“The sun wasn’t up yet, and his white apron was already covered in smears of brown and green. The kitchen was quiet, except for Pete’s knife against the carving block. Like a typewriter, he tapped over and over before sliding the pieces to the side when he was finished, only to start again. I startled when I heard heavy footsteps descending the stairs. Taylor pushed through the double doors, wearing only a pair of gray cotton shorts and untied boots. He froze when Pete pointed a knife in his dir...ection. Taylor looked at me. “Don’t go near the food,” I explained. Taylor stayed put. “What are you doing?” he asked, crossing his arms to ward off the cold. I wiped my wet cheeks. “Talking to Pete.” “But”—Taylor held up his hand—“no offense, buddy”—his eyes returned to me—“Pete doesn’t talk.” I shrugged. “He doesn’t share my secrets, and I don’t ask him why he doesn’t speak.” Taylor’s demeanor immediately changed. “I don’t share your secrets either.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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