Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
By the time Saturday rolls around, I have successfully cooked spaghetti and meatballs (okay, frozen meatballs and jarred marinara sauce, but it still counts) and chicken stir-fry.
I had debated seeing Dylan one evening after work, but since I can’t call him and I don’t know his schedule, I thought Saturday was probably a safer bet.
The weather is cool and calm today, so I dress in a cute black Lululemon sleeveless bodysuit, throw a long light brown cardigan over top, and pair it all with my mini Uggs.
My hair is up in its usual claw clip as I get in the car to drive down the coast to Killick Point.
When I get to the rusted red door, I knock a few times and then open it to go inside. “Ouch,” I say as I’m greeted with that slight shock once more. I wish that would stop happening.
“Hello? Is someone there?” I hear a deep voice yell from upstairs.
“It’s your favourite person,” I call back sarcastically.
I walk into the main level of the lighthouse just as Dylan stomps down the stairs holding, yes, of course, his usual cup of coffee in hand.
He doesn’t look like he’s been up to much this morning, wearing a pair of black joggers and a plain white T-shirt.
I spot the black ink on his arm that I want to explore so badly, peeking out around his bicep.
He’s got a black toque on, and his hair falls loose, messy but sexy, almost touching his shoulders.
“You again,” he muses as he cocks an eyebrow at me, a teasing grin already appearing as he goes to take a sip of his coffee.
“Hi,” I breathe out, taking in the sight of him. I can’t help but notice how his eyes drag down over my body in the tight fabric and lock onto my chest for the briefest of seconds before landing on my eyes.
“Do you dance?” he asks, motioning for me to follow him upstairs. Sunlight peeks through the window and bathes the surrounding space in a bright, golden light.
“No, why?”
“It looks like you’re dressed for a dance class,” he says without turning back to look at me.
“I think you need to get a better handle on women’s fashion,” I reply. “Maybe I need to get you out of this lighthouse and out into the world, where you can see people other than your own reflection in the bathroom mirror.”
“I see you now, it seems,” he responds quietly.
We get upstairs, and I take my usual place on the plaid couch, taking off my cardigan to cool down. The light is really pouring in now; it must have warmed up significantly since this morning.
He walks over to me with a coffee that smells like pumpkin. I can’t wait to try it again.
“Mmm, I’ve been dreaming about this drink all week,” I tell him as I breathe in the scent before lifting the cup to my lips for that first sip. “I told my friend Priya about the creamer, and she wants to try it.”
“It was easy to make.” He shrugs. “I have all the ingredients. We can make more, and I’ll teach you.”
“Okay.” I cup the warm drink in my hands and take another sip. “After I finish this, though.”
He comes and sits with me on the couch, one hand holding his mug, the other placed down at his side.
He’s in my personal space, and I don’t mind it one bit.
I let myself absorb every detail of him, so close beside me.
His full lips, the beauty mark on the right side of his face, beside his eye.
His long, dark lashes and the sharp cut of his nose.
Everything about him is perfect. It’s almost too much to handle.
He’s all muscle, his skin tanned from being outside so much.
“So.” I need to stop staring. “What made you want to be a lighthouse keeper?” I ask. I don’t know much other than he took over after his dad retired.
He stares out into the kitchen for a moment, lost in thought, then takes a long, slow sip of coffee. “I enjoy the work,” he starts. I sit silently and wait, getting the feeling he has more to say. “I like being alone too.” Sip. Stare. “Keeping people safe.”
“Good reasons,” I respond. The way his foot is bouncing on the floor and his brows are knit together, I get the sense there’s more to the story. More that he might not be ready to share with me yet. That’s okay, I won’t push him.
We sit together in comfortable silence, our hands placed at our sides on the couch. Not touching, but close enough. I can feel the heat radiating off him, and I open and close my hand a few times to stop myself from reaching over and grabbing his.
Friends, remember.
“I tried to call you,” I say after a few minutes.
“Yeah?” he asks curiously.
“It said, number not in service. I forgot the paper you gave me, so you’ll have to write it down again for me.”
“Of course.”
We finish our coffees, and when I place the empty cup in front of me on the coffee table, he stands up, grabs both cups, and walks over to the kitchen to wash them.
“Want some help?” I ask, getting up and walking over.
“Not with this, but if you give me a minute, we can make the pumpkin creamer. I’m going to run out, anyway. I tried some in my coffee this week—”
“Amazing, right?” I beam.
“I was going to say not bad, but amazing works too.” He grins before turning back to the sink.
“Wait ’til you try even more flavours. It’s fun to get seasonal with them,” I say, dreaming up all the fun fall and Christmas flavours we could make.
We.
We’ve only just become friends, and already I’m making future plans. It’s a feeling I’m not used to, but there’s something about him that tells me he could be around in a few months’ time.
He gets everything set up for us in the compact kitchen.
Dylan walks over to the fridge and pulls out a mason jar with whipping cream and a glass ziplock container filled with pumpkin puree.
“Leftovers from when I first made it,” he says as he grabs vanilla extract from the fridge door.
Then he opens a cabinet and pulls out a package of pumpkin spice and a jar of cinnamon.
Finally, he pulls out a very dated-looking can of sweetened condensed milk.
“Is that from, like, fifty years ago?” I ask, my eyebrow cocked slightly.
He scratches his temple as he answers. “No? Bought it last week.”
I wonder where he shops. I guess retro packaging is making a comeback.
“Okay, you’re on pouring duty,” he instructs me. A glass measuring cup is placed in my hand, and he tells me to measure out one cup of cream, half a cup of condensed milk, and three spoonfuls of pumpkin puree into a pot on the stove. “Let it heat slowly, and keep stirring it.”
I pour everything out, only making a tiny mess when the cream comes out faster than I expected.
My shoulders rise in anticipation of him getting annoyed with me, but he only stands beside me and wipes up the mess with a damp cloth.
I begin mixing it, listening to the sound of the spoon scraping the metal pot.
Before I know what’s happening, his hand comes down over mine, holding it and the spoon, slowing me down.
“Oh,” I gasp, startled by the feeling of his skin on mine.
“You’re stirring too fast,” he says quietly in my ear, his voice gruff and deep. “You’ve got to slow down.”
“S-sorry,” I stammer, lost in the warmth of his body, so close to mine once again.
“S’okay.” He moves his hand away and starts measuring out the spices. “We’re going to add a teaspoon of pumpkin spice, a quarter teaspoon of cinnamon, and a teaspoon of vanilla.” He tosses it all in as I keep stirring, the liquid heating up and the incredible aroma taking over the small kitchen.
After a few more minutes, he leans over me, the scent of his soap wrapping me in a hug, and turns off the element. “Now we let it sit and cool before we put it in the fridge.”
I clap my hands and brush them off on my legs, overjoyed. “That was easier than I thought! Where’d you find that recipe?”
He shrugs. “I made it up.” His cheeks redden at the declaration.
I walk over to the sink to rinse out the can the condensed milk was in, when a date on the side catches my eye.
Best Before: Aug 28 1994
“Umm.” I look over at Dylan, my eyebrows lowered, holding the can to show him. “I think you should check your dates when you’re buying cans, mister.” I frown and point out the very old best-before date.
His mouth opens the slightest bit before answering me. “What are you talking about? It says 1994.”
“Yes, exactly.” I place one hand on my hip, not grasping how he’s not more grossed out by this.
“That’s a year away—”
“What are you talking about?” My eyes widen as concern sets in. Did he hit his head this morning, or is he just messing with me? “It’s 2025. That’s like thirty-one years ago.”
“2025?” Now he’s looking at me like I’m the crazy one.
I place the can on the counter and pace back and forth in the kitchen for a minute.
“Dylan, do you not know what year it is?” He has to have hit his head.
Did he say whether he went out at all today?
Do I need to take him to a hospital? Do I even know where the nearest hospital is?
This feels like a sign of a concussion or amnesia or something.
“Lucy,” he starts, a slight hint of a smirk visible. Okay, he thinks this is a joke. “It’s August 23, 1993.”
1993? What is he talking about?