He just stares at me.
“I’m not!” I insist.
He doesn’t refute me but his eyes sweep around the kitchen, taking in every surface, every detail in that intense way of his. I know what he’s seeing — the lack of clutter. The total organization of every shelf, every drawer, every nook and cranny.
My whole house is this way. More like a beautiful museum of artifacts, than a place to call home.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say, narrowing my eyes.
“Like what, Hunt?
“Like I’m some kind of freak!”
“Never said you were a freak. Never said anything, actually.”
“Oh, whatever. You communicate more with a condescending look than most people can in ten minutes of blabbering.”
“Was that a compliment or an insult?” he asks, bemused.
“Guess,” I snap caustically.
“I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just wondering why you’re so fixated on making every facet of your life scheduled and organized.”
“What’s so wrong with liking things neat?”
“There’s neat, then there’s…antiseptic.” He holds my eyes. “There’s no trace of you in this whole house. Nothing personal. No photographs. No mementos. No cheesy collectable keychains from bad vacations or boxes full of ticket stubs. Nothing sentimental at all. It’s been scrubbed clean of all signs of life.”
The things he’s saying are making impact in the left side of my chest, each word another knife wound, cutting me open.
“First time I came in here, I thought I had the wrong house,” he murmurs. “Surely someone so full of life couldn’t live here, in this glorified mausoleum.”
I scowl at him to cover my suddenly racing heartbeat. “So, I’m orderly! Sue me. I happen to like things organized.”
“It’s not about order or organization. It’s about control.” His voice has gotten remarkably serious, his eyes unusually intent. “You control every aspect of your life with meticulous precision, whether it’s every piece of food you put in your mouth or every piece of furniture in this house.” He gestures around at our immaculate surroundings. “Fact is, Hunt, you control every perfect detail of your life. Six months watching you, I’ve hardly ever seen you with a hair out of place until yesterday — and only then because you were kidnapped.”
My temper is rising. “For the record, there’s nothing wrong with control. There’s nothing wrong with having a routine and sticking to it.”
“Sure,” he says simply. “So long as that routine doesn’t start controllingyou— not the other way around.”
I bristle and hop off my barstool. “Listen here, bucko… You think just because you watched me from afar and memorized my take-out order, you somehow know me? You don’t know anything about me!”
He doesn’t reply. He just stares at me for a long beat before asking, “You always this defensive?”
“Are you always this invasive?”
He holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Just trying to get to know you a bit better. See why you’re so damned obsessed with appearing flawless to everyone in your life, whether its friends, neighbors, yoga students, or your idiot husband.”
“Your psychoanalysis is noted and summarily rejected.”
I snatch the wrappers off the counter and toss them in the trash beneath the sink, moving on autopilot to clear away all traces of the mess. With an angry yank, I grab a paper towel from its roll along with a bottle of multipurpose cleaner and begin aggressively spraying the kitchen island. I grit my teeth as I wipe it clean, channeling my anger into each swipe of my arm.
What a jerk! Thinks he knows me… HA! The only thing he knows is how to piss me off in five seconds or less…
When the counter is sparkling, I stow my supplies back beneath the sink and take a deep breath. Feeling marginally calmer, I finally look in Conor’s direction… only to find him watching me with undeniable amusement. His eyes are knowing; his lips are twitching. I can practically hear his thoughts as he scans the shining countertop.
What were you just saying aboutnotbeing totally obsessed with perfection?
“Ugh!” I grunt. “Don’t even say it!”