Page 8 of Devoured By the Forbidden Mountain Man

“I have food at the house.”

The house contained six eggs, mustard, three bottles of water, half a block of cheese, several takeout containers, and almost nothing that could become dinner without considerable imagination.

I stood in front of the open refrigerator while Rex leaned against the counter behind me.

“You have a generous definition of food.”

“There are eggs.”

“You have six eggs and cheese that looks frightened.”

He came over, took the cheese from the shelf, checked the date, and dropped it into the trash.

“That seems conclusive.”

I laughed and shut the refrigerator.

The house itself was comfortable without feeling decorated for effect. It had good furniture, warm wood, a large functional kitchen, and clean counters. Nothing suggested neglect. It simply looked like most of Rex’s life happened elsewhere.

“We need groceries,” I said.

“If you want to cook, I’ll drive. If you don’t, there are at least four places in town that know my order.”

“I want to cook. I also want something in my loft refrigerator besides air.”

“Then groceries it is.”

The store was busy with people preparing for Halloween and the colder weather moving in. I chose chicken thighs, sweet potatoes, poblano peppers, onions, greens, fresh tortillas, garlic, limes, and enough breakfast basics to keep me from repeating today’s accidental fast.

Rex followed with the cart, adding coffee, butter, bread, and several things for his own kitchen as we went. He didn’t question what I put in the cart or act helpless around ingredients.

When I picked up an inexpensive red wine and placed it beside the vegetables, he reached for another bottle from the same shelf, read the label, and returned it.

I looked at him. “Was that a test? You looked skeptical.”

“I was checking the year.” His expression remained perfectly serious. “I have a face that gets blamed for things, but keep the one you chose. I trust you.”

Those three words landed with more weight than a wine decision deserved.

Back at the house, I cooked because I wanted to.

Rex chopped vegetables when I asked and handled a knife with the efficient confidence of someone who had fed himself for decades, even if he rarely bothered to do it well. He cleaned the cutting board as soon as he finished with it. When I handed him a bowl, he mixed the greens without requesting instructions he didn’t need.

The kitchen warmed with garlic, onions, roasting sweet potato, and peppers. Rain whispered against the dark windows, and the house gradually smelled like somewhere people expected to stay for dinner.

At some point Rex disappeared briefly and returned with Gavin’s folder.

He set it on the far end of the dining table, safely away from the food, without opening it.

I noticed and kept cooking.

By eight, we were eating chicken with peppers and onions, roasted sweet potatoes, greens, and warm tortillas. The bottle of red wine sat between us, and we each had a glass.

For several minutes, hunger took priority over conversation.

Then Rex looked toward the kitchen and shook his head once. “You made all of that in less than an hour.”

“I spent thirteen years in restaurants. You absorb a few useful skills.”