"Leftover shrimp creole." I looked at him over my shoulder. He was only an inch away.
His lips curled up. He frowned and shook his head.
"I can make you a steak," I said while staring at his lips.
"Sounds good," he said.
I straightened slowly. It had to be slow because he was so close to me that I would have bumped into him. I concentrated on the task at hand—cooking a steak. There were rib-eyes in the freezer. We kept plenty of meat around because it was blood food.
Paul backed up and looked around.
"You did a good job decorating this place," he said. "Last time I was here it was pretty empty."
I placed the steak into the microwave to defrost and then handed him a bottled water. When he took it he allowed his fingers to graze my fingers. His eyes held me again. Feeling an unfami
