Only We Know by Victoria Purman

His … boxers? She looked him up and down. She couldn’t tell. And then once again tried to stop thinking about it.
    Sam had returned to his spot in the kitchen and smiled at her across the kitchen bench. ‘You hungry?’
    Calla could feel her stomach rumbling but wasn’t sure if it was for want of food. Something about this scene was strange and confusing. What was going on? Sam looked like he was settling in. First the lift back to cabin, then the shower in her bathroom. He was definitely wearing fresh clothes, so he must have unloaded a bag from his car. Now their dirties were rubbing against each other in the washing machine.
    And he was in the kitchen — her kitchen, albeit her temporary one — asking her about dinner?
    â€˜What are you doing?’ she asked.
    â€˜I’ve had a look through your shopping.’
    Calla felt her face flush. Judging by the way he was built, he was probably a wholegrain bread kind of guy (if he hadn’t sworn off carbs entirely), ate activated almonds (whatever the hell they were) and was right into the latest super foods. No one who looked like he did could possibly eat like a regular person. And what had she bought from the supermarket to sustain her? Comfort food, mostly. If ever an occasion had called for such solace, this trip was top of the charts. With a bullet. Which all made her feel slightly defensive about her food choices.
    â€˜Listen. It wasn’t a well-thought-out plan, I admit. I was still feeling quite queasy at the time, as you well know, after that boat ride. I didn’t have much of an appetite yesterday and I didn’t have my glasses and I could barely see the labels.’ Each excuse sounded more pathetic than the last.
    â€˜You didn’t seem to have much trouble finding the chocolate.’ Sam smirked.
    Calla held up a hand. ‘I will never, ever apologise for chocolate.’
    He smiled. ‘I wouldn’t dare ask you to. Pull up a chair. I grabbed some things from my car. On the menu tonight we have tomato soup from the tin and baked potatoes.’ Sam flipped the tin of tomato soup in the air and caught it without even looking. Calla realised he was looking right at her instead.
    She suddenly felt a little wobbly in the knees and hopped up on the stool. ‘That … that sounds perfect.’
    â€˜And did I mention the chocolate chaser?’
    â€˜Whoa, buddy. Stop right there. If you think I’m sharing my chocolate with you, you’re crazy.’
    Sam rolled his eyes. ‘What makes you think I don’t have my own stash?’
    Maybe not such a health freak after all. ‘I was thinking I might start with a glass of wine,’ Calla said. ‘I did bring a bottle from home. Where’d you put it?
    Sam planted his hands on the kitchen bench and shook his head. ‘No, not a great idea.’
    Calla’s back straightened. ‘Why not? After the day I’ve had?’
    â€˜No alcohol tonight. Basic first aid. Just in case you’re —’
    Calla huffed. ‘I’m not concussed.’
    â€˜Humour me,’ Sam said.
    Once their gourmet dinner was finished, Calla insisted on washing the dishes. She’d had to physically push Sam out of the small kitchen to get him to agree. Once she’d poured him another glass of red wine — she’d followed his advice and hadn’t indulged herself — it was his turn to sit on the other side of the modest kitchen bench and watch her.
    â€˜So, Calla. You didn’t tell me exactly why you’re on KI.’
    â€˜No.’ Calla was happy to direct her reply to the suds in the sink.
    â€˜Not a tourist. Okay, you here for work?’
    â€˜I wish.’ She took a deep breath, and looked back at him over her shoulder. ‘I’m here to find somebody. And … I heard he’s living here, so …’ That was the very short version of her very long and complicated story and the less