Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

I’m cooking tonight. She doesn’t know, so I hope she doesn’t have anything
planned, but I’m sure she doesn’t. She’s been so busy at work, and it’s kind
of a double-edged sword to know what to think or feel when a funeral home
is busy.
I mean, yeah, she’s able to support us as I wait for royalty checks from
indie films and invest everything else I have in my first theater production at
a playhouse in Miami next summer, but it also means people suffered, losing
loved ones. I’m glad she’s doing well, though. The community trusts her, and
Wind House has done well, taking her on as a partner.
I round the corner of the small market, searching for that wine she likes,
but I see Mr. Collins standing in front of some canned goods, and I stop.
I take a step back, debating on trying to escape before he sees me.
But he twists his mouth to the side, looking unsure, and I don’t leave.
We get along and all, but we’re not usually alone together, either. Clay is
better with the small talk.
“You look lost,” I say.
He jerks his eyes over to me, and then he chuckles, kind of laughing at
himself. “I’m cooking dinner tonight,” he says. “For someone.” He looks
back at his choices and then shakes his head. “I should just order takeout and
act like I cooked it.”
Cooking for someone. Same as me.
I move to his side. “How about a…charcuterie board.” I reach over to the
cheeses in the oblong cooler behind him, pulling a wedge of brie, some aged
cheddar, and smoked gouda. “It’s easy and it looks really cultured and fancy,
so I think you’ll pass with it. You can eat it outside or in front of a fire…”
He smiles and takes the stuff. “Anything low on carbs,” he murmurs his
approval.
Yeah.
I pull him over to the produce, grabbing some crackers and French bread
on the way. “Some tomatoes, grapes, cherries...” I dump the stuff into his
basket. “Hit the deli and pick up some meats, and then some wine, and you
should be good.”
He stares at his loot, looking impressed.
“It’s a really easy way to look like you know what you’re doing, and no
cooking involved,” I tell him.
“Thanks.” But then a worried look crosses his face, and he looks around.