The Obsession(120)

“And I can promise you I know better than any young blonde woman in this town how to take care of myself. I can promise you, Xander, not to take unnecessary chances, and to take sensible precautions. I’ll also point out that both women he killed lived or worked in town. I think he must stalk them, or at least watch their routines. I don’t have a routine—and you have enough on your mind without worrying about me.”

“Nothing that’s on my mind is more important than you.”

He turned to her, took her breath away with one long, steady stare.

And once again, the dog raced off the deck, this time leading with a bark.

“It’s probably Mason.” She laid a hand on Xander’s tensed arm. “This son of a bitch comes at women in the dark, and I’ll bet from behind like a coward. He doesn’t walk up to them in the daylight.”

“You’re right. I’m edgy.”

He relaxed a little when Mason rounded the house with Tag.

“I have to make a couple calls. I’ll be down when I’m done and tell you what I can. Xander, I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Yeah, we all are.”

“I’m going to see what I have to throw together for dinner,” she told Xander.

“I can call in for pizza or whatever. You don’t have to cook.”

“I’m edgy, too. Cooking helps.”

“Have you thought about getting a grill? I can grill—you know, steaks, chops, even fish.” He shrugged when she stopped at the opening. “Give you a hand with meals sometime.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve been looking at grills online.”

“You can’t buy a grill online.” Sincerely appalled, he stared at her—with some pity. “You have to see it, and—”

“Stroke it?” She offered a bright smile. “Speak to it?”

Appalled pity turned on a dime to a cool disdain that made her want to laugh. “You have to see it,” he repeated.

She made a humming sound, then went in to check her supplies and formulate a menu.

Moments later, he came in, grabbed a beer, sat at the counter. “I’m buying the grill.”

“What?”

“I said I’m buying the grill.”

Sauté some chicken breasts, she thought. Garlic, herbs, wine. Distracted, she turned to him. “The grill? Seriously, Xander.”

“Grills are serious.”

Now she did laugh. “I’d be the last one to say any cooking appliance or tool isn’t serious, which is why I’ve been researching and eliminating and considering online.”

“Have you ever bought a grill before?”

“No, but—”

“I’ll take care of it.”

It occurred to her he was thinking, and feeling, something other than grief. So she stretched it out. “You don’t know the features I want, the brand, the size. We’re having chicken, rice, mixed vegetables,” she decided.

“You don’t buy a grill online any more than you buy a car online.”

Because she felt better herself, she took another poke. “Have you ever bought a grill?”

“Kevin has, twice, and I was with him both times. It’s the same thing.”

She began to assemble her ingredients. “Well, there’s plenty of time to decide before summer.”

“There’s your first wrong turn—well, second since the whole online deal. You get the right grill, you use it year-round, especially when you can put it right outside the kitchen like you can here.”

She got a pot for the rice, put it on the stove, then came to the counter so she could face him while she minced garlic. “I had no idea you were so serious about outdoor grills. The things you learn.”

“I’m buying the grill.”

They’d see about that.

“Do you know how to peel carrots?”

Frowning, he took a slow sip of beer. “Probably.”

She pulled carrots out of the fridge, got a peeler, pushed them to his side of the counter. “Good, peel these.”

“I thought you scraped them off with a knife.”

It was her turn for pity. “Sure, if you want to take all day and make a mess out of it. You just . . .” She picked up a carrot and peeler and demonstrated.

“Okay, okay. I’ve got it.”

Mason came back in to see Xander with a small pile of carrot peels, scowling at the carrot he worked on stripping. And his sister at the stove sautéing garlic.

Pretty homey, he thought. Maybe Xander looked out of his milieu, but altogether, pretty homey.

“Mason, do you remember how to floret a cauliflower?”

“Um—”

“Sure you do.”

She handed him a knife, set the head on a cutting board.

“I don’t even like cauliflower.” But he sat, comfortable now in an old Harvard Crimson T-shirt and jeans, and picked up the knife.

“You do when it’s disguised with butter and herbs. It’s nice,” she said, “having line cooks.”

“It’s like home.” Mason cut away the thick stem, sliced through the core from the bottom, pulled the head into two halves. “Back in New York, only you’re head chef instead of Harry.”