“Yes you do.”
“I know,” I huffed. It was maddening that he knew me so wel . “Am I going to learn anything about you tonight?”
“That’s the plan.”
Jared pul ed onto a narrow street and parked beside the curb in front of a darkened building. I wasn’t sure what restaurant it was, but it didn’t look open. He took my hand and led me down an al ey, guiding me around the water-fil ed potholes.
“Your cut has healed nicely,” I noticed, “I can barely see it.”
Jared simply nodded, leading me further into the darkness.
His hand left mine only to reach into his pocket for his keys. He unlocked the door, and then stretched his arm toward the inside to signal me to walk in.
“We’re going up the stairs,” he said.
My heels clanged against the iron steps as I slowly climbed to a smal landing. At the top, Jared edged past me to use his keys once more. He stepped ahead of me this time, holding the door open.
I walked into a spacious bi-level apartment decorated in grays and blues. It was dimly lit and the blinds were drawn, setting off the glow of the numerous candles lit around the room. Chinese panels and manuscripts from different parts of the world hung on the grey cinderblock wal s, il uminated by track lighting. He didn’t have enough furniture to fil the space—or maybe it was simply clutter free—everything was in its place. The entire room was immaculate. The air was saturated with different spices and flavors, and the smal round table displayed empty wine glasses and white plates.
“This is your apartment?” I asked, looking up the wooden stairs leading to the loft.
Jared stood behind me, sliding my coat from my arms. “Is that okay? I thought it would be the best place to talk,” he asked, a bit anxious.
“No, it’s great. It’s amazing...you’re cooking?” I asked, preoccupied with my surroundings.
“Something like that. Try not to get too excited.” He tucked my hair behind my ears. “Have a seat, it’s almost ready.”
He took the flowers from my hands and whisked them to the kitchen, fil ing a vase with water. He reappeared, vase and flowers in hand, placing them in the middle of the table.
Jared brought a serving dish to the table and forked out a slice of meat.
“Pot Roast?” I asked.
“Wel , there are other things—,” he gestured back to the kitchen.
“No, no, it’s just that…pot roast is my favorite. My father had a close friend that always invited us to dinner when I was little, and his wife made this amazing pot roast. It’s been a long time since I’ve had it, but it smel ed a lot like this.”
Jared made a strange face as if he didn’t know how to react to my little anecdote, and then returned to the kitchen. He brought out a bowl of steamed vegetables, a plate of dinner rol s, and a baked potato…al of them favorites of mine.
“You thought of everything,” I said, bewildered at the food sitting on the table.
“There’s an Angel Food cake in the oven,” he said, sitting across from me.
“I love angel foo—,” I cut myself off when I realized how redundant it would be to say the words. “You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Jared said with an uncertain half smile. It sounded more like a question than an answer.
“We’re going to talk, right?” I asked, staring down at my plate.
“We are going to talk. But let’s get through dinner, first.”
“I can do that,” I grinned.
I bit into the pot roast and instantly I was seven years old, sitting in a homey kitchen with a mil ion savory smel s floating throughout the room. Cynthia was politely chuckling at something Jack’s friend Gabe had said, and Gabe’s wife circled the table in a light blue apron, spooning out vegetables onto everyone’s plate.
“How is it?” Jared asked between bites, bringing me back to the present.
I shook my head, searching for the words that would do the taste I was experiencing justice. “I haven’t had a meal like this in a long, long time,” I chewed, “since I was a girl. Where did you learn to cook like this?”
Jared shrugged. “It’s my mother’s recipe.”
I smiled at that. It was the first time he’d ever mentioned anything about his life. “Are you close with your mother?” I asked, settling into my chair.
“Pretty close. I spent a lot of time away from her when I was young.”
I raised my eyebrows with interest, waiting for him to elaborate.
“School was very easy for Claire and me—we finished at a young age—and we went on to train in more special areas.”
“Special as in what you can do? Fight, I mean.” Although I was prepared for an outlandish explanation, I was surprised that it began in his childhood.
“Right,” Jared confirmed. “My father taught us much of what we know; he took us al over the world to round out our training.”
“What kind of training?” I asked.
Jared squirmed in his chair. My insides wrenched as I watched him struggle; I wanted to somehow make it easier for him. I reached across the table and slid my fingers between each of his.
“This is why I’m here, right?” I said, offering a reassuring smile. Jared relaxed a bit and gently squeezed my fingers.
“We were trained to defend ourselves, to defend someone else, and received al the training each branch of military receives, including tactical, structure penetration, reconnaissance and patrol ing, hand to hand combat, demolitions, weapons, field medicine…you get the idea.”