Free Countdown to Zero Hour by Nico Rosso

doors.
    “Yeah.” She knew from dragging it to the curb this morning how heavy it was. He’d been carrying it for how long now and it still seemed like nothing in his hands. “But I’ll unpack it.”
    He placed it carefully by the refrigerator and took a step back. His gaze didn’t rest, searching over the room, picking it apart. She felt that same attention on her. What had he discovered? He’d already understood her moan about the stove and was able to stir her up. Her blood pumped faster with the idea of his constant focus finding her hidden urges.
    She’d pried things out of him, too. A marine. There was something about his bearing and efficient physicality that made him seem like more than just a goon. And she’d met her share of marines and sailors in San Diego. So she’d learned another piece of the mystery man, but didn’t know how it all connected. He remained a bad guy, working for the bad guys.
    Was it just this morning that he’d picked her up? She didn’t even know what time it was now. There was a clock on the stove, but the numbers were arbitrary and remote.
    “Do I need to cook lunch?” She hadn’t even inventoried the pantry cabinets to see if there were any staples.
    He pushed up his sleeve, revealing a rugged watch and his muscled forearm. “It’s around that time.”
    “It’s going to take a while to get the kitchen fired up.” Usually she’d have at least one assistant. For all his skills, Art didn’t seem like the sous-chef type.
    Opening the tall pantry doors, he peered over the stock of canned goods and prepackaged food. “Fuck ‘em. They can get by on this today. But they’ll need dinner.”
    “I’ll be ready by then.” She placed her knife roll on the broad island and went to the cooler.
    Art left the kitchen, glancing about at all the details as he went.
    Even iced, the aromas of parsley, chicken stock and fresh cod gave her a small sense of stability. She opened both doors to the brand-new refrigerator. The factory-clean interior had basic condiments and a few loaves of bread. Bachelor sandwich fixings. Her ingredients joined them on the shelves and in the bins.
    By the time she was done with the cooler, Art returned with all the other grocery bags.
    She’d shopped for the best produce she could find the day before. Cabbage, carrots, apples. Some of it went into the refrigerator. Art didn’t ask, but took the onions and potatoes and put them in the pantry.
    He returned and stared at the produce she loaded into the fridge. “That’s a big green onion.”
    “Leek.” She held it up for him to examine for a moment before stowing it in the crisper.
    “I’ve heard of those.” He pulled a bunch of celery from a bag and handed it to her.
    It was too easy. Too casual. She saw the scars on his rough knuckles and felt herself harden. “There are tricks to cooking them, but I’ll never tell.”
    The empty cooler blocked her access to the grocery bags, and she closed it with a definitive snap.
    Art picked it up; it appeared just as light as when the cooler had been full. He found a storage spot for it back near the laundry room. Swaggering as usual, he returned like they were just getting set up for a catering gig.
    But his eyes remained diligent. After glancing up at the ceiling light fixture, he turned his attention to the wide window in front of the sink. He leaned on the counter to examine something outside and his jacket rode up to reveal a heavy pistol in a holster on his hip.
    She shut the refrigerator, and a chill continued to press toward her bones. He’d been armed the whole time. She’d seen how dangerous he was with his hands and a knife. With a gun, she imagined he would be quick. Death would be as simple as snapping his fingers.
    He turned from the window and caught her peeking at where his pistol was under his jacket. “Everyone’s carrying here.” His face was serious and still.
    “Except me.” She’d gone to an indoor range with three of her