Faust must have noticed the noise too because he’s got the car in park and the garage door is closing—a three-car garage, no other cars inside—but I feel his gaze on the side of my face.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, his voice low in the small space between us.
There’s music playing from his speakers and it sounds like jazz, which amuses me in a good way, but it’s not enough to cut the tension between us.
I turn and meet his eye. I’ve played this game before.
“So you casually live in a castle?”
He glances down, like he’s embarrassed. “I thought you would’ve heard.” He doesn’t say it arrogantly.
I laugh out loud. “In case you forgot, I wasn’t a member of your fan club.”
“Wasn’t?” he presses, meeting my gaze with a small smirk.
“Did youbuythis?” I gesture around.
He shakes his head once. “No. Inherited.”
“Must be nice,” I mutter.
“It is.” He studies my face. “Let’s eat?”
“I’m not hungry.” I click the button on my seatbelt and note the details of his garage from inside the cocoon of his tinted windows, his car engine off now.
It’s neat and tidy, only hockey sticks, duffel bags, and a net lining the row of shelves beyond his window.
When I turn my head, I see a bright red trash can that looks oddly pristine.
Never seen a red one before, but it unfortunately makes me like him more. It’s unique. It probably looks like Dracula’s can positioned at the end of his driveway on trash collection day.
“I’m a good cook,” he says softly.
The admission surprises me and I swivel my head back around to stare at him, the seatbelt threading through my fingers as it retracts.
“Really?”
He frowns, one hand on the wheel, his silver Casio watch glinting on his wrist. “Yes,really.”He says it with a hint of bite. “All kinds of food, too. I could make you anything.” The last part is softer.
My throat feels tight and I want to get out of the car but staring at him in the dark with only the dash lights to illuminate the planes of his face, I find I can’t move. Not yet.
“What’s your favorite thing to cook?”
He doesn’t skip a beat. “A meal? Sweet potato and turkey chili. But my favorite thing to make is bread.”
“From scratch?” For a heartbeat, I think he’s making a joke about money. I don’t know if he makes any or if he comes from it, but something or someone is paying for the upkeep of this place, and this car, and I doubt it’s student loans.
He lifts a brow, slow. “Yes.” He says it simply, like I’m silly for not understanding it. “Do you cook?” he asks, throwing my questions back in my face.
For the first time, I’m kind of ashamed I don’t. “Not really, no.” Mom was always too busy to teach me and Nolan was always too comfortable restricting food to put much emphasis on making it.
Faust glances at my core, and I wonder if he’s thinking about my stomach growling, and I feel myself growing hot as I shiftslightly in the seat. “I can cook for you,” he offers again. “Really, anything. My fridge is always stocked.”
“I imagine you have to eat a lot with all those calories you burn on the ice.”
“I’m always hungry,” he says with a half-smile.
Which, considering my obsession, makes me curious. “How many calories do you eat a day?”
