“No?” He arches his dark eyebrows. “All right, then. Let’s go to bed.” He moves as if to reach for me, and I jump back.
“No, wait! I could eat.”
A smile curves his lips. “I thought so. After you.”
He gestures in a courtly semi-circle, and I walk over to the table, trying to swallow my heart back into my chest as he turns off the overhead light, leaving only candlelight as illumination, and follows me to the table.
He pulls out a chair, and I sit in it. Then he walks over to the chair across from me and takes a seat himself. I notice that the table is set with two plates and my formal silverware—the one George liked me to use only for holidays and parties.
Silently, I watch George’s killer expertly cut up the chicken and put one of the drumsticks—my favorite part of the chicken—on my plate, along with several spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and a generous portion of the salad.
“Where did you get all this food?” I ask as he loads his own plate.
“I made it.” He looks up from his plate. “You like chicken, right?”
I do, but I’m not about to tell him that. “You cook?”
“I dabble.” He picks up his knife and fork. “Go ahead, try it.”
I push my chair back and get up. “I have to wash my hands.” I just came in from the garage, and the OCD doctor in me won’t let me touch food without first washing off the hospital germs.
“All right,” he says, putting down his utensils, and I realize he intends to wait for me.
My stalker has excellent table manners.
I go into the nearby bathroom and wash my hands, scrubbing between each finger and around my wrists like I always do. By the time I return to the table, he’s already poured us each a glass of wine, and the crisp smell of Pinot Grigio mixes with the delicious aromas of the meal, adding to the bizarreness of the situation.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think we’re on a date.
“How did you know I’d come here instead of going to a hotel?” I ask when I’m seated.
He shrugs. “It was an educated guess. You’re bright, so you’re unlikely to make the same mistake twice.”
“Uh-huh.” I pick up my fork and try a bite of mashed potatoes. The rich, buttery flavor is bliss on my tongue, jumpstarting my appetite despite the anxiety roiling my stomach. “That’s a lot of cooking to do on an educated guess.”
“Yes, well, no risk, no reward, right? Besides, I’ve seen how you think and reason, Sara. You don’t do stupid, pointless things, and going to another hotel would’ve been precisely that.”
My hand tightens around my fork. “Is that right? You think you know me because you’ve stalked me for a few weeks?”
“No.” His eyes gleam in the candlelight. “I don’t know you, ptichka—at least not nearly as well as I’d like to.”
Ignoring that provocative statement, I focus on my plate. Now that I’ve had a bite, my mouth is watering for more. Despite what I told Peter earlier, I’m starving, and I gladly dig into the delicious spread on my plate. The chicken is perfectly seasoned, the mashed potatoes are generously buttered, and the green salad is refreshingly tangy with an unusual lemony dressing. I’m so absorbed in eating that I’m halfway done with my plate when a frightening thought occurs to me.
Putting down my fork, I look up at my tormentor. “You didn’t drug this or something, right?”
“If I did, it would be too late for you,” he points out with amusement. “But no. You can relax. If I were going to drug or poison you, I’d use a syringe. No need to spoil perfectly good food.”
I try to not react, but my hand shakes as I reach for my glass of wine. “Great. Glad to hear it.”
He smiles at me, and I feel a warm, melting sensation between my legs. To hide my discomfort, I take several gulps of wine and put the glass down before refocusing on my plate.
I am not attracted to him. I refuse to be.
We eat in silence until our plates are empty; then Peter puts down his fork and picks up his wine glass. “Tell me something, Sara,” he says. “You’re twenty-eight now, and you’ve been a full-fledged doctor for two and a half years. How did you manage that? Were you one of those child geniuses with a super-high IQ?”
I push my empty plate aside. “Your stalking didn’t tell you that?”
“I didn’t do a deep dive into your background.” He takes a sip of wine and puts down his glass. “If you’d rather I do that, I can—or you can just talk to me, and we could get to know each other in a more traditional manner.”
I hesitate, then decide it wouldn’t hurt to talk to him. The longer we sit at the table, the longer I can postpone bedtime and all that it could entail.