Page 5 of Chomp's Challenge

My arms wrap around my torso, and I take a step back, wary of Chomp and his intentions. “I want to leave.”

His expression falters. “Are you sure? I thought you might like to rest and recover where there aren’t a lot of people around. The lake is beautiful this time of year.”

Why do I feel like he’s trying to sell me on remaining here with him?

“I don’t want to take advantage of your hospitality.”

I’m actually afraid to stay because I shouldn’t be feeling the way I do right now. In fact, the last thing I want is to embroil him in my shitty life. Perry destroyed who I was as a woman, and I have nothing to offer this man named Chomp. Nothing at all. Sadness seeps into my soul because I suspect that in another place and time, I might feel differently.

He smiles, and it's breathtaking. He’s too handsome with his dark hair, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and a short and neatly trimmed beard. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

“I think it’s best if I leave,” I insist.

His smile wavers. “Okay. But how about you eat first? I made a few different things since I wasn't sure what you’d like.”

I guess that explains the frilly apron, which surprisingly doesn’t make him look effeminate in any way. “Um, since you went to the trouble to cook, I’ll come and eat, but then I should probably leave.”

“You come down as soon as you’re ready. No rush.” He winks at me, spins on his heel, and leaves the bedroom, taking a bit of the light in the world with him.

My life had become such darkness that I felt swallowed by it. How ironic that the first light I feel is after such a brutal assault and with a stranger. There’s something open and honest about Chomp. He feels genuine and sweet. I don’t know how to process that.

How can I after so much cruelty?

But it’s the slight flutter in my heart that decides for me. That teasing bit of light is too enticing to resist. I slowly make my way to the door, noting that my ribs and the bones I thought were broken don’t feel more than sore right now. I move with more ease than I anticipate. I’m definitely not at my best, but considerably less injured than I remembered. In fact, my bruises are yellow and not the deep purple and blue I expected them to be after the brutal beating I received.

How is this possible?

Chomp is in the kitchen when I reach the bottom of the stairs. He’s still wearing that apron, and I know there has to be a story tied to it. I don’t ask because my focus turns to the mouthwatering aromas filling his kitchen. There’s so much food! I can’t believe he cooked all this. It’s enough to feed a houseful of people, not just the two of us. My gaze flicks over the taut muscles on his body, and I smirk. He probably needs all that fuel.

“Is all this supposed to be for the two of us?” I ask, taking a seat on a nearby stool. He’s got a center island piled with dishes, and I note there’s a crockpot full of chicken noodle soup; it's just what I need.

“Uh, yeah.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal that he must have spent hours making all of this while I slept. “What can I get ya?”

“Soup and grilled cheese, please.” It’s the best place to start. I love scrambled eggs, sausage, and breakfast food, but I’m not sure my stomach can handle the grease right now.

Chomp ladles a bowl with soup and places it down, followed by a grilled cheese that he cuts in half the right way, into wedges like my mom used to do for me when I was sick. It’s that little detail that brings tears to my eyes, stinging as I hold them back. When was the last time anyone cared enough to treat me with respect or kindness? He even folds a napkin and places it beside me, grinning until he sees the sheen of tears in my eyes.

“Shit. You okay, Ariel?”

No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. They’re all correct answers. I settle on one. “Not sure.”

“Hey, I’m not expecting anything from this. I had all the food. It’s no hardship. I wanted to cook for you.”

One lone tear slips down my cheek, and I brush it aside. “Thanks. It’s been a long time since,” I pause, not wanting to continue. “It looks good.”

“I hope it tastes better than good. I used up all the Gouda,” he laughs.

Gouda? My fav! I bite into the sandwich and nearly moan. It’s so freaking good. I almost smile.

He fixes himself a hearty plate full of the breakfast foods, along with a bowl of soup and some crackers, which he crushes up and then tosses into the bowl. He sits down at the table, careful not to get too close to me, leaving an empty stool between us.

“It’s delicious,” I finally admit after taking another bite, chewing, then swallowing it down. I reach for an unopened bottle of water and raise my brow at him.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d want to drink, but I figured water was a safe bet. I also didn’t think you’d want me to open the bottle, all things considered,” he replies. “I also have coffee, juice, and soda, if you’d rather have any of those.”

“No, water’s fine.”

I don’t tell him that I wasn’t allowed to drink anything but water while living with Perry. I’m not sure my stomach would be able to handle anything else. Occasionally, I had Kool-Aid, but again, that wasn’t frequently enough that I trusted my gut wouldn’t expel everything. And this sandwich is too freaking delicious to waste in that manner as far as I’m concerned.

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