“Hey, Aiden.” I freeze, turning back to him where he’s sitting on the edge waiting for it to fill. He’s not smiling, but his expression softens when he looks up at me, eyes warm despite how exhausted he looks. “Thank you.”
Something pulls tight in my chest.
I nod, a small smile I can’t hold back slipping out.
I close the bathroom door behind me and walk down the hall to the kitchen.
I need to make him soup.
And the elephant. I mean, I have to look for the elephant, which I can do while I make him soup. Ivan described it as cobalt blue. About a foot long, with red eyes and gold filigree designs throughout it.
I have no fucking idea why he wants it. Ivan talks about it like it’s some rare treasure. He’s hunted for it for years, on and off. It’s an obsession that flares up like a fever from time to time. We moved here late last year when Ivan insisted he thought he knew where it was. It better be made of solid fucking gold. I don’t understand it or the question I’m afraid to ask.
Why does Sawyer have it?
Before I go into the kitchen, I look around the living room. There’s not much to it. A loveseat with a matching armchair sits on a blue rug. The TV sits on a small wooden entertainment center.
Papers are scattered across the dark-stained coffee table. It’s a mess.
I organize his papers—most of them look like ideas and recipes. There are a few cookbooks too. I stack the papers neatly on top of the books, then move my attention to the small round kitchen table with two chairs.
There’s a binder sitting on top with more papers around it—bills, a calendar. I organize them too.
How does he even think in here?
I walk into the kitchen. I can’t cook a thing in here, so I clean up the counters then the empty wooden dish drain.
I wash his dishes and put them up to dry—might as well since I’m just going to make more.
When that’s all done, I move to the fridge. It’s full of food, which makes me happy. I find what I’m looking for, grabbing celery and carrots, and there are onions in a bowl on the counter. In his cabinets I find chicken stock—there’s only one box, so I’ll just have to use water for the rest—and he doesn’t have pastina, but he has orzo, so that’s going to have to do.
Katya loves the star shapes.
I find a spaghetti pot and put it on the stove with the chicken stock and four cups of water. While I put that on to boil, I chopup all the vegetables and put them in the pot with a little salt and pepper.
While I wait for the water to boil I look around the kitchen.
I lift off the counter and open some cabinets, searching. It’s just food, an assortment of baking dishes and equipment. There’s a big baby-blue mixer in his apartment, and for some reason my dumbass brain conjures an image of him in his briefs using this to try out new recipes.
I should be running for the fucking hills.
I have a job to do, and one disorganized baker isn’t going to stop me from seeing it through. I look around through a few more cabinets, but it’s not in here. Part of me wonders if maybe he doesn’t even have it. Ivan insists, but why? Why does he have this? How can those two possibly be connected?
I open a few more cabinets, not seeing anything. I check under the sink, finding only cleaning supplies.
“What are you doing?”
I jump, smacking my head on the cabinet. “Fuck!”
Sawyer rushes over to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “Are you okay?”
I rub the spot as I stand with a nod. “Yeah, I was just going to wipe down the counters with disinfectant. I was looking for cleaner.” Sawyer places his hand on the spot, smoothing his thumb over the bump I’ll no doubt be getting. His skin isn’t as pallid. His eyes are a bit brighter. “Feel better?”
“Yeah.” He smiles. “Thanks.”
I hear the stock begin to bubble and pull my attention back to the stove, turning down the heat to let it simmer. “Do you have a blender?” I look over the kitchen. “I couldn’t find it in all this mess,” I deflect, my heart still racing.
He walks past me, now in a pair of sweatpants, bare feet on the kitchen tile. My gaze travels down his spine before he bends, reaching into a cabinet and grabbing a blender. “I maybe a mess, but not in the kitchen.” He pulls it out and puts it on the counter. “The dishes are from last night. I was testing some things out then I started to feel like shit. I just left everything out, took some cough medicine, and passed the fuck out.” He stands too close to me. I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.
