Chapter 8

The dark-colored rattan basket of food sat on the counter, waiting.

Tucked in on top of a couple of red and white checkered tea towels were salt and vinegar chips and a small jar of chocolate and almond spread from Monaco. Christoff had gotten her started on that, and it was the one indulgence she allowed herself when she could get it.

There was more. A bottle of Perrier, a couple of boxes of crackers. A package of good gouda cheese, still in its cellophane wrapper. Ham in a tin, a slap of mustard in a small container. Greens in a Ziplock bag, and a couple of small packages of restaurant dressing.

And the one thing she looked forward to every year—a batch of her grandmother's homemade shortbread cookies, with large chunks of chocolate chips in them.

Two years with Christoff, living in the lap of luxury, money no object, and somehow, there'd never been time for her to make those.

Eli came up behind her, and she felt his presence suddenly without hearing a sound.

Only this time he didn't put his hands on her waist from behind, like he always had before. But he did peer over her shoulder. When he spoke, his tone was one of open admiration. "Wow. What's that?"

"Only the best damn grub you're going to get anywhere for a five-mile radius."

"You mean anywhere in Jack’s Bay." She heard the quick grin in his voice, gave a quick snort herself.

She pulled out a tea towel, spread it on the chipped countertop, and started arranging the goodies.

Eli picked up the jar of chocolate spread, cupped it in his hand as he peered at the label, a vivid, bright raspberry that seemed to jump off the squat glass. "Fancy."

"Yup."

"Where's it from?" He turned the jar in his hand, scanned the fancy font, narrowed his eyes.

"Monaco."

His brows lifted. "Europe Monaco?"

"Is there any other?" She pulled out the bag of salt and vinegar, dove in for some of the other provisions lining the bottom.

"Hmph," he huffed. "I figured you'd say aisle twenty-three at Wal-Mart. Just before the bike tires, a right turn from the bulk kitty litter. Across from the suppositories."

She grinned. "Too high class for you, huh? The proletariat's whine."

"Wine? Did someone say wine??" He looked around, teasing. "I sure could go for some wine."

"Over there behind that cardboard box."

"Serious?"

"Check."

She heard him rummage behind the box, expected and got the whistle, knew he was cradling it in his hands, turning it around and inspecting the label like he'd always done. "This stuff isn't exactly Baby Duck. And two bottles? How long were you planning on staying?”

"You're welcome. The corkscrew is in the thing there."

She heard the clank of it hitting something in the bag she'd brought along, knew he'd found it.

He came over, propped his ass against the counter beside her, the bottle still in his hand, and his gaze panned back and forth across the spread. "Looks like the rich thing is working for you."

Him being so close was unnerving. But she snorted at his comment, opened the package of crackers, placed them on the upturned cookie tin lid to create a makeshift tray.

"How is Christoff?" He stabbed the metal point into the cork.

"You’d have to ask Amanda. Or Jacqueline. Possibly Monique."

The bottle stopped in mid-air, as did the hand engaged in mid-yank with the corkscrew. "Come again?" She felt rather than saw his hard stare. No way in hell would she meet those eyes.

She snipped up along the side of the tightly wrapped plastic to get at the fragrant cheese. "Christoff was always well taken care of. Just not always by me."

"Damn it." She heard the pop as he completed his mission, then he dumped the bottle and corkscrew—still with the cork attached to it—hastily on the counter. "He's playing around on you? The shit!"

She winced at the assessment. Outrage flared in his eyes, turning the hazel a dark ochre as realization dawned in him. "You're not together anymore."

Where was that damn cutting board? Her hands were shaking. "He didn't dump me. It was the other way around."

He stared at her, all too scrutinizing. "Surely he didn't expect you to live like that?"

"Regardless of what he wanted, I was done." She sliced off thick squares of the cheese, gripped the knife solidly so the shaking stopped. Tossed them onto the tin beside the crackers.

The deafening silence from beside her drove her nuts. She glanced at him, saw the hard set of his jaw. She couldn't stand it any longer. "What?"

"I'm so sorry, Tish."

She shrugged. "Don't be." She grabbed the wine, picked up the little plastic wine glass she'd brought for herself. Poured the good cab into it, handed it to him. Clasped the bottle around its long, cool neck, moved it up to clink against the glass in his hand. "Cheers. It's going to be a long night."