, Britta.” I’m so relieved, I could cry. “Really, I mean that.”

We hang up after I tell her where I live, and I lie on the couch, waiting. I must doze because it feels like the doorbell rings only moments later, waking me up. I stumble to the door and peer through the glass.

Noah stands on the other side, wearing a green T-shirt sporting his family’s grocery store logo, looking bored.

“Ah, crap, crap, crap,” I whisper.

I don’t even have makeup on—I look like death incarnate. But I can’t leave him out there. He has my hunk of cow.

Steeling myself, I open the door. His eyebrows fly up when he spots me, and I want to crawl into a hole and die.

“Piper?” he asks, incredulous. I’m pretty sure his sister didn’t bother to tell him whom the delivery was for.

He hands me the bag, looking like he wants to say something.

“Thanks,” I murmur, unable to meet his eyes. I haven’t seen him since the night he rescued me. The few times I’ve returned to the store for deliveries, I’ve managed to avoid him. Either that, or he was avoiding me.

“Steak and sparkling water?” he finally asks, as if he just can’t help himself.

“Yeah, I know. I don’t even eat meat, but my doctor gave me strict orders to choke it down.”

Noah frowns at me, and I swear his eyes go to my neck.

Immediately, I raise my hand, covering the spot where Ethan bit me. It healed weeks ago, but there are still two faint scars. It’s barely visible—unless you’re looking right at it.

“You don’t look like you’re up to cooking,” he says reluctantly.

“Oh.” I glance into the bag, squeamishly peering at the red meat. “I’ll manage.”

“I’m good with steak,” he says, like he doesn’t believe me. “I can make it for you.”

I should decline. Iwantto decline. In fact, I’d almost rather die than let him in while I look like this.

Almost.

“Yeah, okay.” I turn back into the house, leaving the door open. “Thanks.”

I lead him into the kitchen and sit on a barstool at the island, motioning to the stove. “Skillets and stuff are in the bottom cabinet to the right of the oven.”

He pulls the sparkling water out of the bag and hands it to me before going through the cupboard and choosing a cast-iron skillet I’ve never used.

The man is hotter than Arizona in August,andhe cooks. He’s easily the sexiest thing that’s ever graced this kitchen, and he’s not even the slightest bit interested in me.

It figures.

He opens the fridge, staring into the nearly empty shelves. I have half a gallon of milk that expired three days ago, some wilted lettuce, a package of tofu, and a jar of green olives.

Noah gives me an incredulous look over his shoulder, but I don’t even care at this point. I rest my cheek on the cool granite counter, waiting for the sparkling water to make me sick again. I only took a few tiny sips, but that’s all it seems to take.

“Do you have lard?” he asks.

“Uh, no.”

“What about butter?”

“There might be some in the freezer.”

He must find what he needs because the sound of sizzling steak fills the kitchen. I nearly gag at the smell.

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