One More Taste (One and Only Texas #2)(54)

With Haylie watching, Emily slid the thriller between two other paperbacks.

“Where’s your broom and dustpan?” Carina said.

Haylie hurried to her side and took the magazine from her hands. “I can finish on my own. You two have to leave. He’ll be back any time.”

Carina stood, her eyes welling with fresh tears. “Please come with us, Haylie. Please.”

Haylie looked past her sister to Emily, as though Emily were her only ally—the only one who understood her plight. Yes, they were both survivors, but the truth was Emily didn’t understand, not deep down, not really. She would never be able to understand on an elemental level why a battered woman remained in her abusive situation. She only knew what she’d seen with her mom. Emily had rejected her abuse and fled as soon as she was old enough to survive on her own. She didn’t know what it meant to choose to stay.

Emily looped an arm around Carina’s shoulders and pulled her out the door. “You know how to reach us if you need anything,” Carina told Haylie. “I’ll be pissed if you don’t call us.”

“No more cops,” Haylie said.

Emily wouldn’t promise that, and judging by Carina’s silence, neither would she. At the car, Emily pulled Carina into her arms as her friend’s silent tears gave way to wrenching sobs.

Emily held her tight. “We’re going to get her out of there. I promise. She’s going to get through this. Someday, she’s going to be the strongest badass of all badasses that ever were. She’s going to rise and she’s going to live a wonderful, happy life pursuing her dreams. She’s going to soar.”

“Like you did,” Carina croaked.

Emily wasn’t soaring yet, but she was getting there, one meal at a time for Knox.





Chapter Twelve

With the heady aroma of simmering tomato sauce filling the air, Knox stood in his empty kitchen and surveyed the mess. It looked like Emily had paused mid-dinner prep. An unopened bag of Fritos chips sat on the counter, along with a cold bowl of grits topped with melted and cooled white cheese. On the island, a glass jar sat, the shrimp inside visible through a layer of condensation. More ingredients were strewn over the counters.

The pan on the stove was cool to the touch. He opened the lid and found chili, cold. His eyes again found the bag of Fritos. Frito Pie? Really? That was hardly the obvious choice for an accomplished chef.

Then again, Emily was no ordinary chef. Frito Pie had been his father’s favorite meal. No doubt Knox’s mother had given Emily the idea, but he no longer cared that she’d used his mother for insider information because the relief that his exile to Gastronomyville was over superseded all annoyance over her methods.

The question now was, where was the chef? The house felt empty, but Emily’s silver hatchback sat squarely in the driveway, right in front of the steps leading up to the main entrance as though she owned the place, so she had to be around somewhere. Asleep on his bed again, perhaps?

Doubtful. That was a slippery slope that neither of them dared start down.

He walked through the house calling her name, then stepped out to the deck. The evening was blustery. Wind whipped at his hair and dried leaves scuttled across his deck. The time change was a couple of weeks away, so the glow of dusk still saturated the hills, even at the dinner hour. He strode with purpose along the deck, then down to the lake’s edge, peering in the boathouse and along the trail that led to the lookout point on the hill above his home. It was as though Emily had vanished into thin air.

Back in the kitchen, he texted her. Where are you?

He held the phone, awaited her reply. Nothing.

He felt like a whiny, 1950s-era husband. Where’s the little woman and why isn’t she in the kitchen ready to serve me dinner when I get home from work?

Yes, she was probably still furious about their momentary insanity at his mom’s house, but there was no way she’d go from creating culinary masterpieces to brushing him off with a lowbrow dinner cooling on the stove. Impossible that she’d leave the kitchen such a mess. She was a professional, and she wanted the restaurant too much. The truth reminded him that, as opposed to a whiny husband, he was her boss. He was entitled by their arrangement to expect her here, cooking for him, every night this month.

And what of next month? he caught himself wondering. Then fear jolted him out of his selfishness. What if something were wrong with Emily—an emergency, an accident? Could she have been kidnapped? Impossible. But what if?

Are you okay? he texted.

The minutes ticked by. Nothing.

Rather than text again, he called, but her phone flipped to voicemail instantly. He called her office next, but the phone in her office at the resort rang on and on.

He was about to call Carina when the kitchen door opened and Emily trudged in. Her face was drawn and her eyes red-rimmed.

Knox hurried to her and braced his hands on her shoulders. “What happened?”

Eyes downcast, she wrenched her body away and walked to the stove. “I was hoping you weren’t home yet.”

He strode after her, but ground to a halt a few feet away and stuffed his hands in his pockets. The way she hunched away from him, stiff and private, reminded him anew that he had no business imposing himself on her personal life and he certainly had no business touching her. “No such luck. Your car was in the driveway, so how did you get here? Did you walk from somewhere?”