Chapter 9
Addison
I don’t leave my cabin for the rest of the day. I have enough snack supplies to get me through, so I simply take a shower, throw on PJs, and spend the day on the couch. My body feels wrecked from the panic attack last night anyway.
Plus, I don’t want to run into Cruz.
It’s always embarrassing to have an attack in front of someone. But him? My pride has disintegrated around me. And simply hiding away from the world feels like the best course of action right now.
So, as the week goes on, I only wander down to the mess hall on strategically odd hours in order to avoid the crowd. Or, more accurately, Cruz.
I don’t want to see that smirk on his face that I know will be there. Hear whatever new jabs he’s thought up for me.
As nice as he was to me during and after the panic attack, I just can’t shake the feeling that we’ll revert to our old ways of interacting. With him now having a humiliating upper hand.
No, it’s best I avoid him.
So, for the next week, I spend most of my time down at the ranch house, catching up with family, helping with the kids, and just hanging out. The only staff I interact with is Hank whenever I end up at the mess hall for meals.
“Aunt Addie!” Tate’s six-year-old daughter, Fern, yells, running down the hallway and skidding to a stop in front of me. She twirls in her light blue dress, showing it off for me. “This one’s my second favorite!” she declares.
“It’s beautiful!” I compliment. “It matches your gorgeous eyes.” I reach out to give her cheek a little pinch, and she giggles.
“Wanna see my first favorite one?”
“Oh, definitely!”
Beaming, she twirls around and runs back down the hallway to her room.
I laugh, leaning back in my chair and facing Tate and Lucy at the dining room table of the ranch house.
“She loves you,” Tate says with a chuckle.
“Do you want kids of your own one day?” Lucy asks.
It’s an innocent question, but one that catches me off guard.
Do I want kids? I don’t … really know. I suppose it’s something I’ve never given much thought to.
I’ve always loved kids, but having my own?
It always felt a little out of reach—like most things in my life.
It would have to come after my career—at least according to my parents—and that just seems unfair to a child.
“Sorry, that was a bit personal,” Lucy says quickly, noticing my pause.
“No,” I wave off her comment. “It’s fine. I guess I’m not sure yet.”
Lucy nods in understanding.
“How’s your stay going?” Tate asks. He’s on his lunch break, which he usually spends down here at the ranch house with his family.
I shrug. “Good.” I leave out the contentious relationship with one of his ranch hands, as well as my breakdown the other night.
Tate shoots me a grimace, my reply obviously not believable.
At first, I worry that he’s somehow caught wind of my and Cruz’s arguments.
But instead, he says, “You’re bored.” He shakes his head.
“I’m sorry. I really thought I’d have more free time to, I don’t know, show you around the town, stuff like that. ”
“Same,” Lucy interjects. “If I wasn’t sick half the time, we’d be going on adventures every day.” She laughs, placing a hand over her very pregnant belly.
“Oh, you guys don’t have to worry about me,” I say quickly. Although he isn’t exactly wrong. Reading on the porch every day is getting a bit old.
Just then, Tate’s phone buzzes, and he grabs it, staring down at the screen. “Shoot,” he mutters, and Lucy gives him a quizzical look. “The offer I extended to that local kid? He turned it down. Hank’s gonna be swamped.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Tate shrugs. “We usually have someone come in a few times a week and help Hank with all the meal prep work. It’s not full time, so it’s been hard finding someone after the last kid went off to college. But Hank’s been a bit overworked lately without him.”
Lucy hums in understanding.
“What all goes into it?” I ask, an idea popping into my head.
“Just chopping veggies, washing dishes, stuff like that. Easy. We typically hire teenagers or college kids home for the summer.”
Hmm. If a teenager is doing it, it really can’t be that hard. And as much as washing dishes isn’t my typical type of fun, the boredom truly is getting to me. Besides, I like Hank. He’s a sweetheart.
“What if I helped out?” I ask.
Tate’s eyes widen, and then he laughs. “Oh no, Addison, I’m not putting you to work while you’re here.”
“I mean it,” I press. “I could help.”
Tate opens his mouth, glances to Lucy, and then back at me. “Are you sure? Really, I don’t want you to feel like you have to or anything.”
“I’m sure,” I say. “Honestly, it’s something to do. It’ll get me outta your hair—and my head.”
Tate purses his lips together. “It would really take the pressure off me. Hank’s a nice guy, but a month of working overtime is making him a little less so.” He laughs. “And we’ll eventually find someone—so you’ll be off the hook soon.”
“Great,” I say with a smile, feeling surprisingly excited about it. “Just tell me when and where.”
Standing in the mess hall’s kitchen the next day, I surprisingly don’t feel as overwhelmed as I thought I would.
Hank seemed overjoyed at the prospect of me helping him out for the time being, and he’s been nothing but kind and supportive.
A denim apron tied around my waist and my hair thrown up in a bun, I’m ready to get to work.
“See all these vegetables?” Hank asks, motioning to an enormous pile of carrots, celery, broccoli, and potatoes stacked on the counter.
“These all need to be chopped up into, oh … yay big.” He holds his fingers about an inch apart.
“Each vegetable gets their own tub.” He grabs a stack of large Tupperware, bringing them over to rest on a barrel beside me.
“It’s a simple job but surprisingly time consuming. ” He chuckles.
“Well, I’ve got time,” I say with a smile.
He beams, walking past me to grab a cutting board and a sharp knife, setting them down before me. I start with the carrots, quickly falling into a routine of washing, slicing, and depositing them in their tub. Hank scurries around preparing the upcoming meal for the ranch hands—lunch.
“So tell me about yourself, Addison,” Hank says as we both continue our work. “You’re Tate’s cousin, I know that. But what else?”
“I’m from Seattle. Born and raised there. Love the city, but it can be overwhelming at times.”
“I hear that,” he says. “Lived in LA for a while. But nothing beats the peace and quiet of being out here. For me, at least.”
It sounds like something Cruz had said to me. And I know Tate feels the same way. Could it actually be true how idyllic it sounds? The mountains, the slow life. Is Montana really all it’s cracked up to be?
“What do you do?” Hank asks.
It’s the natural question, but I find myself stiffening nonetheless. “I, uh, work for my parents’ company. Real estate.”
Hank grunts. “Nice. Important too—people need homes.”
I shrug, chuckling softly. “I suppose. Although we specialize in luxury real estate. Corporate stuff, mansions, vacation homes. Definitely not a need.”
Hank laughs at that. “Well, we all gotta make a living. Do you like it?”
Again, it’s the next natural question, and yet I find my body reacting like someone has just threatened me with a knife. I swallow, methodically slicing the carrot as I weigh my answer.
As I open my mouth to respond, Hank laughs aloud. I glance over my shoulder at him. “You can say no, hun,” he chuckles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “We don’t always have to love our jobs.”
I find myself laughing too, my body relaxing. “Yeah …” I snort. “Then I guess the answer’s no.”
Hank hums from behind me, back to work. “People put too much stock in their jobs these days. I mean, yeah, we all gotta make a living. But your job shouldn’t be your end all be all. Gotta find your joy elsewhere.”
I dice carrots in silence for a moment. “What about you? Do you like your job? I promise I won’t tell my cousin if it’s a no,” I add with a giggle.
Hank laughs. “I do. But it’s not because of the job itself. It’s the people. The guys who work the ranch. The Thatchers. The fact that—usually—I’m home at a reasonable hour and I get to spend the weekends with my grandkids. That’s why I like it.”
It suddenly dawns on me why Tate was so stressed about finding someone to help Hank out, why he was so quick to take me up on this offer. He cares. Like, actually cares about his employees. He wants Hank home with his family, not working overtime.
And it hits me how starkly it compares to my parents. How many times have I seen them ruthlessly criticize an employee, or simply fire them? How many times have they ruthlessly criticized me?
The chopped-up carrots are barely covering the bottom of the bin.
There’s so much more to go, and yet I don’t feel overwhelmed by it.
In fact, something about all this feels oddly comforting.
Simple, methodical, repetitive. I’m not worried about brand relevance, presentation, what I look like, what my parents think of me.
I’m not worried about anything.
I’m just chopping carrots.
The morning passes pleasantly, Hank and I working along as we chat idly.
He really is the sweetest man, and the more he talks about his grandkids, the more I want to meet them.
When I finally finish with all the vegetables, placing the tubs in one of the giant refrigerators, I peruse the kitchen for my next task.
“You got that done in record time,” Hank says. “Usually takes the teens a bit longer.” Hank glances around. “Don’t have any dishes yet since lunch hasn’t happened …”
I zero in on some flour in the corner—a few bags of it. They look out of place. “You ever bake for the guys?” I gesture to it.
Hank throws his head back and laughs. “Nah, I can make a mean stew, but when it comes to cakes and brownies? Might as well skip it.”
I cock my head, glancing at a stack of baking sheets. “Want me to try something?”
Hank raises an eyebrow. “You a baker?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “But it’d be fun to try. Unless you’ve got other things you need from me,” I add hastily.
Hank waves at me. “Oh, please go ahead. I was ‘bout to send you home for the day anyway with nothin’ else to do around here. Can’t help you with it, though. Don’t know a thing about baked goods.”
Suddenly feeling a sense of confidence, despite the fact that I’ve never really baked anything, I pull out my phone. “I’m sure I can figure it out,” I say with a grin.
After scrolling through a few easy baked good recipes on my phone, I land on muffins. They seem simple enough—plus, easy to divvy up between people. Then I’m gathering ingredients, mixing, second-guessing, and trying my best to make something edible.
Hank gives words of encouragement along the way—usually little quips that make me laugh. And even though I feel out of my element, there’s still that prevailing feeling of calm. Like I’m simply just … existing. Doing something that doesn’t have high stakes.
And I’m loving it.
When the timer dings and I pull out the first batch of muffins, laughter erupts through the kitchen.
“They look a little deflated,” I say with feigned despair, setting them on a rack to cool.
Hank approaches, chuckling. “What matters is the taste, not the looks.” He grabs a fork, digs out a small bite, blows on it a few times, and then pops it in his mouth. He nods, smiling slowly then swallowing. “It’s good.”
A glimmer of pride surges through me, and I squeal, grabbing a fork of my own to taste. And sure enough, the chocolate chip muffin tastes like a regular chocolate chip muffin. “I’ll work on my artistic techniques later,” I say.
The sound of the kitchen door swinging open behind us grabs my attention, along with a voice muttering, “What are those?”
I twirl around, my gaze colliding with Cruz’s. He’s standing in the doorway in dusty jeans and a t-shirt, that cowboy hat of his perched atop his head like always. Surprise flashes across his face when he recognizes me.
“What are you doing here?” he asks stiffly.
I swallow. “I could ask you the same question.”
“Lunch.”
Oh.
“Addison here’s helping me out this morning,” Hank says with a wide smile and a clap on the back. “And she’s made muffins. Eat one, Cruz!” he orders before turning to grab a large pot off the stove and carry it out into the mess hall. I can already hear more arrivals.
Cruz shoves his hands in his pockets, taking a step into the kitchen. This is the first time I’ve seen him since the panic attack, and I try my hardest to think about anything other than that fact.
“You’re baking.” He raises an eyebrow, approaching the tray of half-collapsed muffins. The corner of his mouth twitches up in a smirk when he lays eyes on them. My earlier confidence falls just a notch. “They look … professional.”
“At least I’m trying,” I snap before I can stop myself. “Not all of us were born knowing how to be useful.”
I spin on my heel, about to storm off to who knows where, when a gentle hand is laid on my upper arm, stopping me.
“Whoa, Addison,” he says with a soft chuckle. “I’m kidding.”
The tension suddenly breaks as realization washes over me. My shoulders relax just a bit. “Oh.”
“Here,” he says, reaching for one. He unwraps the side and takes a bite. Chocolate smudges his lip, and I find myself staring at it until it’s licked away a few seconds later. “It’s the best muffin I’ve ever had,” he says with a grin.
I snort. “Okay, that’s just as mean.”
“It’s actually a good muffin!” he defends himself, laughing.
I’m laughing now too, despite myself. I gesture to the bowl of batter on the counter. “I’m gonna try baking them at a slightly different temperature next and see what happens.”
Cruz nods. “Well, tell me when you do. I’ll be your taste tester.”
Hank strides back through the door, the sound from the mess hall getting louder and louder. “Better get out there, Cruz, before lunch is gone,” he comments.
Cruz nods, shooting a final glance back at me. “See ya around,” he says and disappears through the double doors.
I turn back to my muffins, hands on hips. Ready for batch number two.