Page 26 of Catcher's Lock
“It’s called sarcasm.”
“I don’t know. You sound almost fond. Could I possibly be thawing your icy heart with my irresistible charms?”
“I built up an immunity to your charms a long time ago.”
Liar. In fact—
“Liar.”
“Don’t push your luck, Farrel. Now, do you want me to feed you or not?”
Holy fucking swoon. It’s like he doesn’t even want me to back off. My head swims with the memories of a hundred casual meals—cross-legged on his bed, eating chili tots straight from the baking sheet; thigh-to-thigh on the steps of the Airstream, with thick sourdough sandwiches on paper plates; side by side in the hammock, while hot dogs charred from the camp stovedrip mustard on our shirts—each one a gift from his thoughtful, brilliant hands.
“Please,” I say, a little huskier than warranted by the offer.
He turns back to the fridge with a sigh. “There’s not a lot to work with here. We’re gonna need a grocery run to make it through the weekend.”
“Like I said—”
“You’re easy. Yeah, yeah, I know.”
It’s one of his superpowers, conjuring meals from empty cupboards and a bare fridge. He sets me to work peeling a couple of wilted carrots and a potato that’s halfway to sprouting its own siblings while he dices onions and celery and defrosts a freezer-burned package of chicken thighs in the microwave. After some wizardry with olive oil, spices, and a can of V8, there’s a pot of soup filling the kitchen with savory steam, and my Josha-starved brain has moved from “boyfriend” to “husband.”
Or that might be the Vicodin.
Diana shows up while the pot is simmering, slender in her lavender scrubs and looking somehow younger than I remember—like the loss of her deadbeat husband peeled away years of exhaustion.
It’s also possible she’s had Botox, because her face shows no reaction when she finds me in the kitchen with her son.
“Gemiah.”
“Hello, Diana.” I summon my most winning smile. “Thanks for letting me crash for a couple of nights.”
“Hi, Mom.” Josha greets her with a gentle kiss on the cheek. “I made some soup, if you’re hungry.”
“I’m going to take a bath,” she says, absently wiping away the ghost of his kiss and causing a low boil of anger to bubble in my chest. “I’m meeting Steven at seven for dinner and a drink.”
“You’ve got a new beau?” I ask, not bothering to mask mysnark. I’ve never known how to behave around this cold, faded woman, and if she’s going to dismiss her son like a vaguely irritating afterthought, I’m not about to start trying now.
“A beau?” She frowns at Josha. “Is that a new gay word, or is he calling me old-fashioned?”
“Jesus, Mom. Neither. He’s trying to make conversation.” He shoots me a sidelong look. “He doesn’t realize he sucks at it.”
“Gee thanks, Rocket.”
His exasperation is adorable.
“I’m gonna go switch my laundry now,” I say, pushing back from the table. “Have fun on your date, Diana.”
“Sorry there weren’t any noodles,” Josha says, dropping a package of Saltines next to the bowl of chicken soup in front of me. “I would’ve made biscuits, but she’s out of butter.”
“This is incredible,” I assure him. “I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal.”
He pauses halfway into his chair, muscles in his jaw twitching as his need to stay pissed at me stumbles over his innate compassion.
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I murmur, crumbling a few crackers into the bowl.
