Red Hot Obsessions Read Online Free PDF Page B

shrunken alien heads.”
    “One of my proudest moments,” Chef Martin says. “You managed to choke down four before you realized I’d tricked you.”
    “Martin can’t keep a straight face to save his life,” Calder tells me.
    The chef chuckles.
    “Would Mr. Cunningham like me to serve?” he says.
    “I'll handle it from here, I think,” Calder says. “Thank you, Martin.”
    “Of course, sir.” He smiles at us. “Let me know if you need anything else.” He retreats back out the door from which he came, and Calder stands to go to the cart.
    “He insists on calling me sir ,” he says with a little shake of his head. “Or Mr. Cunningham .”
    “What's wrong with that?” From where I sat, the two of them genuinely seemed to get on very well.
    Calder shrugs and grabs the bowl of salad from the top of the cart. “He says it's a sign of respect, but it just makes me feel old. He used to call me by my name, but then my father died and I—” He pauses, looks at me, then shrugs again. “And now I'm the one who signs his checks.”
    He sits down and scoops me a serving from the salad bowl. The tongs clang against the side of the bowl, and when I glance up at his face, I notice that his brows are drawn together, his mouth tight. His high spirits of just a moment ago have completely disappeared. He seemed so genuinely happy around Martin—what happened?
    Now I’m the one who signs his checks , he said. These past few months have completely changed Calder’s life. Now he bears the financial burdens of this family, and it looks like he isn’t particularly pleased by this new set of responsibilities. And why would he be? He’s spent most of his life without having to think about that sort of accountability.
    I'm not sure what to say, so I pick up my fork and look down at my plate. Pear and arugula with soft crumbled cheese— wow . If this is the salad course, I can't wait to see the rest. My stomach rumbles again, and I dive in with as much ladylike grace as I can still muster.
    For a long while, neither of us speak. I'm not sure whether talking will improve matters or only make them worse, and the last thing I want to do is broach the subject of the Center when he’s in a foul mood. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the scrape of our forks against the china. I notice him watching me out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t acknowledge his gaze. He 's the one who suddenly got all awkward. Let him be the one to start the conversation again.
    Unless…
    I take another bite of arugula. Maybe I have this all backwards. Maybe this silence is some sort of weird intimidation technique and he's trying to psych me out. He's made it abundantly clear that he doesn't want to hear my spiel about the Center, and now he's making sure I fuck it up. He's trying to get under my skin before I even start.
    I grab my glass and take another swig of whiskey. I focus on the warm trail of the liquid as it slides down my throat. It pools in my belly like a little lump of courage.
    I'm being crazy, freaking out over nothing. He's probably just being polite and waiting for me to begin. We had a deal, after all. I should just go ahead and spit it out already.
    I take one more sip of my drink and slide it back on the table.
    “I know you haven't had many chances to visit the Center,” I say, sliding my finger across the edge of my glass, “but I really think if you came by you'd see how much work we do for the community. And how much your family's contributions mean for our programs.”
    I glance up to find Calder staring at me, his fork frozen halfway between his plate and his mouth. He lowers it again slowly, his eyes still locked on me, and I squirm in my seat.
    “Not yet,” he says, taking up his wineglass.
    I stare at him, confused. “What?”
    “It's not time to discuss it yet.” He takes a sip of his wine. “I think we should enjoy our dinner first.”
    I frown. “We had an agreement.”
    “We still do. You