Johnny & I : The Island by Daria Paus (hardest books to read txt) 📕

her more times than I could count. Among the spaghetti and the noodles were an opened box of screws. They had spilled out and lay scattered all over the bottom of the drawer. An old piece of rope lay rolled up in the corner and on the side of it sat a chocolate bar.

I gave up on the mess and moved on to the freezer. There I had more luck.

Thinking of what I was actually doing made my cheeks flush. Here I was, in the kitchen of the guy I’d just seen on the cover of People magazine. The guy I’d lost myself reading about on the flight to Miami. The fact that I was now cooking old noodles and frozen vegetables in his kitchen was not just weird—it was a dream come true.

The result looked tasty, even though I could’ve done better with the right material. Making something out of almost nothing seemed to be another skill I’d developed.

My hand trembled when I set the plate in front of Johnny and went to sit opposite of him.

My stomach made a loud growl and I blushed. I’d lectured him about not eating, but the truth was, I hadn't eaten since before the accident, either. It felt like an eternity ago.

He gave me a small smile, and I wondered if it was genuine, or just another act to hide the pain underneath.

"Let's eat,” I said.

He looked at me for a long time, and when he spoke his voice was just a whisper. “Thank you.”

4

Coffee & Conversation

When we’d finished eating, I helped him put the dishes away. I was busy rinsing a plate and far away in thought when his voice brought me back to the kitchen.

“Do you drink coffee?” he asked.

“I love coffee.”

His brows furrowed as he looked around in silence.

“Let me guess, you don’t have it?”

“I’m not sure.”

I’d seen a pack of instant coffee. It was in the bottom drawer next to a frying pan and a few old notebooks. If it was drinkable, I wasn’t as sure. I went to fetch it, holding it up for him to see.

“I knew it was there,” he said.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Do you even know how to make coffee?”

“What the fuck do you think of me?”

To be honest I didn’t have much trust in his culinary skills after seeing his kitchen.

“I can cook,” he said. “If I have the right ingredients.” He gestured at the fridge. “I haven’t been here for ages. I didn’t think of . . .” He let the words trail off as a sad look came over his face. “I guess it’s safe to say, you’re more skilled than I am. The kitchen is yours. Make the fucking coffee.”

I bit back a giggle, opened the package, and smelled the black powder. It smelled delicious.

We sat down with a cup each, and he studied me for so long that I started to tremble under his gaze.

"So, help me out here," he said. "By the obvious twang, you're . . . let me guess . . .” He paused, biting his lower lip as he was thinking. "Half . . . southern.” He shook his head and I got the feeling he regretted not being able to narrow it down more. "Half . . ." He left the sentence unfinished, waiting for me to fill in.

"Irish. I’m Irish."

He frowned. “Should’ve picked that."

"It ain't easy to hear anymore, I reckon," I said, and he surprised me by laughing. I wasn't sure if he found my accent funny or why he was amused, but something about it ignited a spark of annoyance inside of me. I crossed my arms, glaring at him through narrowed eyes.

"You clearly still have that fake British thing goin' on," I snapped.

He raised a startled eyebrow in question.

"You're a pure Hollywood product," I said. "Doubt they speak like that there."

He grimaced, and a mix of amusement and confusion came over his face.

"And what about you? A woman like yourself—don't you have better things to do than stalk the net for gossip?"

I wasn't sure whether he was joking or not, but the fact remained. I knew more about him than what he wanted me to. And having said gossip in mind, I was certain millions of girls would've been green with envy if they knew where I was at this moment. So stop behavin’ like an idiot, my inner voice warned. What the hell? 

I bit back a snarky reply and took a deep breath.

"You’re not, by the way."

"What?"

"Pure Hollywood bred."

He nodded. "That proves my net-stalking-point,” he said. “But you’re right."

I laughed nervously, but nodded, feeling no need to deny it. He couldn't be surprised or uncomfortable about such a thing. That was the downside of being famous. How you couldn't keep things private no matter how badly you wanted to.

"How did you end up here?" he asked, changing the topic.

"On the island? Or in the States?"

He frowned, then shrugged. "Well, both."

I let out a slow breath to calm my nerves. "My parents got divorced when I was twelve; I moved with my mom to Kentucky."

"Wow. Must’ve been hard?"

"I was the weird kid, you know?" I wasn't sure he actually did know, so I went on. "The one with the red hair and the strange accent. Who didn't know anythin’ about thoroughbreds or basketball. It's fair to say I didn't make many friends." My laugh sounded anything but real, and I was sure he noticed.

He nodded knowingly, and I went on. Once I’d started to ramble, there was no stopping me.

"Dad's a fisherman, he taught me everythin’ there's to know about the sea. I miss that, on the farm I mean."

"Can imagine," he said. "Who wouldn't?"

I smiled. One thing we had in common. "I learned to ride, horses I mean."

A look of amusement came over his face and my cheeks burned.

"Well, the rest you know,” I blurted, wanting this conversation to be over before I managed to embarrass myself further.

"Kentucky is quite far from