Dreamcatcher. Anna Leonard
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immediately, ladling two spoonfuls of honey—organic, he had noted with an approval that was missing in the rest of his survey—in the mug, while Matthew moved through the cabinets, familiarizing himself with what was there and where it all was.
“No cereal,” he noted.
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
“You do now.” He didn’t miss a beat, starting a shopping list on a pad of paper he’d brought with him, then bending down to see what pots and pans she had. Emma had a lashing of embarrassment at how badly her kitchen was stocked, and then shrugged it off. She wasn’t a cook. So what?
“I’m never hungry—”
“Look. He turned around then and looked at her with those dark, liquid eyes. In her cozy little white-and-yellow kitchen, he seemed like an alien intruder, except for his obvious familiarity in the domestic surroundings. “You need to keep your strength up, and that means fueling the machine. Breakfast, lunch, a snack, and a real dinner, every day. Healthy food, not processed crap.”
“And you’re going to cook all this for me?”
“I’m going to teach you how to do for yourself, without exhausting yourself. That’s a balance you’re going to have to walk for the rest of your life, might was well start now.” His voice was deep, velvety, and totally unsympathetic. Emma wanted noting more than to throw him and his tea and his lists out the door he’d come in through.
Instead she made a “whatever” gesture with her left hand, and let him continue taking over her kitchen.
Two weeks. She could survive two weeks.
By the end of the next day, Emma wasn’t so sure of that.
“Keep moving.”
“I can’t.”
“You can and you will. Or you’re going to curl up and die.”
Emma would have snarled, if she knew how to do it. “I hate you.”
“Good. Hatred is powerful. Hate me enough to kick me out. But you’d better be strong enough to do it first.”
They were out on the patio, Matthew standing in front of her like a carved statue of Italian marble dressed down in blue jeans and a dark red T-shirt that fit like it had been tailored to fit. His feet were bare, and Emma focused on his toes; they were almost too perfect, each nail a pearl-white curve against paler skin. Everyone in Southern California spent hours in the sun, and yet his skin was still so pale…
“Again. Keep moving.”
Emma lifted the weights and shuffled around the patio. Each weight was only three pounds, but after ten minutes it felt like a ton. They had been doing this for an hour. Her arms were sore, her heart was racing, and all she wanted to do was lie down and cry.
“You need muscle to keep your body going, Emma. Muscle and fuel, sunlight and sleep, everything in balance.”
“I hate you,” she said again.
I will consume you.
The voice ripped through her, even as a cloud passed over the sun. The hollow pit returned in her gut, inching upward into her heart. She dropped the weights, and sat down, hard, on the patio. The stones were warm under her butt, almost too warm, but she couldn’t move.
“Emma.”
“Leave me alone.”
Thankfully, he did.
“God, please,” she whispered. “Make it stop.” The exhaustion she could deal with. The bullying caretaker she could outlast. The sleepless nights and shuddering muscles, she would work around. But that voice in her head, the cold fingers of something digging in her soul, spooning out everything inside…she couldn’t stand that. She couldn’t survive that.
The cloud passed, and the sun warmed her skin again. A hand touched her shoulder, gently enough that she didn’t jump.
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