Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(47)

“Do you like it?” he heard Zoë ask. He couldn’t even reply. Hunger had come raging, and he had given over entirely to the single-minded act of eating.

Zoë brought a glass of cold water. When the plate was empty, Alex set down his fork, and drank the water, and silently evaluated his physical condition. The change was nothing short of miraculous. His headache was fading, and the tremors were gone. He was sated with taste and warmth … it was like being drunk on food.

“What was in that?” he asked, his voice distant as if he were speaking from a dream.

Zoë had replenished his coffee cup. She leaned her hip against the table as she faced him. Her cheeks were satiny from the heat of the stove. “French bread I made myself. Heirloom tomatoes I bought at the farmer’s market. The cheese was made on Lopez Island, and the eggs were laid this morning from wyandotte hens. The basil was grown in the herb garden out back. Would you like another helping?”

Alex could have eaten an entire pan of it. But he shook his head, deciding it was better not to push his luck. “I should leave some for your guests.”

“There’s more than enough.”

“I’m fine.” After taking a swallow of coffee, he looked intently at her. “I wouldn’t have thought—” He broke off, not able to describe what had just happened to him.

Zoë seemed to understand. A faint smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Sometimes,” she said, “my cooking has a kind of … effect … on people.”

The back of his neck prickled, not unpleasantly. “What kind of effect?”

“I don’t let myself think about it too much. I don’t want to ruin it. But sometimes it seems to make people feel better in a sort of … magical way.” Her smile turned rueful at the edges. “I’m sure you don’t believe in things like that.”

“I’m surprisingly open-minded,” Alex said, conscious of the ghost wandering back into the kitchen.

“Well, look at you.” The ghost sounded relieved. “You’re not going to keel over and die.”

Zoë’s attention was diverted as her cat meowed at the back door, its furry bulk visible through the screen. As soon as she let Byron inside, he sat and looked at her, flicking his tail impatiently.

“Poor little fluff-monster,” Zoë cooed, putting a spoonful of something in a dish, setting it on the floor.

The cat gobbled up the treat ferociously, looking like the kind of pet that would eat its owner.

“Isn’t it against the health code to let him in here?” Alex asked.

“Byron’s not allowed near the dining or food-prep areas. And he only visits the kitchen for a few minutes a day. Most of the time he sleeps on the porch or in the back cottage.” She came to collect Alex’s plate. The front of the apron gaped to reveal just enough lush cle**age to make him light-headed. He dragged his gaze up to Zoë’s face.

“You get grumpy,” she said gently, “after you’ve had too much to drink.”

“No,” Alex said, “I get grumpy when I’ve stopped.”

She looked at him closely. “You mean for good?”

Alex gave her an abbreviated nod. There were countless reasons for him to quit, but the one that mattered most was that he didn’t want to need anything that much. He’d been caught off guard by the realization of how dependent he’d become on booze. It had been easy to delude himself into thinking it wasn’t a problem because he wasn’t disheveled and homeless, had never been arrested. He was still functional. But after what had happened that morning, he couldn’t deny that he had a problem.

It was one thing to be a heavy drinker. It was another to become a full-blown alcoholic.

Zoë went to take his dishes to the sink. “From what I’ve heard,” she said over her shoulder, “it’s not an easy habit to break.”

“I’m about to find out.” Alex stood from the table. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning for the check.”

“Come early,” Zoë said without hesitation. “I’m making oatmeal.”

Their gazes met across the room.

“I don’t like oatmeal,” Alex said.

“You’ll like mine.”

Alex couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away. She was so soft-looking, so radiant, and he let himself think, just for a moment, about the way she would feel under him. The magnitude of his attraction to her was nearly overwhelming. He wanted things from her that he’d never wanted from anyone, things beyond sex, and none of it was possible. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff, fighting not to fall while the wind pushed at his back.

As Zoë returned his stare, rampant color washed over her face, contrasting with the brilliant pale gold of her hair. “What is your favorite food?” she asked, as if the question were profoundly intimate.

“I don’t have a favorite food.”

“Everyone has a favorite.”

“I don’t.”

“There must be some—” A timer interrupted her. “Seven-thirty,” she said. “I have to pour coffee for the first guests. Don’t go, I’ll be right back.”

When Zoë returned, however, Alex was gone. A sticky note had been applied to the backsplash above the sink, with a word written in black ink: