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“You're eating too much meat.” I'm not proud that I say the words almost as a question in such a soft voice that there's no authority behind them. But even my gently-spoken words seem to infuriate him more.
“Have you run any blood work on me, or any tests, or spoken with my doctor?” He arches an eyebrow, and I know exactly where he's going with this line of questioning, but it doesn't matter. Right now I'm wasting valuable prep time that I could be spending getting his meals together because he wants to argue about whether or not he's right about how much protein he consumes, even though I already told him the amount of protein he can consume per meal without just peeing the rest out.
“You know I haven't done any of those things, but I promise you no decent self-respecting real doctor would tell you that more than thirty grams of protein per meal is acceptable or safe.” I'm sure I could get into how hard he's making his liver and kidneys work to pass that extra protein or I could let him keep being wrong. The question is, if something bad happens to him while I'm cooking for him, can I live with myself?
“For ethical reasons alone, I'm starting to think it'd be better for me to walk away from this job.” Of course, I hate the thought of that because it's good money, but I'm not the kind of person who will sacrifice my morals for moolah.
“See. You just don't get it.” He straightens up and stalks toward me, and I resist the urge to take a step back. There's something so commanding and physically overbearing about him that I don’t like his sudden approach, but I don’t - in my heart of hearts - think he’d hurt me.
He stops right in front of me and leans in so close I can feel his warm breath on my face. Maybe because he's so close, he lowers his voice to a growl that makes my heart beat wildly like a wounded animal seeking escape.
“I'd rather die than give up the foods I love.”
Doesn't he realize by eating the foods he loves in excess, he's going to kill himself? “Well, good, because that's exactly what's going to happen if you keep overconsuming meats.” His eyes narrow when I lean in closer for effect, then realize I’ve made a mistake. Our lips are only inches apart and judging by the surprise in his eyes, he probably thought I was about to kiss him. A thought that sends unexpected - and unwelcome - warmth through my center. “How long has it been since your doctor checked your cholesterol?”
He lifts a single shoulder, and I can tell I've rattled him, but I'm not sure if it's because of the thought that I might kiss him or the question about his health. Now I'm glad I leaned in; maybe this moment will engrain the memory in his mind, and he’ll start thinking twice about his bad choices.
“It doesn't matter; I’d still rather die than give up meat.”
“You’d do that to your mother, kill yourself because of food?” The fact that he's doubling down on this point makes me angry. What kind of monster would put their mother through the heartbreak of having to bury their son?
“Don't bring my mother into this. I know you two are friends, but that's not acceptable.”
I poke an index finger against his chest. “I love your mother. She is a wonderful woman, but that's not the point. Your choices are selfish and short sighted.”
His eyes narrow. “You seem to forget that I hired you to cook, not ask questions, not critique my life, not look out for my mother.”
Every statement tears through my torso like a bullet, and I drag in a ragged breath.
He's right. He didn't hire me to ask questions, critique his life, or look out for his mother, or even to protect his health.
“I'm going to have to draw up another form.” I pause for just a moment and watch his eyebrows lift. Only when I can tell he’s hanging on my every word do I continue speaking. “One that protects me from liability in case you drop dead of a heart attack while I'm working for you.”
Chapter Four
Charles
This woman is insufferable.
It's been three days and she's still trying to make me eat meals she considers healthy. Worse, she's completely won over my mother. No, that's not even the worst part. The worst part is that I absolutely love her cooking, but there's no way in hell I can tell her that.
“You seem to have a lot on your mind.” My mother has fixed that knowing smile on her face.
“And I'm pretty sure you've worn out your welcome.” I take a sip of the Scotch that I have sitting in front of me and she lets out a snort, followed by a laugh. It's all I can do to hold back a smile of my own. Things have been a bit tense between the two of us lately. We've both managed to keep our sense of humor even when we butt heads and disagree about the cook.
For the moment, I'm going to pretend like my drink is the most interesting thing I've seen as I sit forward and hold the glass between my hands, staring into it as if it holds some cosmic answers. If only a drink could be the answer to all of my problems.
“I don't know why you're pretending like you don't love her food.” At this point, my mother almost sounds concerned and I glance up at her.
I'm not about to give her anything to work with, though.
Instead, I simply fix her with a stare, waiting for her to get uncomfortable and shift in her seat. Of course she doesn't, because she's the one that taught me that intense soul penetrating glare, and she's unaffected by her own weapons.
The dinner table has become a place of playful conflict between her and me, and real conflict between the cook and me. Honestly, I'm wondering if it's possible to have withdrawals when your diet changes suddenly, and I wonder if that's a valid argument to use against the cook. Of course, everything I try to tell the cook seems to fall on deaf ears; she might be the least sympathetic person I've ever met in my life.
“Boy, I taught you that glare. I know you're not trying to use it against me right now.” My mother's eyes narrow.
“Last I checked, we’re family. And that means you're supposed to be on my side.” My tone is a mix of humor and seriousness.
