Reindeer Games
Page 10
His brows drew together. “What do you mean, script work?”
I began to write some more, mostly to keep my fingers busy. “You go to the movies much?”
“Sometimes.”
“You like horror movies?”
“Sometimes.”
“You ever see The Termite or The Termite 2: Walls of Blood?”
He snorted. “Not if I can help it.”
“Those are my movies,” I told him proudly. “I write horror movie scripts. Sometimes they get picked up by Hollywood, sometimes not.” Okay, most times not, but I wouldn’t tell him that. “I’ve had two picked up by production companies and two more purchased by TV channels who want some Saturday night flicks.” I gestured at my pad. “Right now, since I have time on my hands, I’m sketching out some preliminary ideas for Termite 3.”
“Huh.”
“What’s that ‘huh’ mean?”
“It means you’re a tiny little chick, you know? Kinda girly except for that Boston mouth on you. You don’t seem like the type that would be into horror movies.”
“I happen to love horror movies, “I told him loftily. “They’re escapist fun.”
He grinned, and for a moment he was so gorgeous my heart flipped. “So what’s The Termite about? Is he a big bug that eats people?”
I shook my head. “Nah. That’s too easy. Plus those B-movie special effects look like shit. He’s a serial killer that likes to hide in the walls and kill his victims. He’s called The Termite because he emerges from the woodwork and attacks, and then drags them back into the walls. No one knows where people are disappearing to until they smell something, or the blood leaks through.” Both of which I’d used to great effect in the first and second movies.
Owen wrinkled his nose. “Sounds nasty.”
“It’s supposed to.” I tapped my pen on my notepad. “What is it you do?”
For a second, his gaze flicked away. “I’m a pastry chef.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“What, a big guy can’t be a pastry chef?” he said defensively. “I like cooking. I especially like baking.”
“Okay,” I said, since he’d gotten all pissy about it. “Is that why you keep wearing a cupcake on your chest?”
He patted his shirt. “Family business. My mom makes the wedding cakes, and I make everything else.”
“That’s kind of…cute. My mom hates my job.”
He grinned. “You make her go see your movies?”
“Not after the first one. She screamed at all the wrong moments.” A reluctant smile was curving my mouth. God, it was so nice to talk to someone, even if it was Owen. “So what kind of pastries do you make?”
“Better shit than they were serving here. That catering was a joke.”
I arched an eyebrow. “That sounds like a challenge to me. Am I going to have to insist that you show off your culinary skills?”
“I don’t know. You going to let me read those script notes of yours?”
I looked down at my nonsensical notes. Lots of scratch outs, and Sugarbean? Walls? Train? Yeah. No way I was showing that to anyone. It looked like the ramblings of a psychopath. “Okay, fine. You win.”
“That’s what I thought,” Owen said smugly, but there was a smile on his face.
~~ * * * ~~
The next morning, I made enough coffee in the coffee pot for two people. That was my concession to Owen that I didn’t wish death on him any longer. I grabbed one of the stale donuts from the plate in the kitchen, headed out into the living room, and wrote on my notepad. I had a character or two sketched out by the time Owen woke up. I’d probably have to change everything, but at least my pen was moving instead of going nowhere.
“Morning,” Owen said as he headed down the stairs.
“Hey there,” I said, keeping my voice pleasant. “There’s coffee in the pot.”
He grunted and headed for the kitchen area. I watched him pour himself a cup of coffee, sipped it, and then rubbed his face. He sat down at the breakfast bar and then looked over at me with hooded, sleepy eyes.
I felt a shiver in my belly.
“You want French toast?”
I tilted my head, interested. “French toast? From a self-professed amazing pastry chef? That seems a little simplistic if you ask me.”
He laughed. “Stuffed French toast with whipped cream on top?”
“Now you’re talking.” I got up from my perch in the living room and joined him in the kitchen.
I had to admit, Owen knew his way around. He pulled ingredients out of the overstuffed fridge and began to combine things, then whipped eggs in one bowl while turning on the burner with another. Me, I wasn’t good at multi-tasking, so it was nifty to watch him work. He was all suave confidence, and when he cut a thickly sliced piece of homemade bread open to stuff it, my mouth was watering. When had he made the bread?
By the time he put the plate in front of me, wild horses couldn’t have kept me away from that delicious smelling creation. I took the fork he offered me with a smile, cut in, bit down, and moaned. “Oh, my god. That is incredible.”
He blinked his eyes at me. Then grinned. “So you approve?”
“I’ve never tasted anything better,” I admitted, cutting another huge bite. “I fully admit you are incredible.”
“My ego is fully repaired now that Luna thinks I am incredible,” he said with a laugh, then sat down to eat his own breakfast.
The room felt weirdly charged after that. I ate quietly (though my insides were still moaning with glee over each delicious bite) and thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have said Owen was incredible. Maybe just ‘good’ would have been enough for his ego. ‘Incredible’ had made things odd.
Owen toyed with a bite of his food and glanced at the massive windows on the far side of the room. “Is that a snowstorm?”
“Yup.” I couldn’t keep the smugness out of my voice.
He grinned over at me, and little lines of pleasure crinkled around those magnificent amber eyes. “You feeling a little gleeful that the others are trapped out in this while we’re not?”
“Yup,” I repeated.
He laughed. “They won’t let them freeze. I mean, we had blankets and fire and someone came by to help us finish the shelter after you left. They just want us to look miserable for the camera.”
“I hope they look exceedingly miserable,” I told him. “I’m cheering for Patty.”
“Me too,” he said.
That surprised me. “You’re not rooting for Clarissa?”
Owen shook his head. “Who do you think ousted me? We lost the second challenge and she decided strength wasn’t doing us any favors, so she kept the people she felt she could control the most. She even asked me to not have hard feelings.”
I scraped the last bite from my plate. “And do you?”
“Have hard feelings? You bet I do.” He looked at the windows. “Let it snow all it wants. I hope we get a fucking blizzard.”
I raised my coffee cup into the air. “To a blizzard!”
He clinked his mug with mine.
I began to write some more, mostly to keep my fingers busy. “You go to the movies much?”
“Sometimes.”
“You like horror movies?”
“Sometimes.”
“You ever see The Termite or The Termite 2: Walls of Blood?”
He snorted. “Not if I can help it.”
“Those are my movies,” I told him proudly. “I write horror movie scripts. Sometimes they get picked up by Hollywood, sometimes not.” Okay, most times not, but I wouldn’t tell him that. “I’ve had two picked up by production companies and two more purchased by TV channels who want some Saturday night flicks.” I gestured at my pad. “Right now, since I have time on my hands, I’m sketching out some preliminary ideas for Termite 3.”
“Huh.”
“What’s that ‘huh’ mean?”
“It means you’re a tiny little chick, you know? Kinda girly except for that Boston mouth on you. You don’t seem like the type that would be into horror movies.”
“I happen to love horror movies, “I told him loftily. “They’re escapist fun.”
He grinned, and for a moment he was so gorgeous my heart flipped. “So what’s The Termite about? Is he a big bug that eats people?”
I shook my head. “Nah. That’s too easy. Plus those B-movie special effects look like shit. He’s a serial killer that likes to hide in the walls and kill his victims. He’s called The Termite because he emerges from the woodwork and attacks, and then drags them back into the walls. No one knows where people are disappearing to until they smell something, or the blood leaks through.” Both of which I’d used to great effect in the first and second movies.
Owen wrinkled his nose. “Sounds nasty.”
“It’s supposed to.” I tapped my pen on my notepad. “What is it you do?”
For a second, his gaze flicked away. “I’m a pastry chef.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“What, a big guy can’t be a pastry chef?” he said defensively. “I like cooking. I especially like baking.”
“Okay,” I said, since he’d gotten all pissy about it. “Is that why you keep wearing a cupcake on your chest?”
He patted his shirt. “Family business. My mom makes the wedding cakes, and I make everything else.”
“That’s kind of…cute. My mom hates my job.”
He grinned. “You make her go see your movies?”
“Not after the first one. She screamed at all the wrong moments.” A reluctant smile was curving my mouth. God, it was so nice to talk to someone, even if it was Owen. “So what kind of pastries do you make?”
“Better shit than they were serving here. That catering was a joke.”
I arched an eyebrow. “That sounds like a challenge to me. Am I going to have to insist that you show off your culinary skills?”
“I don’t know. You going to let me read those script notes of yours?”
I looked down at my nonsensical notes. Lots of scratch outs, and Sugarbean? Walls? Train? Yeah. No way I was showing that to anyone. It looked like the ramblings of a psychopath. “Okay, fine. You win.”
“That’s what I thought,” Owen said smugly, but there was a smile on his face.
~~ * * * ~~
The next morning, I made enough coffee in the coffee pot for two people. That was my concession to Owen that I didn’t wish death on him any longer. I grabbed one of the stale donuts from the plate in the kitchen, headed out into the living room, and wrote on my notepad. I had a character or two sketched out by the time Owen woke up. I’d probably have to change everything, but at least my pen was moving instead of going nowhere.
“Morning,” Owen said as he headed down the stairs.
“Hey there,” I said, keeping my voice pleasant. “There’s coffee in the pot.”
He grunted and headed for the kitchen area. I watched him pour himself a cup of coffee, sipped it, and then rubbed his face. He sat down at the breakfast bar and then looked over at me with hooded, sleepy eyes.
I felt a shiver in my belly.
“You want French toast?”
I tilted my head, interested. “French toast? From a self-professed amazing pastry chef? That seems a little simplistic if you ask me.”
He laughed. “Stuffed French toast with whipped cream on top?”
“Now you’re talking.” I got up from my perch in the living room and joined him in the kitchen.
I had to admit, Owen knew his way around. He pulled ingredients out of the overstuffed fridge and began to combine things, then whipped eggs in one bowl while turning on the burner with another. Me, I wasn’t good at multi-tasking, so it was nifty to watch him work. He was all suave confidence, and when he cut a thickly sliced piece of homemade bread open to stuff it, my mouth was watering. When had he made the bread?
By the time he put the plate in front of me, wild horses couldn’t have kept me away from that delicious smelling creation. I took the fork he offered me with a smile, cut in, bit down, and moaned. “Oh, my god. That is incredible.”
He blinked his eyes at me. Then grinned. “So you approve?”
“I’ve never tasted anything better,” I admitted, cutting another huge bite. “I fully admit you are incredible.”
“My ego is fully repaired now that Luna thinks I am incredible,” he said with a laugh, then sat down to eat his own breakfast.
The room felt weirdly charged after that. I ate quietly (though my insides were still moaning with glee over each delicious bite) and thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have said Owen was incredible. Maybe just ‘good’ would have been enough for his ego. ‘Incredible’ had made things odd.
Owen toyed with a bite of his food and glanced at the massive windows on the far side of the room. “Is that a snowstorm?”
“Yup.” I couldn’t keep the smugness out of my voice.
He grinned over at me, and little lines of pleasure crinkled around those magnificent amber eyes. “You feeling a little gleeful that the others are trapped out in this while we’re not?”
“Yup,” I repeated.
He laughed. “They won’t let them freeze. I mean, we had blankets and fire and someone came by to help us finish the shelter after you left. They just want us to look miserable for the camera.”
“I hope they look exceedingly miserable,” I told him. “I’m cheering for Patty.”
“Me too,” he said.
That surprised me. “You’re not rooting for Clarissa?”
Owen shook his head. “Who do you think ousted me? We lost the second challenge and she decided strength wasn’t doing us any favors, so she kept the people she felt she could control the most. She even asked me to not have hard feelings.”
I scraped the last bite from my plate. “And do you?”
“Have hard feelings? You bet I do.” He looked at the windows. “Let it snow all it wants. I hope we get a fucking blizzard.”
I raised my coffee cup into the air. “To a blizzard!”
He clinked his mug with mine.
