written twenty thousand words.”
“In one night? That’s not a grilled cheese sandwich, that’s a nine-course tasting menu.” She looked impressed. “How did you do it?”
“One grilled cheese sandwich led to another.”
“As a lover of grilled cheese sandwiches, I can understand that. They’ve always been my downfall.” She waved a hand toward the counter. “Sit down. In case it was my food that triggered your burst of creativity, I’ll fix breakfast.”
He knew the source of his motivation had nothing to do with food, and everything to do with her. The character she’d inspired was going to be one of the most complex and interesting that he’d ever written. “I don’t eat breakfast.”
“You don’t seem to eat much at all. But I’m here to change all that.” She started humming again and he decided it was a reflex.
“Do you know anything that isn’t Santa-themed?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m wondering if we could change the playlist. I’m not a lover of festive music.”
She slid a tray of tomatoes into the oven. “Always happy to take requests from the audience. I know you love Mozart, so how about a little aria from The Marriage of Figaro?”
“What makes you think I love Mozart?”
“Aha!” She waggled the spoon in his direction, triumphant. “You’re not the only one capable of spotting clues. You could put me in your next book. I’d make a cute FBI agent. Perhaps everyone underestimates me because of my blond hair and my impressive rack and then boom, I let them have it.”
He decided this wasn’t a good moment to tell her that aspects of her were certainly going to be in his next book, but she wasn’t going to find herself on the right side of the law.
“Does that happen often?”
“People underestimating me? All the time.”
“That must be frustrating.”
“Mostly they’re the ones who are frustrated.” She flashed him a wicked smile. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.”
“With that deadly move you keep warning me about?”
“That’s the one. When you’re least expecting it I’ll take you by surprise and wham, you’re history.”
He’d come out of his study with the intention of asking her to keep her noise down. He’d had every intention of returning to work, but now he felt in no hurry to do so. Instead he joined her in the kitchen. Eva’s energy and enthusiasm were infectious, filling every dark corner of his soulless apartment. And talking to her sparked ideas. His character was becoming clearer and clearer in his head, layer upon layer.
“So what powers of deduction did you use to discover my taste in music?”
“You have CDs next to your bookshelf. I saw a whole shelf of Mozart.” She lowered the spoon. “You don’t just stream the music like most people?”
“The CDs belonged to my father. He played principle cello for the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra.”
“Lucky you. So I guess you didn’t have to scramble for tickets like the rest of us mortals.”
“You like opera?”
“Love it.” She sang a few notes from The Marriage of Figaro, in Italian and pitch-perfect.
“Don’t tell me—your grandfather was a music professor.”
“In fact my grandfather was a lobster fisherman, but he happened to love music. And he loved my grandmother. I grew up with singing and Shakespeare. If my singing is disturbing you, I’ll try to remember not to do it, but you might have to keep reminding me.”
“It’s not disturbing me.” The singing was nowhere near as disturbing as the bump and grind of her hips as she’d danced.
“Paige, who used to share the apartment with me, wore noise-reducing headphones most of the time. She needs silence to concentrate.”