Chapter Twelve
ELIZA
My head is still spinning from hours of watching Sam and Thomas arguing over every bolt, pipe, and wire on the list. The learning curve for the electrical and plumbing part of renovating a house is more of an off-the-rail rollercoaster and I can’t wait to arrive at the decorating stage.
Worry still manages to dampen my excitement. I’ll have to get creative and hunt for junkyard furniture I can recondition. Even with Sam’s experience and Thomas’s help with the returned and discounted construction materials, the total adds up to most of the money Martha gave me.
“What the—” A divine smell makes my stomach rumble ungraciously after I close the front door behind me.
Carter is in the kitchen.
Cooking.
I knew he tended to himself while I was not here, but it’s a sight to behold. He’s moving with the ease of somebody who knows his way around a kitchen.
A small towel drapes over his shoulder, and I take in his tall frame. The tailored trousers hug his behind, and I can’t stop staring at him.
He must have said something while I was lost in my head because I’m met with an expectant arch of his eyebrows.
“Have a seat. Dinner is ready.”
“Oh,” I manage to say, my face flaring with embarrassment. “I’m too tired for dinner. I’d better call it a night.”
His food is off-limits. It’s something so ingrained in me after years of “tough love” from some of my former guardians. It took me years to accept a dinner invitation from the Duntons.
Carter slides the pan off the cooker and calmly wipes his hands. “Are you on a diet?”
“No.” I might have lost a pound or two, with the stress of the past weeks. The question brings back the taunts at school and my fists curl involuntarily.She’s too skinny. Look at her. Do they keep you in chains, behind the house? The laughter.
“Are you on a medical regime?” Carter’s voice is even and soothing.
“No,” I mumble.
“Then sit.” He’s unwavering and places the plate in front of me when I reach the kitchen island.
He caught on to the meal skipping. I can see it in his eyes. The challenge to give him more excuses and refuse to eat with him. He must expect me to be grateful because I’m a charity case.
“It looks and smells delicious.”
“So doesyourcooking. Why aren’t you eating it?”
The turn in conversation makes me uncomfortable and I wring my hands mindlessly.
“Are you micro-poisoning me?” he asks, with a hint of amusement that does nothing to calm my anxiety.
“What? No. No!” My cheeks must be incandescent at this point. The ginger curse. “It’s…I…” How do I tell him it’s a time-tested survival mechanism? That if I don’t ration my food I feel out of control. That I got sick because my emergency stash of canned beans went bad. That his attempts to help put me on edge.
“Is it a financial issue?” The question is straight to the point, without judgment.
“I’m not comfortable explaining it to you.” It’s all I manage to say.
“Tell me if I’m not paying enough for the cabin.”
“No, it’s more than enough.” I focus on a scratch on the wood. Sam would say it’s ridiculous, I’m not a kid anymore, at the mercy of my foster parents who’d throw perfectly good food away or give it to the pigs to teach me a lesson. But I couldn’t sleep at night if I didn’t protect myself the way I know how. Eight years of a “stable” life with Jared didn’t help cure this wound. I wonder if it will ever close.
The stool creaks under Carter’s weight and his long fingers pick up the fork. I sense him staring at me and I start to eat for something to do. It’s indecently delicious and I can’t help the hum of appreciation as the aromas twirl around my tongue.
At last, he takes a bite.
