Now we’re sitting at the gigantic wooden table in the kitchen with a jug of ice water, and the questions are not prepared to stay in my brain for much longer. This place holds significance somewhere in Jesse’s life and my curious mind is struggling to hold back.
He watches me with a small smile as I lift my glass to my lips before he proceeds to quench his own thirst, still keeping his eyes on mine. I’m desperate to ask, and he knows it, but he’s making me suffer. “Would you like something to eat?”
I can’t prevent the surprised look from jumping onto my face. “Are you going to cook for me?” There’s no Cathy here, and he knows I hate cooking.
“I could’ve had staff, but I wanted you to myself.” He grins that roguish grin. “I think you should look after your husband and fulfill your obligation as my wife.”
I cough a little at his arrogance. “When you married me, you knew I hated cooking.”
“And when you married me, you knew I couldn’t cook.”
“But you have Cathy.”
“In England I have Cathy to feed me, which is a good job as my wife doesn’t.” He’s serious now. “In Spain I have my wife. And she’s going to make me something to eat. You did a good job with the chicken.”
He’s right, I did, but that doesn’t mean I enjoyed it, although I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t enjoy watching him eat it. I was looking after him for a change, and with that thought, I’m oddly keen to prepare him a meal. “Okay.” I stand up. “I’ll fulfill my obligation.”
“Oh good. It’s about time you did what you’re told,” he says candidly, no smile, no humor. “Get to it, then.”
“Don’t push it, Ward,” I warn, leaving him at the table and making my way to the fridge. It doesn’t take me long to decide what to cook. I grab some peppers, chorizo sausage, rice and mushrooms, along with some lamb cutlets, and transport them to the worktop before locating a chopping board and a knife.
I set to work, halving the peppers and deseeding them, and then chopping the mushrooms and sausage finely and frying it all off. I boil the rice, chop some fresh bread, and pan fry the lamb. And the whole time he sits and watches me busy myself, with no offer of help and no attempt to make conversation. I’m halfway through stuffing the peppers when he appears in front of me, leaning across the counter from the other side. “You’re doing a great job, lady.”
I pick my knife up and wield it at him. “Don’t patronize me.”
I’m shocked when his relaxed face flashes black and the knife is snatched from my hand. “Don’t fucking wave knives around, Ava!”
“Sorry!” I blurt out, glancing at it in his hand and quickly appreciating my stupidity. It’s a nasty-looking blade, and I’m brandishing it about like it’s a rhythmic gymnast’s ribbon. “I’m sorry,” I repeat.
He places it down carefully and seems to gather himself. “It’s okay. Forget about it.”
I gesture toward the table for anything to do other than apologize again. “Do you want to lay the table?”
“Sure,” he says quietly, maybe thinking that he’s gone a bit over-the-top; I don’t know, but his withdrawn mood and my scorned state have formed a clear tension.
Jesse leaves me and quietly lays the table for two while I finish preparing dinner.
“Here.” I slide his plate in front of him, but before I can pull my hand away, he grabs it and looks up at me with sorry eyes.
“I overreacted.”
I feel better already. “No, it’s fine. I shouldn’t be so careless.”
He smiles. “Sit.” He pulls my chair out, but as soon as I’ve lowered myself, he stands. “We’re missing something,” he informs me, striding off and leaving me wondering where he’s gone. It’s not long before he’s back, holding a candle in one hand and a remote control in the other. He finds some matches, lights the candle, and places it in the center of the table, then pushes a few buttons on the remote control, filling the villa with a distinct male voice. I recognize it immediately.
“Mick Hucknall?”
“Or God. Either will do.” He smiles as he takes his seat.
“You’re willing to share your title?”
“He’s worthy,” he replies casually. “This looks good. Eat up.”
I acknowledge his nod at my plate with a small smile and carve my way through a piece of lamb, resisting the urge to brandish my knife again when Jesse leans over, looking at my meat. He’s checking how well it’s cooked. I help him out, turning my plate so he can see the center of my lamb. I like my steak medium, but I love my lamb cooked thoroughly.