I drew in another calming breath, a technique Abe, my mentor, and savior, had taught me.
My stomach rumbled and she giggled. An honest to God giggle. Somehow, her threat factor diminished enough that I allowed a small smile. “I missed lunch.”
“Oh!” She swiveled around and ripped open the fridge door. “I picked up stuff for sandwiches. Nothing fancy, but I had some bread to use up or it’d be moldy by the time I got home.”
I finally glanced around the kitchen. It was littered with gaudy tote bags. Her Wonder Woman tote sat on the counter beside the fridge, where it’d been blocked by the fridge doors a moment ago.
Crazy J came a day early but was making me food. So…this whole thing could be worse. She was closer to normal right now than I’d ever experienced from her before.
Her backside lured my gaze again. Her cloth shorts outlined her form perfectly and while they were black, the outline of her swim bottoms and the yellow from the Batman design were visible.
“Were you going swimming?” I blurted. Great, I was picking up her habits.
She pulled away from the fridge with an armload of food and shouldered the door shut. The meager gentleman within me that Abe had managed to save rushed to gather some of the items. Mustard, mayo, ketchup, butter. Hell, was there anything this woman hadn’t packed?
I assessed everything she scattered on the table. Most of it had been opened already.
“Why didn’t you just buy everything here? You didn’t have to bring it all.” I would’ve gone on a food run within an hour after I’d arrived. Could I consider this the first time a woman had bought me a meal?
“A week’s worth of groceries when I already had the food? I might be wearing a Batman swimsuit, but I’m not Bruce Wayne.”
But she’d spent ten grand to be here? A couple hundred in groceries shouldn’t worry her.
She pulled out bread and lunch meat and—I hadn’t eaten fucking processed meat in years. I’d lose at least two of my eight abs as soon as that hit my tongue.
But my stomach insisted it was fine with whatever she was serving. I pulled out a stool and watched in fascination as she prepped our meal.
Her storm-gray eyes were serious as she assembled bread, then meat, then condiment. Thank God she had some greens to put on top, even bean sprouts. Each item she grabbed, she looked to me in question. I’d nod and she’d add it to my sandwich, except ketchup, cuz gross.
She grabbed a nearby tote and withdrew a bag of pretzels.
“Uh, no thanks.” I slid the plate toward me to keep the carb load off.
“I can’t have a sandwich without a side of salt.” She ripped the bag open and put a handful of pretzels on her plate. Then she started constructing her sandwich.
I waited to take a bite until she was done. It was something Abe had insisted on when I’d lived with him. Ladies first, boy.
But this was Crazy J. Still, I couldn’t do it.
She wiggled onto a stool next to me and dug in. We ate in silence and each minute that ticked by returned my stress to normal simmering levels. Would she be this mellow for the entire week?
“Do you want another?”
I jerked my gaze to her, then to her empty plate. I held the last two bites of my sandwich.
Wiping her mouth off, she scooted off her stool and went around the island to open the bread.
“N-no.” I grimaced. “No, thanks.” Two sandwiches when dinner was a couple of hours away? I’d have to run today after all.
Her gaze met mine and the corner of her mouth lifted. She cinched the bag and puttered around the kitchen, putting away the rest of her items. “I wasn’t sure what you had for cooking capabilities here, but I brought some spaghetti and macaroni and cheese.”
Pasta and processed cheese? Ick. I lost a couple more abs just thinking about them. “I’ll run to town and grab some steaks. They have an awesome butcher shop. I usually grill when I’m at the lake.” I didn’t get away nearly as much as I should, but I’d made sure to equip the cabin with wicked grills—propane and charcoal.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” She set her hands on her hips and drew my eyes to her abdomen. She wasn’t a stick. She possessed curves a man could get lost in. And she didn’t seem shy about it. “This is such a nice kitchen. Like, nicer than I’ve ever gotten to use, but I can’t…” She stopped, chewing on her lip.
“Can’t what?” Weird. Usually, I wanted Crazy J—shit, Tilly—to stop talking, but now I hung on her dropped sentence.
“I was so busy saving to donate to the Center for Abuse Recovery that I didn’t have extra for steak that wasn’t discounted. I’ve never stepped foot in a butcher shop, but they’re expensive, aren’t they?” She waved it off. “That’s okay. I can make myself spaghetti.”
I stared at her, tallying up the comments she’d made. Landlady. Nicer kitchen than she’d ever used. Discount meat. Saving to donate?
“How long did you save for the auction?”
Pausing over the groceries, she worried her lip, and the cutest little furrow developed in her forehead. “Um…for a while. Way before the auction.”
“You were going to donate anyway?”
“Yep.” She resumed her organization of the kitchen. The cabin had come fully furnished and she inspected every cupboard. I didn’t even know what was in here. All I ever had when I came here was beer—my vacation indulgence—steak, and the occasional brat—no bun—if I was feeling naughty.
“How long did it take you to save the money?” I couldn’t quit pressing the topic. I could’ve bought every bachelor at that auction and paid for all the getaways besides. But she’d lived off pasta and clearance steak to donate a specific amount.
No. Tilly wasn’t going quiet now.
She continued her search. Straightening, she had a
