Page 25 of Hunter or Hunted

No matter how hard I tried to press my lips together, I couldn’t contain the grin. Not because this was funny. Rationally, I knew how delicate this situation was. How delicate Gwen was.

But… “You’re a snort laugher.”

Laughing harder as Honey climbed into her lap, only one blue eye visible through her mop of curls, she laid her head against the door behind her. “Shut up.”

“Like a little piggy.”

She flipped me the bird, still laughing while Honey licked her all over.

I stretched out a hand. “The couch is probably comfier.”

Paying me no mind, whispering sweet nothings to Honey, she grabbed either side of the puppy’s face and scratched up her fur.

“Or you can stay there,” I said under my breath, kicking off my boots.

The kitchen contradicted the woman on the floor. All those gallons of hot cocoa, not to mention the cake, and not a remnant on the counters or in the sink. No spilled chocolate, not a dusting of flour or sugar. The yellowish Formica sparkled in the afternoon light trickling in through the windows. For the home of such a fluffy dog, you’d expect a few tufts of hair against the hardwoods, at least a lingering scent of wet dog, but the smell of sugar and chocolate filled my nose instead.

Gwen was a stress cleaner. How could I be surprised? For someone so stoic, always so calm, quiet and mindful of everyone around her, of course order brought her comfort.

She still sat on the floor, soaking up all the attention Honey gave her, as I headed for the fridge and shook off my jacket. I draped it over the back of one of the wooden dinette seats. At the fridge, I swung open the freezer door.

Frozen meals took up almost all the space. When I shifted them around, though, a log of ground beef caught my eye. Tucked in the back sat a bag of frozen chicken breast.

“Chicken or tacos?” I asked, glancing at her over my shoulder.

“Huh?”

“To eat.” Holding the freezer door open, I spun to face her. “Do you want chicken or tacos?”

“Neither.” She supported herself on the coffee table as she stood. “I’m not really hungry. But eat whatever you want.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

Propping her hands on her hips, she cocked her head to the side. She shrugged.

“So. Chicken or tacos?”

“I don’t care.” She unzipped her hoodie and hung it on a hook by the door. “I’m cool with a Lean Cuisine.”

“Well, I’m not.” Chicken would be less offensive when it came back up, so that was the plan. Inside the cabinet, I found a glass plate. A few chunks of chicken breast in hand, then on the plate, I squinted around. “Where’s your microwave?”

“That cabinet over there by the oven.” As I walked that way and opened it up, she continued. “It’s sweet and everything that you’re offering to cook for me, but I think we’ll still be on weird terms after the chicken.”

That stiffness in my shoulders came back.

Fair. She was right.

I tossed the hunks of meat into the microwave on defrost for a few minutes.

The old chair squealed against the hardwoods. When I turned around, Gwen was sitting in it. She bent over the edge to pet Honey, who lay on the floor beneath her.

I couldn’t call her red hair a mop anymore. She hadn’t done anything to tame it, but the way it fell around her face, all tossed to one side, the way it popped beside her bright blue eyes…

Wild. The only word for it. It matched that look she was giving me.

Focused, unblinking, even in her state. She said she wanted to wait to talk, but that expression said it all.

I don’t hate you, but I don’t like you very much right now.