"Still. I appreciate it."
I nod, not trusting myself to say more. There's something about her gratitude that makes me uncomfortable. I'm being paid an obscene amount of money to protect her. She doesn't owe me thanks on top of that.
"You must be hungry," I say, changing the subject. "I'll make something."
"You cook?" There's surprise in her voice.
"I live alone on a mountain. Takeout isn't exactly an option."
That draws a small smile from her. "Fair point. Can I help?"
"You cook?" I echo her surprise.
"I live alone in Hollywood. Takeout is always an option, but sometimes I like to remember I'm capable of basic human skills."
There's something in her tone. A defensiveness that makes me think there's more to the story. Something about cooking that matters to her.
"Sure," I say. "You can help."
I move into the kitchen, opening the massive refrigerator that's always stocked with staples. One of the perks of having a brother who's married to a woman who worries I'll starve alone on my mountain. Harper comes by once a week to stock my fridge, even though I've told her repeatedly that I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself.
"Looks like we've got everything for pasta," I say, pulling out ingredients. "That work for you?"
"Perfect." She joins me in the kitchen, washing her hands at the sink. "What can I do?"
"Chop these." I set the vegetables on the cutting board. "Knife's in the block."
She nods and selects a chef's knife, testing its weight in her hand with the ease of someone who knows what they're doing. "Nice balance."
"My brother Cade makes them. It was a housewarming gift."
"Your brother makes knives?" She begins slicing tomatoes.
"Among other things. He's good with his hands."
"Seems like a family trait."
I'm not sure if she's flirting or just making conversation, but something about her casual presence in my kitchen is unsettling. Domestic in a way that feels dangerously comfortable.
"McKenna men build things," I say, setting a pot of water on the stove to boil. "It's what we do when we're not protecting people."
"And what do you build, Finn?"
"Whatever needs building."
She glances at me, clearly hearing the evasion in my voice. But she doesn't push. Instead, she continues chopping with the kind of focus I appreciate. No wasted movements, no unnecessary conversation. Just the task at hand.
We work in companionable silence for a few minutes. I prepare the sauce while she handles the vegetables. It's a surprisingly comfortable rhythm, as if we've done this before.
"This is nice," she says after a while. "Normal."
"Cooking pasta is normal?"
"Being a person is normal." She slides the chopped vegetables into the bowl I've set out. "Not being Nova Wilde, pop sensation, just being a woman in a kitchen making dinner."
I study her profile, catching something in her expression I hadn't seen before. A longing for simplicity that I understand better than she might expect.
"Is it hard? Being Nova Wilde?"
