He didn’t know what his favorite food was.
Fourteen years of being handed a tray with whatever the kitchen decided he deserved. Fourteen years of eating to survive, not to enjoy. No choosing between Thai or Italian on a Friday night. No craving something specific and driving to get it at ten p.m. because you could. No Sunday morning pancakes or birthday dinners or midnight snacks, standing in front of an open fridge. He hadn’t tasted a fresh, crisp apple in over a decade. He didn’t even know what meal would make him close his eyes and groan with satisfaction because no one had ever asked and he’d stopped wondering.
My eyes burned.
I turned toward the tomatoes before he could see.
“Well then,” I said, and I was proud of how steady my voice came out, “how about I make youmyfavorite dinner?”
He cocked his head, the way he always did when something piqued his curiosity. “What’s your favorite?”
“Chicken Parmesan. Homemade spaghetti sauce from scratch. Garlic bread with an irresponsible amount of butter.”
The sound he made was low, almost reverent. “That sounds incredible.”
“Then we’d better hit the tomato section.” Following me, he turned the cart. The wheel screamed. “I’m going to make you the best meal you’ve ever had. And that’s a promise.”
“Can I make one request?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Anything I want?”
“Anything you want.”
“No limits?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why do I feel like I’m walking into a trap?”
“No limits?” he repeated, the edge of a grin tugging at his mouth.
“Fine. No limits.”
“I want you to cook it naked.”
“That’s unsanitary.”
“You can wear an apron.”
“Oh,justan apron. Because that’s the picture of kitchen safety.”
“I’m very concerned about safety.”
I snorted. “You’re very concerned about seeing me without pants.”
He didn’t deny it. He just smiled. That slow, devastating smile that started in his eyes and worked its way down to his mouth, and I felt it in places that had absolutely nothing to do with grocery shopping.
We moved through the aisles, and I tried to focus on the list, but Knox kept stopping. Not to look at anything in particular. Just to look ateverything.
He stood in front of the cereal aisle for a full two minutes, scanning the boxes like he was reading a foreign language.
“You okay?” I asked.
He scrubbed a hand over the side of his face. “There are … a lot of options.”
“Welcome to capitalism.”
“In there, you eat what they give you. Same rotation every week. Monday was mystery meat. Thursday was pasta, allegedly. Sunday was whatever they scraped off the bottom of the budget.” He picked up a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, read the back, and set it down. Picked up another. Set it down. His hand hovered over a third, and then he pulled it back and just stood there.
