The Obsession

by Nora Roberts

“You can’t buy a grill online.” Sincerely appalled, he stared at her—with some pity. “You have to see it, and—” “Stroke it?” She offered a bright smile. “Speak to it?” Appalled pity turned on a dime to a cool disdain that made her want to laugh. “You have to see it,” he repeated. She made a humming sound, then went in to check her supplies and formulate a menu. Moments later, he came in, grabbed a beer, sat at the counter. “I’m buying the grill.” “What?” “I said I’m buying the grill.” Sauté some chicken breasts, she thought. Garlic, herbs, wine. Distracted, she turned to him. “The grill? Seriously, Xander.” “Grills are serious.”

“Do you know how to peel carrots?” Frowning, he took a slow sip of beer. “Probably.” She pulled carrots out of the fridge, got a peeler, pushed them to his side of the counter. “Good, peel these.” “I thought you scraped them off with a knife.” It was her turn for pity. “Sure, if you want to take all day and make a mess out of it. You

just . . .” She picked up a carrot and peeler and demonstrated. “Okay, okay. I’ve got it.” Mason came back in to see Xander with a small pile of carrot peels, scowling at the carrot he worked on stripping. And his sister at the stove sautéing garlic. Pretty homey, he thought. Maybe Xander looked out of his milieu, but altogether, pretty homey. “Mason, do you remember how to floret a cauliflower?” “Um—” “Sure you do.” She handed him a knife, set the head on a cutting board. “I don’t even like cauliflower.”

Naomi was home on summer break from college, working at the restaurant. Decided to walk home one night.” “It was a nice night,” she added. “The mugger thought so, too. Anyway, this guy comes up on her—with a knife—wants her money and her watch, her earrings, her phone.” “I would have given it all to him, just like the uncles had impressed on both of us a million times.” “Maybe you would have.” Mason shrugged. “But the asshole figured he had a defenseless woman, a scared one. And a pretty one. So he copped a feel.” “And he smirked,” Naomi stated, and, remembering it all now, sneered. “She bruised his balls, broke his nose, and dislocated his shoulder, called nine-one-one. He was still on the ground moaning when the cops got there.”

There could be normal, she realized. There could be pockets of normal even in the middle of the awful.