Chapter 4 - Eli
She's standing in my living room, dripping water onto the floorboards, and I'm trying very hard not to look at her.
Because she's soaked.
Completely soaked.
Her flannel shirt is plastered to her skin, clinging to every curve, and I can see. I can see everything. The outline of her bra. The swell of her breasts. The way her jeans are molded to her thighs.
I turn away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
"Stay there," I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intend.
"I'm sorry," she says, and she sounds miserable. "I didn't think—"
"Just stay in the living room."
I move to the fireplace, focusing on that instead of the fact that there's a woman in my house. A soaking wet woman who brought me lasagna and asked to watch me chop wood and is now standing in the one place I've kept clear of people for six years.
Ridge is already at her side, of course, because he's a traitor with no sense of loyalty. I can hear her talking to him softly, telling him she's okay, and I grab logs from the stack beside the fireplace and start building a fire.
My hands know the motions. Paper, kindling, logs stacked just right so the air can flow. I light it and the flames catch, spreading warmth into the room.
But I can still feel her presence behind me. Can hear the small sounds she makes, the drip of water hitting the floor, the soft sigh as she wraps her arms around herself.
I should give her a towel. A blanket. Something.
I should do a lot of things.
Instead, I stay crouched in front of the fire, watching the flames, trying to get my head straight.
No one's been here. Not since I moved in. Frank offered to help me move furniture that first week, and I told him no. A couple of guys from the lumber company wanted to come out for a poker night once, and I shut that down before it could even start.
This place is mine. My space. The one corner of the world where I don't have to be anything other than what I am.
And now she's here.
I stand up and force myself to turn around. She's still standing where I left her, hugging herself, water pooling at her feet. Her hair is plastered to her face, and she's shivering slightly. When she looks at me, there's something in her expression: embarrassment, maybe, or apology.
"I'll get you something dry," I say.
"You don't have to—"
"You're shivering."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're freezing and soaked through." I move past her toward the bedroom, keeping my eyes straight ahead. "Stay by the fire."
I can feel her watching me as I go.
The bedroom is dark and quiet, the bed made with military precision because some habits die hard.
I open the dresser and pull out a flannel shirt and a pair of sweatpants.
They're going to be way too big for her.
Everything I own is going to be way too big for her, but it's better than standing around in wet clothes.
When I come back, she's crouched down by the fire, holding her hands out toward the flames. Ridge is pressed against her side, and she's petting him with one hand.
She looks up when I approach.
"Here," I say, holding out the clothes.
She takes them, her fingers brushing mine for just a second. They're ice cold.
"Thank you," she says.
"Bathroom's down the hall. Second door."
She nods and stands, water still dripping from her clothes, and heads in the direction I pointed. I hear the bathroom door close, and then it's just me and Ridge and the sound of rain hammering against the roof.
I sit down on the couch, the same couch that came with the cabin, worn and faded but comfortable enough, and drop my head into my hands.
What the hell am I doing?
I should've let her drive home. Should've told her to be careful and sent her on her way. The rain's bad, sure, but she's an adult. She could've handled it.
Except she couldn't have.
That road turns into a mudslide when it rains like this.
I've seen trucks get stuck out there, and her little sedan wouldn't have stood a chance.
She would've slid off into the ditch or worse, and then what?
She'd be stranded out there in the middle of nowhere, alone, waiting for help that might not come for hours.
I couldn't let that happen.
But now she's here. In my house. Wearing my clothes.
And I don't know what to do with any of it.
Ridge pads over and puts his head on my knee, looking up at me with those big brown eyes that somehow always manage to make me feel like he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
"Don't start," I mutter.
He huffs and settles at my feet.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door opens and she comes back out.
I look up, and—
Christ.
The clothes are exactly as big on her as I thought they'd be. The sweatpants are bunched up around her ankles, and she's had to roll the waistband several times just to keep them up. The flannel shirt hangs off her shoulders, the sleeves covering her hands completely.
She looks beautiful.
"Better?" I ask.
"Much better," she says, pushing the sleeves up to her elbows. "Thank you. Really. I know this isn't… I know you didn't plan on having company."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. You made it pretty clear you like your space, and here I am, invading it." She moves closer to the fire, holding her hands out again. "I promise I'll leave as soon as the rain stops."
I glance toward the window. The rain is still coming down in sheets, showing no signs of letting up.
"Might be a while," I say.
"That's okay. I don't mind waiting."
She sits down on the floor in front of the fire, pulling her knees up to her chest. Ridge immediately moves to join her, settling in beside her like he's known her his whole life.
I should sit down. Should do something other than stand here like an idiot. But every instinct I have is telling me to keep distance, to stay back, to not let this become something it shouldn't be.
"You can sit, you know," she says, looking up at me. "I won't bite."
"I'm fine."
"You're hovering."
"I'm not hovering."
"You're definitely hovering." She pats the floor beside her. "Come on. It's your house. You're allowed to relax in it."
I hesitate. Then, against my better judgment, I sit down. Not right next to her. There's a solid two feet of space between us, but close enough that I can feel the heat from the fire on my face.
We sit in silence for a minute. The rain drums against the roof, steady and relentless. The fire crackles. Ridge sighs contentedly.
"This is a good place," she says finally.
I glance at her. "What?"
"Your cabin. It's good. Peaceful."
"That's the idea."
"Do you ever get tired of it? The quiet, I mean."
"No."
She nods, like she expected that answer. "I think I would. Eventually. But I get the appeal."
I don't respond. Don't know what to say to that.
"I'm not trying to pry," she adds. "I know you don't like questions."
"You ask a lot of them."
"I know. It's a character flaw." She smiles, and even in the firelight, I can see the warmth in it. "My mom used to say I was born curious. Always asking why, always needing to understand everything."
"Used to?"
The smile falters, just for a second. "She died a few months ago."
Something in my chest tightens. "I'm sorry."
"Thanks." She's quiet for a moment, staring into the fire. "That's why I moved here, actually. I couldn't stay in the city after she was gone. Too many memories. Too many places that reminded me of her."
"So, you left."
"Yeah. I ran away."
I understand that. More than she probably realizes.
"It's not running if you're moving toward something," I say.
"Is that what you did? Moved toward something?"
I shouldn't answer that. Shouldn't give her anything that might make her think she can keep asking, keep pushing.
But I hear myself say, "Yeah."
"What were you moving toward?"
"Quiet."
She nods slowly. "Did you find it?"
I look at the fire, at the way the flames dance and shift. "Most days."
"And the other days?"
"The other days are harder."
I don't know why I'm telling her this. Don't know why the words are coming out when I've spent six years keeping them locked down.
Maybe it's because she's sitting here in my clothes, in my house, looking at me like I'm not something broken.
Maybe it's because she told me about her mother and there's something about grief that recognizes itself.
Or maybe I'm just tired.
Tired of holding everything so tight. Tired of the silence that's supposed to be healing but sometimes just feels empty.
"I get that," she says softly. "The harder days."
We sit there for a while, not talking. Just existing in the same space. It should feel uncomfortable- I should be counting the seconds until she leaves. But it doesn't. It just feels…
I don't know what it feels like.
"The lasagna's probably cold by now," she says eventually.
I glance toward the kitchen, where the pan is still sitting on the table by the door. "It'll keep."
"You should try it while I'm here. That way if it's terrible, you can tell me and spare yourself the food poisoning."
"I'm sure it's fine."
"You haven't tasted my cooking. I'm good at a lot of things, but I'm still figuring out Mom's recipes. This was my first attempt at her lasagna."
Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. "Your first attempt."
"I know. Risky move, bringing an experiment to the grumpy hermit." She grins. "But I'm an optimist."
"I noticed."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Depends on the day."
She laughs, and the sound fills the cabin in a way that feels foreign and familiar at the same time. I can't remember the last time someone laughed in here. Can't remember the last time this place felt like anything other than a place to sleep and eat and wait for the next day.
Ridge's tail thumps against the floor.
"He really does like you," I say, looking at the dog.
"I like him too. He's a good boy." She scratches behind his ears, and Ridge leans into it like she's performing some kind of magic. "How long have you had him?"
"Three years. He just showed up one day. Wouldn't leave."
"Smart dog. He knew a good thing when he saw it."
I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything. The rain is starting to ease up. Not by much, but enough that I can hear the individual drops instead of just a constant roar.
She notices too. "Sounds like it's slowing down."
"Yeah."
"I should probably get going soon. Let you have your space back."
She should. That's exactly what should happen. She should leave, and I should go back to the way things were before she showed up at the hardware store with her questions, her smile, and her complete inability to take a hint.
But I don't want her to leave yet. When's the last time I wanted someone to stay? When's the last time I sat with another person and didn't feel like I needed to escape?
I can't remember.
"The road's going to be bad for a while," I say. "Even after the rain stops. Mud takes time to settle."
"Are you saying I should wait longer?"
"I'm saying you shouldn't risk it if you don't have to."
"Okay." She settles back against the couch behind her, pulling Ridge closer. "I'll wait."
I look at her, sitting there in my too-big clothes with my dog pressed against her side, and I make a decision that's probably going to bite me in the ass later.
"If you're staying," I say, "we might as well try that lasagna."
She blinks. "Really?"
"You drove all the way out here with it. And you said you wanted to know if it's any good."
"I did say that." She pushes herself up off the floor, Ridge moving with her. "Okay. But don't say I didn't warn you."
I stand and head to the kitchen, grabbing the pan from the table. It's still slightly warm, which is something. I pull out two plates from the cabinet, plain white, nothing fancy, and cut into the lasagna.
It looks good, I'll give her that. Layers of pasta and cheese and what smells like Italian sausage. She comes to stand beside me, watching as I dish out two portions.
"Moment of truth," she says.
I hand her a plate and a fork, then grab my own. We move back to the living room, and I sit on the couch this time instead of the floor. She hesitates for just a second, then sits down beside me, leaving that same distance between us.
I take a bite.
It's—
Not great.
The pasta is slightly overcooked. The sauce is underseasoned. And there's something off about the cheese ratio, like maybe she used mozzarella where she should've used ricotta, or vice versa.
I glance at her. She's chewing slowly, her expression shifting from hopeful to disappointed in real time.
"It's bad, isn't it?" she says.
"It's not bad."
"Eli."
"It's just—"
"Bad."
I set my fork down. "The pasta's overcooked. And it needs more salt. Maybe some garlic."
She drops her head back against the couch and groans. "I knew it. I knew I messed something up. I followed the recipe exactly, but something felt off when I was making it."
"You followed the recipe exactly?"
"Yes."
"That's your problem."
She lifts her head to look at me. "What do you mean?"
"Recipes are guidelines. You've got to taste as you go. Adjust. Every stove cooks different, every oven runs hot or cold. You can't just follow instructions and hope for the best."
"You cook?"
"I eat, don't I?"
"Yeah, but—" She gestures at me, like my existence itself is evidence against cooking skills. "You're a lumberjack who lives alone in the woods. I figured you survived on, I don't know, protein bars and canned soup."
Despite myself, I almost smile. "I know how to cook."
"Apparently better than me."
I look at her plate, then at mine. Neither of us is eating.
"Come on," I say, standing up.
"Where are we going?"
"Kitchen. If you're going to feed people, you need to know how to do it right."
She stares at me. "Are you… Are you offering to teach me how to cook?"
"I'm offering to make us something that's actually edible." I head toward the kitchen, not waiting to see if she follows. "You can watch. Maybe learn something."
I hear her get up, hear her footsteps behind me.
"You're full of surprises, Eli Cross," she says.
I don't respond to that. Just start pulling things out of the refrigerator—eggs, cheese, some vegetables that are still good. There's bacon in the freezer, bread that's only a day old.
"What are you making?" she asks, leaning against the counter.
"Breakfast."
"It's almost noon."
"Breakfast doesn't have a schedule." I set everything on the counter and look at her. "You want to help or just watch?"
She grins. "I want to help."
"Then wash your hands and grab that cutting board."
She moves to the sink, and I start pulling out pans. Ridge settles himself in the corner of the kitchen, watching us with patient eyes.
And for the first time in six years, my cabin doesn't feel quite so empty.