Page 44 of Carter

He sits down, eyeing the meal. “You cooked all of this? Wow—Mary must be some teacher.” He lifts his fork, taking a generous bite. His eyes light up. “It’s delicious.”

I try it for myself. It’s creamy and garlicy and amazing. A little too amazing. I feel my cheeks flush. “Mm hmm,” I murmur, nodding my head and reaching for my wineglass.

He takes another bite. He’s looking down at his plate. He asks me, “How did you cook it?”

I gaze over the plate, studying the foods. The chicken has grill marks on it, as does the asparagus. There are little flecks of green in the cream sauce. “I… grilled the chicken and vegetables. Then I chopped up some herbs. Baked the noodles, and voila!”

“And the sauce?”

“Just melted a little cheese.”

“What type?”

“Velveeta?” I ask, my brow furrowing.

He puts his fork down. His eyes meet mine. “If I went into the kitchen right now, I wouldn’t happen to find a Café Fresca bag in the trash can, would I?”

Oops.

“I… er… um…”

He looks over his plate. “Because, if I’m not mistaken, this is the same dish I ordered there today, at lunch. That café is run by a man who’s shown interest. Bronson took me with him to check the man out. He saw this dish and wanted to try it.” His gaze locks on mine. His left eyebrow is rising high.

There are a lot of takeout bags in the trashcan right now. Probably a whole week’s worth. I decide to come clean. My fork drops to my plate with a clank. I heave a sigh and fess up. “I’m a lousy cook, Carter.”

“I know, baby.” He smiles.

Relief washes over me. I smile back. This is one of those cute little things we will laugh about. I can already picture Mary chatting with the girls about our failed experiment. Carter wanted Sasha to cook, but she’s just terrible. He caught her faking takeout for her own cooking and the two of them laughed and laughed—I reach for my wineglass. The wine is sweet and tart and cool. Just laughed and laughed⁠—

“Baby girl?” he says, using that tone that makes knots tie up in my stomach.

I swallow my wine too hard. Choking on it and spitting it over my plate, I reach for my cloth napkin and dab my lips. “Yes, darling?”

He says, “I’d like to have a little chat with you. Upstairs in ten.”

The knots in my stomach become an impossible tangle.

He’s been more serious since he moved up in the hierarchy. The danger around him has sharpened every protective instinct he owns. But tonight is not about whether I can sauté asparagus. It is about the fact that I looked him in the eye and lied because I was embarrassed to admit I failed at something silly.

And judging by some of my past decisions, I can’t say he’s wrong. I lift my napkin from my lap, folding it and putting it on the table.

A lie is a lie.

I stand on weak knees, giving him a demure look, and turn to go upstairs.

He’s watching me leave. “Good girl.”

I trudge up to the third floor. I sit on the bed. I wring my hands in my lap.

I wait.

Ten minutes has gone by. He hasn’t come.

I start squirming. My eyes go to the wall. Where the strap hangs. It’s beautiful. Italian leather. He’s hung it where it’s visible to passersby on the street.

A reminder to the Village that Sasha’s been taken in hand.

I swallow hard. Icicles form on the knots in my stomach.