Page 48 of Eyes in the Shadows

“You can explore wherever you want inside the fence—just knock first if a door is closed,” he says, coming back out, fully clothed. He’s rubbing his hair violently with the towel, so he can’t see as I take in and appreciate the sight of him in the daylight, wearing those dark jeans and henley so well.

“Okay.”

He crosses the room again and I hear what I assume is the towel being hung, then he leaves. No goodbye.

Eventually, my clothes are dry, and I can leave the room. I wander slowly through the house, starting at the top. There’s a converted attic space above our floor with another bedroom and a bathroom, a kitchenette and a lounging space with a giant TV and leather reclining couch—like its own little apartment. It all looks completely untouched.

Mac seems to be the only one on the third floor, the other bedrooms have an empty feel to them and the beds aren’t made up with sheets. There’s an office, though, and I find a few of what must be Mac’s personal electronics and what has to be gun cleaning equipment that I leave the hell alone. The second floor has more shut doors, so I assume both Dimitri and Wesley stay there.

It gets warmer the further down I go. The gym and movie room in the basement genuinely excite me, then I’m distracted by the elevator. I use it to ride back up to the first floor, just because.

And the first floor is just a complete sensory overload. I’ve never been in a house that has a hallway before. My parents’ house was firmly middle class—each room led to another—but this place has so many rooms it needs its own highway to expedite the trip from one end to the other. And while the library, conservatory, dining room and game room are all impressive in their own right, I end up back in the kitchen.

This time, I let myself be nosy. I open cabinet doors and paw through the fridge and freezer. The pantry is so well-stocked and organized, I almost start drooling. They have every gadget I do, plus any I’ve ever even considered wanting.

The doorbell rings, pausing me in my exploration. I wait for the sound of footsteps—or, in Dimitri’s case, stomping—but nothing comes. I’m probably not supposed to answer the door. But I move into the foyer out of sheer curiosity, and peek through the peephole.

I’m confused. No one is there.

It feels off, but it’s not like just anyone can get in through that gate, right? Mac needed a fingerprint and a code. And though it feels wrong to answer the door at someone else’s house, I’m too curious now. I twist the locks and open the door, really hoping this isn’t some kind of trick.

But it’s not a trick. It’s… a grocery delivery. I glimpse the back of a sedan with Jersey plates, disappearing down the driveway, and take a step forward to examine the tidy pile. Then, I blow out a breath. This is going to take a few trips.

Some time later, it’s all laid out on the countertop and I’m out of breath. And kind of flabbergasted. Six dozen eggs, fifteen pounds of chicken breast, a huge box of broccoli, twenty bags of lettuce, four gallons of milk, a bag of onions, a bagof potatoes, ten pounds of ground beef, some berries and oranges, plain nonfat Greek yogurt, oatmeal… it’s a powerlifter’s wet dream—all lean protein and fiber.

I have a sinking feeling about the food situation in this house.

“—if something happens, so there is someone in place… ah, good. The groceries have come.”

I look up at the sound of what I assume is Dimitri’s voice, from the accent. The three of them enter the kitchen, and it shrinks in size as the testosterone fills the space. I’m seriously not sure how three men this good-looking are working together and the job isn’t, like, actors or porn stars.

My brain momentarily goes on the fritz at that thought.

Mac smiles at me. “Did you bring all that inside, darlin’? You didn’t have to do that.”

I shrug, though I secretly thrill at the use of my pet name in front of his friends. “Does this look… right?” While I want to be sure they got everything they wanted, I’m hoping they didn’t. Where’s the fat, or spice, or acidity? Where’s the flavor?

Dimitri’s eyes scan the pile, and it doesn’t take very long. “Yes. Every week, the same.”

“That’s so…” I clear my throat, trying to find the right word, “efficient.”

I hear a snicker, but I’m not sure whether it’s Mac or Wesley. Dimitri turns his stony glare on them. “I know,” he replies curtly.

I eye the pile of food and my fingers itch to do something with it. Not only will it really calm me down to have something to focus on other than my own boredom, but it’ll give me a way to contribute. “I can… I mean, do you want me to make you guys some meals?”

“Yes,” Mac replies instantly, at the same time Dimitri says, “No.”

“Trust me, man, you really want her to,” Mac tells the larger guy, clapping him on the shoulder. “She’s a chef.”

I try to hide how I puff with pleasure at that. It’s technically an accurate description of my job, though usually I call myself a line cook. But Mac’s total confidence in me, and the way he alludes to my skills eagerly and with pride, makes me all gooey.

“I prefer to know precisely what I am eating,” Dimitri argues, but he’s not looking at me when he says it.

“Come on, live a little,” Mac replies.

As they go back and forth, Wesley weaves around them and the island, grabs an energy drink from the fridge, and starts loading the new pack in. “I’ll let them sort it out between them, but I’m in either way,” he says softly, shooting me a smile. “A real chef, eh? What a treat you are.”

I smile back at him and open my mouth to rattle off my credentials, but Mac cuts me off with a growled, “Stop flirting and get back to your cave.”

---