Читать книгу The Heart's Voice - Arlene James, Arlene James - Страница 10

“You don’t have to keep feeding me,” he said slowly.

Becca had noticed that when he spoke carefully and precisely, his tone often lacked inflection, but when he blurted out or tossed off words, his speech was almost normal. This sounded like something he had rehearsed, at least in his mind, and she wasn’t at all surprised. They’d enjoyed several meals together in her quickly evolving kitchen, and though he often seemed pleased and relaxed, she had identified a growing unease, a certain tension developing between them.

“You have to eat,” she said, making sure he could see her face as she laid out the food. “Besides, it’s the least I can do. You’re working long hours, and you can’t be making much money on this job.”

When she thought about the material he’d used so far, she wondered if he could be making any profit, especially considering those cabinets. Even without the doors, which he said he was still building, they improved the room a thousand percent. And then there was the cookstove, which he’d said was used. She had no reason to doubt him, except that he’d pretended not to see when she’d asked where he’d gotten it. She kept wondering if his garage apartment had an empty space where the cookstove used to be, and the idea made her cringe inside. She wasn’t above a certain amount of charity, frankly, but even she had her pride.

“Don’t need money,” he said matter-of-factly, filching a potato chip from the open bag on the table. They were still eating deli food. She looked forward to the day when she could cook him a real meal.

“Everybody needs money,” she replied.

He held up four fingers, counting off the reasons he didn’t. “Medical disability. Military retirement. Inheritance. Good investments.”

“And the rent on that garage apartment?” she asked.

“Soon,” he said nonchalantly, averting his eyes.

She didn’t let him get away with that. Reaching across the side chair that stood between them, she placed a hand flat against the center of his chest. He looked down at it, then slowly lifted his gaze to her face. “You can rent an apartment without a cookstove, then?” she asked pointedly.

He blinked and chewed. She lifted an eyebrow insistently. Finally he grinned. “Got a stove same place I got yours. Used. Dealer in Duncan.”