“You cook?” I question, moving to the fridge, trying to pretend I wasn’t staring. He peers at me over his shoulder, acknowledging my presence before pouring red wine into the pan, making steam erupt. “I’m fantastic with anything that requires a knife.” I snag a bottle of water, smirking. “Should I be worried about where the meat in this dish came from, Hannibal?” Thatcher rolls his eyes. “Human beings are disgusting. I don’t touch them with my bare hands, and you think I’m going to eat their flesh? Some stalker you are. Do you even know me?”
