Page 53 of Keystrokes and Kittens

Christian whispered, “sorry,” as I passed him.

I waved him off. After stepping outside the pen, I reached for the plate.

Sam held it away. “I’ll join you at the barbecue.”

Crap.“Aren’t you worried about the kittens?”

In unison we turned.

To find Christian cuddling Peaches, Jack playing with Noah’s shirt, and Tibby with her head on Noah’s lap and her eyes closed.

“I think they’ve got it in hand. Let’s go.” Sam’s voice was a little sharp.

With a sense of dread, I followed him out to the back patio. The sun shone brightly, and I grabbed a spare pair of sunglasses I kept in a bowl for just this instance.

Sam, whose glasses were on his head, pulled them down to cover his eyes.

Double damn.Now I couldn’t see his eyes. Those things that were always so expressive. The things that often gave me an insight into what the man was thinking.

He put the plate with the burgers and corn on the shelf next to the grill.

I was relieved to find he’d put a barrier between the two so the juice of the raw meat didn’t get onto the vegetable. “Are we doing kebobs as well? Or did we decide not to? Last I heard, you guys were discussing onions and—”

Sam pivoted and, without a word, went back into the house.

I fired up the grill and put the burgers on one half. I nabbed the spatula and prepared to make these wonderful treats as perfect as possible.

A plate of kebobs hit the other shelf next to the barbecue.

“Are you mad at me?”

The burgers started to spit.

“Also, are we eating out here? We’ve got shade. We might even go for a dip in the lake and—”

“What liver enzyme?” Sam moved so he faced me. “That sounds really serious, and you’ve never said anything.”

I shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”

Instantly, though, I acknowledged my mistake. Sam’s face crumpled, his mouth turned down, and he appeared…hurt.

I closed the lid on the barbecue. Then I sighed. “We had so much going on those first few days. And then, just when things started to even out, we lost Carlos—” I swallowed. “I, uh—” I scratched my cheek. “Okay, I’ll say my doctor wouldn’t be thrilled with my diet over the past month.”

“Soren.” Sam. Speaking quietly.

“I have a list of foods I need to, at the very least, cut back on. I’d been doing really well. My last test showed improvement.”

“What foods?” He arched an eyebrow.

“Well—” I scratched my stubbled jaw again. I’d meant to shave, but Lolita had texted me with an issue I had to deal with. Knowing Noah and Christian were coming over pushed work to the top of theto-dolist so I could focus on our friends when they arrived. “Processed foods. Salt. Refined carbs.” I winced.

He just stared.

“Hey, we eat lots of healthy stuff too. Leafy vegetables, fruit, and fish. We cook with olive oil—”

“Because that’s the only oil you have in the house. Which should’ve been my first clue.” He rubbed his forehead. “All that bad stuff? That’s stuff I brought into your house. Or agreed to have you buy. I’ve been watching my portions—knowing stress eating is a real thing for me—but it never occurred to me that any of this might’ve been making you sicker.”

“I’m not sick.”