Chapter 5
I didn’t notice the last time I was here, because a naked Jack was wielding a coffee pot, but he hasn’t added any personal touches to the place.
Besides his coffee pot sitting faithfully on the stove, there’s only the standard white dishes and mugs Wren stocked the place with.
No jackets hanging on the coat rack by the door or books on the coffee table.
I’m pretty minimalistic on my backcountry guides, but even I pack my Kindle.
I would have imagined a travel nurse would bring an array of items to make their temporary lodgings feel homey.
The cabin, though, is devoid of anything personal.
The entire living space is one large room, with the kitchen to the left and the living room to the right.
It’s all warm tones, with cedar-shiplapped walls and an overstuffed leather couch in the corner, a faux-fur blanket draped over the back.
I remember Wren finding the artwork on the walls—watercolor illustrations of trees and bears and antlers—at a flea market in town last summer.
A brown and white gingham rug spreads out across the floor.
Above the fireplace, a TV is mounted, and on the built-ins, there are stacks of thrift store paperbacks and a turn table Wren bought at a garage sale.
It’s cozy, for sure, but still looks exactly like the listing photos.
Nothing to suggest someone has been living here for any amount of time.
I spin on my heel to see Jack carrying in one of my bags. He insisted and I was too tired to fight him on it.
“Are you a serial killer?”
He blinks at me. “What?”
“Seems a pretty easy question to answer.”
“Seems a pretty weird question to ask,” he shoots back, setting my soaked bag on the hardwood, water droplets falling in fat drops onto the floor.
“You haven’t answered.”
He sighs. “No, Stevie, I’m not a serial killer.”
He says my name a lot. Probably to prove he knows mine even though I’ve pretended I don’t remember his.
Regardless, I like the way he says it. It makes me feel at ease around him, which is probably the reason I decided to stay here in the first place.
It’s not the first time I’ve stayed with strange men.
My job has me camping for sometimes days at a time with people I’ve only just met, but this is different.
Out of even my comfort zone. But for some reason, I feel safe.
I trust my gut. It’s saved me countless times on trips from bad weather and dangerous climbs and wildlife.
And right now, it’s telling me I don’t need to worry around Jack.
“You didn’t ask if I am,” I point out.
“I’d rather not know,” he answers before kicking his shoes off and padding back into the kitchen in his socks. “I was making dinner if you’re hungry.”
I follow him into the kitchen and peer around him at the pot on the stove. “What are you making?”
“Ramen.”
“I love ramen.” As if on cue, my stomach rumbles, and I realize I haven’t eaten anything besides a beef stick and a handful of M&Ms all day. “What kind?”
He picks up a foiled silver packet from the counter and reads it. “Chicken.”
My heart sinks, and before I can stop myself, my nose wrinkles. “Oh.”
Blue eyes meet mine over his shoulder, brows high on his forehead. “You don’t like chicken?”
“I don’t like ramen packets,” I clarify.
“Oh,” he echoes. “You thought I meant fancy ramen.”
“I thought you meant real ramen.”
He sets the packet down. “Unfortunately, no.”
“Do you have groceries?” I ask. “Besides ramen.”
He nods and I move toward the fridge. A blast of cold air hits my wet clothes as I open it and I shiver, goosebumps prickling along my skin.
Inside, I find ingredients I can work with—eggs, soy sauce packets I’m assuming are leftover from takeout, chicken breasts, and bone broth. Typical bachelor food.
“Give me fifteen minutes,” I say, pulling the ingredients from the fridge and lining them up on the counter.
“What are you doing?”
I glance up, find him staring at me with a divot between his brows. “Making dinner.”
“No,” he says. “I’m making dinner.”
“You’re making toxic waste.”
“That’s a little harsh.”
My hands find my hips and prop there, the same stance I’ve seen my mom do countless times. “Do you want me to make dinner or not?”
He lifts his hands in supplication, moving back from the stove. “By all means.”
He watches me as I cook, and it’s a little unnerving, but I quickly tune him out.
Cooking is my happy place. It started as a hobby years ago, back when I was still in high school, and this town started to feel claustrophobic and my skin started to feel too tight for my body.
I had pictures of faraway places, dream travel destinations, taped to the walls of my small bedroom.
Magazines and travel guides stacked on my nightstand and desk.
And one day, I opened one of the magazines to a spread about Italy.
There was a picture of a pasta dish that looked so mouthwateringly good I knew I had to have it.
So I got on the family computer in the home office and searched for a recipe.
My first attempt was terrible, but I kept trying, tweaking certain recipes until I made something that turned out delicious.
And it was fun. So I tried again with a cardamom bun I found in an article about Copenhagen.
And then fish and chips from Ireland. A lobster roll from Maine and carne asada fries from California.
Eventually, I was making dishes from all the places taped to my walls.
All the places I wanted to visit when I could finally leave Fontana Ridge.
I never left but I always kept cooking.
“How’d you learn to cook like that?” Jack asks as I search the cabinets for spices I remember insisting Wren stock when we were shopping for the place. There’s not much, just some garlic powder, onion powder, salt and pepper, but I sprinkle them in anyway.
I shrug, not wanting to get into it, and say, "Taught myself.”
When I turn to look at him, I catch his impressed expression. “How come you don’t know how to cook?”
He leans against the counter, long legs stretching out in front of him. “My brother and I mostly existed on TV dinners and Hamburger Helper.”
I must make a face because he laughs.
“It’s not so bad. My mom was a single mom and worked two jobs, so we had to fend for ourselves most nights.” His mouth quirks in a one-sided grin. “Not to brag, but I can make a mean grilled cheese.”
Well, I feel like shit.
“I’m sorry,” I say and he shrugs, waves me off.
“Nothing to be sorry for.” One ankle crosses over the other as he watches my hands, intent as I rip into soy sauce packets and pour them into a sauce pot. “I never really felt the need to learn past the basics.”
My eyes flick up to his. “Chicken breasts and rice kind of guy?”
His nose wrinkles, an endearing gesture that makes his glasses slide down. “I am, unfortunately, a stereotype.” He watches me for a long moment. “So what are you doing?”
“Making a broth,” I reply, and pour the carton of bone broth into the pot with the soy sauce and seasonings. “It’s not exactly an ideal recipe, but it will do. We need to soft boil some eggs and make the chicken.”
“I can do the eggs.”
I raise a brow at him and a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I can boil eggs, Stevie.”
“If you say so, Jimmy.”
This time, he doesn’t bother to correct me.
We work in a companionable silence, broken only by him asking me questions about what I’m doing and me explaining the steps.
I’m typically pretty introverted, but I’m good at small talk—I have to be when I’m stranded on a mountain with strangers for days at a time.
Still, he’s surprisingly easy to talk to.
He asks a lot of questions. Laughs easily at my dry sarcasm.
I’ve never had a roommate before, but surprisingly, I think living with him won’t be as bad as I was expecting.
When we finally finish, the storm is still raging, and I’m already dreading what the Airstream is going to look like when the clouds finally break.
We ladle the steaming soup into bowls and top it with soft boiled eggs and chopped peanuts I found in the cupboard.
We could sit at the table, but we end up standing at opposite ends of the island, grasping noodles with cheap chopsticks that came with the takeout he ordered last week.
When Jack takes the first bite, his eyes snap up to mine, impressed. “This is good.”
I have to bite back a smile. I know I’m good at cooking, even with less than ideal ingredients, but the flattery never ceases to make me blush. “Thanks, I’m glad you like it.”
“If that’s what you can do with a fridge full of random ingredients, I can’t imagine what you’d come up with if I let you loose in a grocery store.”
“Beef Wellington, probably.”
He raises a brow.
“I haven’t tried making it, but I’ve always wanted to,” I say with a shrug.
“Why haven’t you?”
“I haven’t wanted to attempt it in my tiny Airstream kitchen.”
He gestures around him with his free hand, his other shoveling noodles into his mouth. After swallowing, he says, “My kitchen is your kitchen.”
There’s broth on his chin, and a stain on his white shirt that I’m assuming is soy sauce. He’s messier than I would have expected when I met him in the hospital. There, he seemed straight-laced. Confident and casual. Here, he’s a little undone.
“What?” he asks, when he catches me staring.
I shake my head and return to my ramen. “Nothing. Thanks again for letting me stay.”
“If I had known you could cook like this, I would have offered at the hospital.”
“I think that would have probably gone against some HR rules or something.”
“Oh, definitely,” he says seriously, pushing a lock of damp hair off his forehead. “Shit, I probably should have thought of that.”
Lead sinks in my gut. “Do I need to go?”
“No, no,” he answers quickly, and the sinking sensation starts to dissipate. “I just…”
He trails off and I wait approximately three seconds before asking, “What?”
Blue eyes connect with mine and he shakes his head, ignoring the question. “Nothing. I’ll clean up since you cooked. Do you need help carrying your bags to your room?”
The same overhead lighting makes his dark hair appear even darker, streaked through with shades of gold. It casts shadows over his skin, hiding the freckles I noticed on his cheeks. His hands are braced on the counter, arms tense, veins climbing up the length of them.
It hits me anew that I’ve just moved in with a complete stranger, but I still don’t feel any apprehension about it besides a nervousness at living with anyone after being on my own for so long.
“No, I’ve got them. Thanks.” I tip my chin back in the direction of the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. “Which one are you in?” There are two rooms, on either side of the hallway, a bathroom at the end of it.
“The one on the left.”
“Do you snore?”
“Is that going to affect whether or not you stay?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“You’re in luck. I don’t,” he answers.
“I only live with people who snore. It’s a requirement of mine.”
“Guess you’re shit out of luck.”
A laugh rumbles in my chest. “Guess so.” I grab my bags from beside the front door, frowning at the puddle they left.
“I’ll clean it,” Jack says.
“I’ve got it.”
He waves me off. “Really, I can do it. You need to rest.”
I hold his gaze for a moment before sighing. I’ve never been one to back down, but exhaustion clings to me, so I acquiesce. “Okay, Dr. James, if you insist. Goodnight.”
“Night, Stevie.”