“Jamie,” he says, making my brow arch as he’s not really in the habit of using anyone’s name, generally preferring to refer to people via grunt, “we must talk.”
The unexpected scenario is enough to pull me slightly back into reality.
“Umm, okay,” I answer, taken aback. “About?”
“Carmen.”
Just hearing her name makes me smile. But it melts quickly when I pick up on the serious tone in his voice.
“What about her?”
Kazu’s lips purse. “I don’t like getting involved in people’s business,” he says, like he’s giving himself a prelude to gather his thoughts. “But I care about her.”
I want to tell him that I care about her, too. Because I do. A lot. But considering the terms Carmen laid down for what we’re doing, I don’t want to be out here giving people the wrong impression about our relationship. No matter what I want it to be.
Instead, I just nod, holding eye contact. It’s clear he’s being serious.
“Because she is Cindy’s niece, of course,” Kazu continues, “but also because she’s someone who has not had enough people in her life to treat her right. Other than her aunt.” For a moment, the gravity in Kazu’s expression melts away at the mention of Cindy, and a dreamy expression gathers on Kazu’s face, his often-dim eyes turning bright. Is that how I look when I say Carmen’s name?
He continues. “When she first moved here, she seemed … lost. And sad.” My heart twists. I remember how she seemed when she first showed up. Distant, closed-off, evasive, much more so than she is now. I never registered it at the time as her being sad. “She’s been getting better. Especially lately. She doesn’t need a setback.”
“Of course not,” I answer.
The gravity in Kazu’s gaze sharpens until it’s as cutting as the knives he uses so expertly in the kitchen. He leans across the table in my direction, his eyes slicing into me. “Don’t be the reason for any setback.”
The warning tone in his voice is impossible to miss, and the thought of his expertise with knives stands out in my mind once again. I wouldn’t be surprised if he starts to tell me that he has a very particular set of skills …
“I won’t,” I say. The strength of the conviction in my voice almost surprises me. “Never.”
Kazu draws back. Some of the hardness in his face relaxes. His gaze rests appraisingly on me for a beat, before he nods. “Good.”
The gruff chef slides out of the booth and returns to his place behind the counter. I smile at him the next time he turns around to address something in the kitchen.
Most people wouldn’t rank being menaced by a person who’s extremely skilled with sharp objects as a highlight of their day.
But knowing that Cindy has one extra person out there who’s looking out for her, who cares about her—yeah, that makes me happy.
Before I’ve closedthe front door or started to toe my shoes off, a sound from upstairs catches my attention.
An exchange of low, sharp whispers, hissed with intensity of feeling. An argument of some kind. I tilt my head and try to focus. Felix? And Veikko?
The conversation remains too low and indistinct for me to catch any meaning. Until finally a phrase bursts unmissably from Felix’s voice. “Fuck that!”
“Felix.” Veikko’s voice is strained and tired, almost pleading.
“No,” Felix bites back, unable to restrain his feelings in the confines of a whisper. “I don’t want to hear this bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit. It’s the truth.” Veikko’s response sounds like the words are ground out through gritted teeth. I have no idea what they’re talking about, but Veikko’s voice makes it hard to believe there’s any conviction behind what he’s saying.
Then why is he saying it? Whatarethey talking about?
Felix scoffs loudly. “That night at the hotel made me realize I’ve wasted way too much time pretending to be someone I’mnot all these fucking years. I thought you realized the same thing.”
“Don’t talk about that night …” The strain—pain, even—in Veikko’s voice makes me realize that, as much as I really, really want to know what these two are talking about, this is a conversation I have no right to overhear.
I shut the door loudly, too loudly, to make sure they know they’re no longer alone.
The conversation on the second floor halts abruptly. I hear one door opening and then another slamming shut. The silence that follows is downright oppressive, and the house suddenly feels big and empty and colder than the wind outside.
