A kindly spider who was determined to put weight on him.
“I have the shawarma, kibbeh, rice, and fattoush. You will eat. You are too thin.”
Bingo.
As she shoved forward that load of bowls that clearly had more than one serving in them, he put his palms up like there was a gun pointed at his chest. “Mrs. Aoun, you’ve got to stop this. You don’t need to worry about me—”
“I told you. My sons are dead and I have no grandchildren. God put me here so that I could feed you and He put you there so I would have someone to cook for. That is the way of it—now take.”
He accepted the calorie transfer because it was either that or he was very certain he would go to Hell as something worse than a murderous sociopath.
Oh, and there was another reason. The stuff smelled amazing.
“You bring the dishes back when they are empty. I will prepare you more.”
Mrs. Aoun nodded her head once, as if they had concluded a negotiation, and then she waddled like a penguin back to her own studio and slammed the door shut.
Dev looked down at the food, and as his stomach let out a roar, he retraced his steps, and wondered exactly when he’d turned into such a pussy. Balancing everything as he put his thumbprint on the lock reader, he hipped things open and short-tripped over to his little counter. His fridge was empty except for his Coke stash, some sauce packets, and the three beers he’dintended on polishing off after his run in lieu of breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Oh, and there was a jar of cherries he still didn’t know why he’d bought a month ago.
And the coffee ice cream.
Round two with the exiting brought him immediately to the open stairwell and he jogged downward. The smells of all kinds of different cooking collected in the too-warm air, his nose failing to distinguish any of the food groups. On the first floor, he pushed through the glass door and passed by the wall of mailboxes, taking a deep breath of the cold preamble to the frigid outside.
Fine, Vermont was too far. His plan was to run across the nearest bridge and back.
Twice.
Putting his shoulder into the final door, he thought maybe he could do three times, given how much food he now had—
As things started to open, he knew before he even caught sight of what was waiting for him on the stoop… he justknew.
Dev stopped in the doorway and refused to acknowledge the flare that came alive in the center of his chest.
His blond ghost had become corporeal and was standing in the lee of the building entrance, just out of the wind. No glimmering dress tonight. She was wearing blue jeans and sensible trail boots, and had a red woolen scarf linked around her neck. Absently, he noted that her parka was a proper puffy one, its navy blue and gray contours dwarfing her body.
Good, he thought. She was warm.
“I’m not a stalker, I swear.” She put a hand out like she was a crosswalk guard trying to stop a truck. “Your address was entered into the panel on the robo-cab? And I really wanted to give this back.”
As she held out his construction jacket, her eyebrows were way high, as if she was the one surprised they were face to face even though, given her red cheeks and nose, she’d been waiting for him in the cold for a while.
Just take the coat, he told himself.Take the fucking coat, and tell her to fuck off and never bother you again.
“So here,” she said hoarsely, her eyes slanting away. “As you can see, I have one of my own.”
Dev watched her throat undulate as she clearly forced herself to swallow.
Meanwhile, the wind wafted around them, like a pair of arms urging them close. And even though she tucked her hair behind her ear, strands pulled free to create an aura of gold around her head.
What do you know. She might have found him forgettable the night before, but his memory was razor-sharp and had gotten it all right, the details of her lovely face and her mismatched eyes, her ripe lips and her tall body, spot fucking on.
“Is that why you came?” he heard himself say. “The coat.”
She didn’t meet his eyes. “Yes.”
“Really.”
