Chapter Eight
Liam
Jude’s car follows mine up the winding road toward my place. In my rearview mirror, I can see his face through the windshield. He looks exhausted. Wrung out.
I’m relieved Jude gave in and said he’d stay with me because the thought of him driving up and down the mountain twice a day filled me with dread.
I’m calmer knowing he’ll be safely under my wing.
I tell myself my concern is because he’s my partner.
No need to examine too closely why his well-being matters to me so much. It just does.
I pull into my driveway and cut the engine. The house looks cozy in the snow, warm light spilling from the porch fixture across the front steps. It’s a two-story cabin-style place, cedar siding stained a deep brown, with a wide covered porch that wraps around to the side.
I built the porch myself the first summer I moved in.
It’s not perfect, not even close. One section is slightly crooked if you really look.
But I’m proud of it because it’s mine. A pair of Adirondack chairs sit out front, buried under a few inches of fresh powder.
In summer, I sit out here most evenings with a beer, listening to the crickets and watching the sun drop behind the peaks.
Sometimes Kara joins me. Maybe next summer, if Jude is still here in Golden Peak, he can watch the sunsets with me too.
Jude parks behind me and gets out, his duffel slung over one shoulder. He stands in the driveway for a moment, taking in the house. “Nice.”
“It’s not fancy,” I say, heading up the steps and unlocking the front door. “But it’s home.”
He follows me inside, and I watch him take it in.
The front door opens into a living room with exposed beams and hardwood floors.
The walls are a warm gray, and I’ve got a leather sectional facing a stone fireplace that takes up most of one wall.
There’s a braided rug under the coffee table, a bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks and old sports trophies, and a few framed photos on the mantel: my parents at the lake, Jack and I as kids in our Little League uniforms, one of the whole pack from last year’s summer gathering.
His gaze lingers longest on the photo of the pack, and a muscle works in his cheek.
“The kitchen is over here.” I lead the way past the breakfast bar with three bar stools. It’s clean because I hate a messy kitchen. Copper pots hang from a rack above the stove, and there’s a cast iron skillet on the stove. “Feel free to eat whatever you want.”
“I’ll buy some groceries tomorrow,” he says.
“Sure, if you want something special, but I just went shopping the other day. Pantry and fridge are full of food.”
“Still,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to eat your stuff without contributing.”
“Suit yourself.” I shrug. There’s no point in arguing. It’s obvious that being self-sufficient is in his DNA. “Guest room’s upstairs, first door on the left,” I say. “Guest bathroom’s across the hall from your room. There are clean towels in the cabinet.”
Jude nods, still looking around. His expression is hard to read. “This really is a great place.”
“Thanks. I’ve put a lot of work into it.” I toss my keys on the counter. “You should grab a shower first. We both smell like a campfire.”
“I don’t have to go first.”
“Sure you do. You’re my guest. Besides, I want to start dinner.” I open the fridge and scan the contents. “I’ll start dinner while you clean up. Any food allergies?”
“No.”
“Anything you hate?”
“I’m not picky.” He hesitates. “Liam, you don’t have to cook me dinner. I can just make myself something later.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not just making dinner because of you. I’m hungry.” I pull out a pack of chicken thighs, garlic, lemons, and a bag of small potatoes. “Go shower. You’ll feel better.”
He lingers for a second, then heads upstairs with his duffel.
I hear the creak of the guest room door, then his footsteps crossing the hall to the bathroom. When the shower turns on, I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and get to work.
Cooking relaxes me. It always has. My mom taught me when I was twelve, after I kept complaining about having nothing to do on summer afternoons.
She figured if I was going to hang around the kitchen bothering her, I might as well learn to be useful.
Turns out I had a knack for it. Jack can barely boil water without burning something, but I took to it naturally.
I season the chicken thighs with salt, pepper, smoked paprika, and fresh garlic, then sear them in the cast iron until the skin is golden and the kitchen fills with the rich, savory smell of browning meat.
I quarter the potatoes and toss them with olive oil, rosemary, and salt, then scatter them around the chicken in a deep baking dish.
Lemon halves go in too, cut-side down. The whole thing goes into the oven at four hundred degrees.
While the chicken roasts, I wash some green beans and get them ready to sauté later.
I set the table for two, pulling out actual plates instead of the paper ones I sometimes use when I’m eating alone.
I even light the cinnamon candle I have on the table, then immediately blow it out because what the hell am I doing? It’s dinner with a friend, not a date.
The shower upstairs shuts off. A few minutes later Jude comes down, hair damp, wearing a long-sleeved white T-shirt and gray sweats.
Even freshly showered, his natural wolf scent breaks through the clean scent of my soap on his skin.
Something about Jude smelling like my soap sends a ripple of warmth through me that I choose not to examine.
Instead, I focus on the hint of smoke that clings to his clothing.
“Damn, I meant to give you some clean clothes,” I say.
“That’s okay.” He grimaces, sniffing his sleeve. “These aren’t bad. They were the best of what I had. I’ll use the washer later tonight to wash my uniform and the rest of my clothes, if that’s okay?”
“Of course it’s okay.” I hesitate. “You sure you don’t want me to go get you some clothes right now?”
“I’m sure,” he says, stopping near me. “Whatever you’re making smells incredible.”
“Roasted lemon chicken with potatoes and green beans.” I shrug. “Nothing fancy.”
He leans against the sink, watching me. “You actually cooked. I thought maybe you’d heat something up in the microwave.”
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I’m not shocked. I’m impressed.” He tilts his head. “You don’t strike me as the type.”
I smirk. “What type do I strike you as?”
“The frozen pizza and takeout type.”
“That’s deeply offensive.” I point a spatula at him. “I’ll have you know my mom taught me to cook. She’d disown me if I lived on frozen pizza.”
The smallest smile crosses his face. “Well, I look forward to eating a home-cooked meal.”
“I take it you don’t cook?” I check the oven, and the smell that rolls out is mouthwatering.
“Not really.” He laughs. “Pop-Tarts are my best friend.”
“That doesn’t sound healthy.”
“I buy the fruit ones.”
I widen my eyes. “You do realize that a fruit Pop-Tart doesn’t count as your daily serving of fruit, right?”
“I know.” He sighs. “But they’re cheap and fast and yummy.”
“Oh, boy.” I shake my head.
“Instead of nagging me about my questionable eating habits, you should go shower.” He gestures toward the stove. “I’ll keep an eye on dinner.”
“If you insist.” As our eyes meet, that weird and unwelcome awareness we share buzzes through me. I clear my throat. “The chicken has another twenty minutes. If the timer goes off before I’m back, just pull it out.”
“I think I can handle that.”
I head upstairs, stripping off my smoky uniform when I reach my bedroom and tossing it on the floor.
I step into the shower and the hot water feels incredible on my sore muscles.
As I wash the day off, I let myself think about the fact that Jude is downstairs in my kitchen right now.
In my house. Where he’ll be sleeping tonight, and tomorrow night, and probably for months.
You’d think I’d feel some kind of inconvenience about having a roommate after many years of living alone. Instead, there’s a settling in my chest, like something that was slightly off has been corrected. My wolf is calm in a way it rarely is. Content.
“Don’t make it weird,” I mutter, shampooing my hair with more force than is necessary. “I’m helping out a friend. That’s all this is.”
I rinse and shut the water off before my thoughts can go anywhere else. Because for some reason, when it comes to Jude, my thoughts do wander into territory I find uncomfortable.
Once I’m showered, I scoop my uniform off the floor and hunt down Jude’s smoky uniform in the guest bathroom.
Then I toss them both in the washer since we’ll need them for work tomorrow.
I don’t bother asking Jude if he wants me to wash his uniform.
I know he’d just say he’ll do it later, as if me helping him out is a huge sacrifice.
When I come back downstairs in a clean flannel shirt and jeans, Jude is standing at the stove, sautéing the green beans. He glances over and I notice his gaze flicker briefly down my body before he looks back at the pan. My pulse flutters but I pretend I didn’t notice.
“The timer went off,” he says. “I pulled the chicken out. Figured I’d make myself useful with the green beans.”
“I thought you didn’t cook?”
“I don’t.” He laughs sheepishly. “Hopefully the green beans will survive my horrible cooking skills.”
“Look at us.” I lean against the counter beside him. “Working like a team at home just as well as we do at work.”
“I guess.” He huffs a quiet laugh but doesn’t look at me. “Let’s hope we don’t end up hating each other.”
I’m about to respond when a knock at the front door interrupts.