“Rosita’s is fine. Tim and Paige have everything under control. James has Tate under control.”
Elle snorted. “Momzilla under control?”
“You underestimate James and his persuasive powers.”
She pondered for a sec. “You might be right.” Then she smiled sweetly at him and batted her eyelashes. “By the way, sweetie…”
“You’re so beautiful. Even while plotting.”
She even managed to look affronted. So cute. “What do you mean ‘plotting’?”
“It’s in those gorgeously manipulative eyes, pet.”
“In two days there’s this event—”
“No.”
“It’s El Baile de los Diablos. They perform—”
“Absolutely not,” he interrupted her again. He remembered seeing that pic on the wall of fame at Rosita’s, the one of her and Jonah dressed like devils, laughing, holding lit pitchforks at some kind of street event.
“But—”
“Fuck no.”
She pressed her lips into a thin line, chagrined. “You understand I have an ax and that this high-handed behavior of yours can get you in trouble?”
“I’ll risk it. Besides, if you chop me into pieces, you’ll never find your way out of here.”
She struck the wood, splinters flying all over. “Unless I call for help.”
“And how would you explain my untimely demise? Twenty-five to life is a long time.”
Her snort sounded insultingly derisive. “I would go free, believe me. Anyone that knows you would agree with me that offing you was self-defense.”
She swung the ax again and more pieces of wood went flying.
No doubt this was going to tire her fast. The question was, was that going to happen before or after losing a couple of fingers?
“We have enough wood,” he said after several near misses, and grabbing her by the hand, dragged her inside. “Let’s make dinner.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Not hungry.”
“I’ll cook. No MREs.”
That seemed to spike her interest. “What exactly will you cook? The kitchen is spotless now. You going to hunt? Because you need to skin the poor devil before bringing it into the cabin. Not that I will eat that. I prefer my meat cut and in vacuum-sealed trays. The fewer similarities with the gruesome reality, the better.”
“The kitchen was already spotless, pet. And no hunting.” The way she was moving around like a headless chicken, catching anything would be impossible. “Spaghetti carbonara. Sterile enough? It’s Italian traditional cuisine.”
“It’s not traditional Italian,” she grumbled, following him to the kitchen. “It was invented during the Second World War. American soldiers stationed in Italy had bacon and eggs as rations, so the Italians came up with that recipe to use those ingredients.”
“Your Italian teacher told you that?” At least he was teaching her more than swear words.
She shook her head. “My brother did.”
At that, her face changed and went somber. “Tell me about your brother.”
“Great guy. Died. End of story.” He would have wanted to poke, but she did a total one-eighty. “Not sure how this mercenary shit works, but shouldn’t you get paid enough to have a kick-ass cabin with all the amenities in the world?”
“Don’t need them. This place is a getaway. Being connected is not getting away.”
“Neither is having to relieve yourself in the forest,” she countered and pointed at the supplies he was getting from the pantry. “Or having to put dehydrated egg yolks in the carbonara. I don’t dare to speculate what you’re using for bacon.”
“It’s edible and tastes like bacon. Good enough?” She didn’t look too convinced. “Besides, it provides all necessary nutrients.”
“As far as I’m concerned, there’s only two necessary nutrients: chocolate and gelato.”
Man, she was worse than a kid.
“Oh, and pasta,” she added.
“Well, two out of three isn’t bad.”
“Two out of three?” she asked, her eyes already shiny with excitement. “Is there sugar here somewhere?”
“Those are empty calories. Useless.” He rummaged in his bag and put several protein bars on the table. “These are better and they taste like chocolate.”
She opened one, took a whiff, and barked out a laugh. “Sure. In what universe, Borg?”
“Go a couple of days without sugar. This will taste fantastic.”
She wrinkled her cute little nose and didn’t even dignify that with an answer.
He worked fast and soon dinner was ready. Elle stayed with him during the whole process, chattering nonstop about Rosita’s and her job at the airport. He loved to hear her talk. He would love it even better if she would tell him why she couldn’t stay still. Why she couldn’t stand the silence. Why she couldn’t stop talking.
“Let’s go to the sofa. I’m sick and tired of the hard benches,” Elle said.
The sofa table was too small and low to eat from, so she tucked her legs under her ass and, holding the plate with one hand, dug in right away. Jack sat beside her and, putting his boots over the raggedy table, followed suit.
“Not bad,” she said. “I’m impressed.”
“Told you. Ronnie’s favorite food while growing up.”
“You cooked for her?”