The Cold Between Read Online Free PDF

her pain, or he simply read her better now. “The usual,” she said, and he thought her lightness was feigned. “He lied, and I found out. I tried to forgive him. I failed.”
    â€œHow long ago was this?”
    â€œTwo and a half months.”
    He winced. “Damn. I am sorry, my dear. I did not mean to remind you of fresh grief. Especially here.”
    She shook her head. “But it doesn’t hurt to remember it here.”
    â€œI am your first lover since then.”
    â€œYes.” She smiled, and some of the wickedness was back. “You do not remind me of him at all. And that is a compliment.”
    Just then he heard a sound, and realized it was her stomach rumbling. “Good Lord, is that you? Are you hungry?”
    â€œStarved, actually,” she admitted, looking embarrassed. “I was too nervous earlier to eat much supper.”
    â€œ This, ” he declared, “I can fix.” He sat up, and her hand slid over his arm to rest on his back. “On your feet, woman,” he commanded. “I must give you fuel. I have every intention of your needing it.”
    She followed him out to the kitchen. He leaned down to retrieve his clothes, pulling on his shorts and handing her his shirt. She shrugged it on, not bothering to button it, and he took a moment to take her in. He was never going to be able to look at that shirt the same way again.
    Shaking himself, he turned and opened the refrigerator, a cool draft escaping into the darkened room. “You have a sweet tooth,” he assumed.
    â€œGod, yes,” she said, moving in behind him to look over his shoulder. “What do you have?”
    He retrieved his latest experiment from the top shelf. He was only on the second stage—he was still deciding whether to wrap it in pastry, or to thicken it and coat it in some expensive, off-world chocolate—but he thought, so far, that it was rather wonderful on its own. He pulled open a drawer to retrieve a spoon, and scooped a little out of the bowl.
    â€œHere,” he said, holding the spoon out to her. “Tell me what you think.”
    She took it, glancing at him, then gamely took a taste. In an instant her expression changed to something not unlike what he had seen a few minutes ago by the alcove.
    â€œOh my God, ” she breathed. “What is that? Cream, and lemon, and . . . hazelnut?”
    â€œYou have a discerning palate,” he told her, pleased. “I’vealso added a splash of rum, just to deepen the fruit flavor. I was worried it was a bit too much.”
    She shook her head. “No, it’s perfect. Lovely. Is there more?”
    So he handed her the bowl, and they wandered into the living room, and he sat next to her on the couch while she consumed his experiment. “You made this,” she said, as she ate it all, bite by bite.
    He nodded. “It is my profession. I am a dessert chef.”
    â€œMy goodness, yes you are,” she said. She scraped the bottom of the bowl and looked into it sadly. “I suppose that was all,” she sighed, and he laughed.
    â€œThere are a few others at earlier stages,” he told her. “Incomplete. I experiment, a bit, on my own.”
    â€œHave you done this long?”
    â€œOff and on, for about thirty years,” he told her.
    â€œWas that your profession with PSI? Did you cook for them?”
    He shook his head. “I was an officer,” he told her, deciding not to elaborate. “But Fyodor—he was our captain, and for most of my life there my mentor—loved to make desserts, and on the longer journeys he would always try something he had never made before. He would have me help him. After he retired, I kept on doing it.” It had been a comfort, one thing he had been able to keep constant after everything around him had changed.
    â€œIs that why you came here?” she asked. “To be a chef?”
    He paused. “In a way,” he told