“What makes you think my work isn’t going well?”
“I saw the computer screen—there were no words on it.”
“The process of writing isn’t all about putting words on the page. Sometimes it’s about thinking, and staring out of the window.” But there was an edge to his tone that told her she’d touched a nerve.
“I have a friend who’s a writer and she tells me that when the words are flowing it feels like magic.”
“And when they’re not, is that a curse?”
She served the meal. “I don’t know. I’m not a writer, but I’m guessing it could feel that way. Is that how it feels?”
“Maybe I’m moody and irritable because I have an overnight guest I wasn’t expecting and didn’t want.”
“Maybe, but why don’t you eat something and we’ll find out. Being hungry isn’t going to help your mood or your brainpower.” Eva pushed the plate in front of him and saw his expression change.
“What is that?”
“It’s a perfect soufflé. Try a mouthful.”
“I’ve told you, I’m not—”
“Here’s a fork.” She handed it to him and dressed the salad leaves with organic olive oil and balsamic vinegar she’d bought on her trip to Dean & DeLuca.
“Who goes to the trouble of making a complicated soufflé for supper at home?”
“Who goes to the trouble of buying an oven as beautiful as that one and not using it?” She pushed the salad toward him. “It’s like buying a Ferrari and keeping it in the garage.”
In some ways he reminded her of a Ferrari. Sleek. Beautiful. Out of her league.
“The oven came with the apartment. I don’t cook.”
And she had a feeling that everything in the apartment was the best. “If you don’t cook, what do you eat?”
“When I’m working? Not much. Sometimes I order takeout.”
“That’s shockingly unhealthy.”
“Most of the time I’m too busy to care what I’m eating.”
She watched as he slid his fork through the light, airy soufflé. Try it, she thought, and discover what it’s like to care about what you’re eating.
He took a mouthful and nodded. “It’s good.” He took another mouthful and paused. “No, I’m wrong about that.”
She was offended. “You don’t think it’s good?”
He took a third mouthful and a fourth and then lowered his fork down slowly. “First she drugs her victims—”
“Excuse me?”
He stared down at his plate. He didn’t seem to have heard her. “She invites them to dinner. A romantic evening. Soft music. Wine. It’s all going well. He thinks he’s going to get lucky—”
“And then she breaks the bottle over his head?”
He glanced up and blinked. “She would never do anything so unsubtle.”
“But I would,” Eva said sweetly, “if you insult my cooking.”
“When did I insult your cooking?”