Chapter 12 #2
The cooked salmon sits on a plate covered in plastic wrap on the top shelf of the fridge.
The rest of the contents have a clear clue as to who owns them.
I imagine the sticky-looking jar of pickles and two cans of stout are Sam’s, and that the veggies, fruit, yogurts, and two bottles of sauvignon blanc—one half empty—are Frankie’s.
“All right.” I peel back the plastic wrap, rip a chunk off the salmon, reseal the plate and turn back to face my tormentor. “Give me back my underwear, you little madam.”
“Is that a sentence you use often?” Frankie asks, a devilish glint in her eye.
“Your cat is literally the first living creature, human or animal, to ever steal my boxers.” I wave the salmon under Thelma’s nose.
“I find that hard to believe.”
A quick glance out of the corner of my eye determines Frankie’s focused entirely on the pot now.
“Why’s that?” I ask.
The cat’s gaze follows the tasty treat back and forth, but she shows no sign of releasing my skivvies.
“You look like someone who has a woman in every port.” Frankie concentrates on stirring. “Or every small town that you digital-nomad in.”
My chest tightens at the reminder of my lie. And the fact that she believes me.
“No women anywhere.” That’s one hundred percent honesty, but there’s no point talking about that.
“Okay, Miss Kitty, you don’t even get to sniff this salmon if you’re not going to let go.
” I withdraw the treat and she immediately jumps down, on the way releasing my underwear, which lands unceremoniously on the side of the pot that I can now see contains soup—one corner dangling in the contents, another catching light in the flame underneath.
“Ah!” Frankie grabs the flaming, partially soup-soaked boxers and tosses them in the sink where they continue to burn.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, diving for the faucet and turning it on to extinguish the flame.
“A whole new meaning to fire in your pants,” she says with a wiggle of her eyebrows.
Even the cat looks like she’s laughing at me as she munches on the salmon that I dropped onto the counter.
“Yeah, thanks.” I rinse out the soupy corner of the fabric and examine the rest of the damage. “I think they’ll make it. It’s just the hem that’s burned on one side.”
“If you wring them out and put them on the shelf above the baseboard vent over there, they might be dry by the time you’ve showered. That thing gets so hot I almost burned myself on it the other day.”
“Sounds like the thermostat might be on the fritz,” I say on instinct, before realizing that someone who works in financial investments is unlikely to have much knowledge of heating and air-conditioning systems.
“Everything’s on the fritz,” she says.
I arrange my rinsed-out boxers on the shelf so they’re dangling over the edge and accidentally knock into a leaf-shaped tray that holds receipts, a pen with ink congealed on the tip, two buttons, and three rubber bands of various sizes. It sits next to a framed photo of an older couple.
“What was your grandma’s name?” Shit, I’m not supposed to know her grandpa’s name either. “I mean, both your grandparents, what are their names?”
“Sam and Donna,” she says, before blowing on the pot spoon, and slurping from it.
The back of her head waggles from side to side as if she’s trying to figure out what she just tasted. Then she picks up the pepper grinder and gives it a few twists over the pot.
“Smells good.” I clutch at the first innocuous, non-underwear-related topic that comes to mind.
“Thanks.” She turns to face me, leaning back against the counter and folding her arms in such a way that they lift her breasts and make them look full and round and spark an itch in the palm of my hand to touch them.
“The produce shop in town always has a basket of misshapen or slightly damaged fruit and vegetables that they sell off. It’s fun to try to make soup from whatever’s there. ”
“And what did you come up with?” I ask. “Actually, let me guess.”
While half my brain screams get in the fucking shower, I take a long deep inhale. “Hmmm. Onion?”
“Yup.”
I take a step closer. “Celery?”
“Yup.”
Another step. “Is that cauliflower?”
“It is.”
“I’m guessing there are carrots in there because you carry them with you wherever you go.”
She smiles, looks at the floor, and nods.
“And I swear I can smell garlic and rosemary too.”
“Yup.” She turns back to the pot and gives it another stir. “And there’s potatoes, spinach, squash, and some green beans. But I guess none of those smell like anything.”
“And it looks like you’ve got enough here for every meal until you go back to Chicago.”
“I’m going to freeze most of it. So Grandpa has some easy meals after he gets home. But you’re welcome to”—she cuts herself off and shakes her head—“no…you probably have a lot of work to do.”
“I’m welcome to what?” I ask. Because if she’s about to offer me some of this amazing-smelling, warming, filling concoction to take back to the barn I am not saying no. I’m absolutely starving and it’s way better than anything I could ever get delivered.
“I was going to say you can stay for some. After your shower.” She pauses and swallows. “To say thank you for helping with the hay, I mean. We wouldn’t have enough feed for tomorrow if you weren’t here.”
Oh, she’s inviting me to have it here. With her. Well, if that isn’t a sign she’s starting to trust me, I don’t know what is. And I need to grab that with both hands.
“No thanks required. But I’d love some, so thank you.”
I head toward the door in the corner of the room that presumably leads to a hallway or another room that the shower is off.
“You can use whatever you like in there,” she says, as I open the door to discover that this isn’t a hallway, I’m already immediately at my destination—a tiny room with a shower in one corner, and a sink and toilet squeezed in next to it.
And I’m about to get naked and wet just one thin wall away from where Frankie is making me soup.