Chapter 3 Wrenley
Wrenley
I twirl carefully, trying not to spill the pancake batter I’m mixing as Nickelback blasts through my earbuds.
It’s my signature morning routine: music, dancing, and coffee.
Well. Normally, coffee.
This morning lacks caffeine because Ruger’s coffee machine appears to require either technical training or a blood oath.
It could be because I’ve never actually made coffee before.
Between coffee shops practically every two steps along my commute to work and that I’ve always preferred mine iced anyway, there was never much reason to learn.
But the sleek Moccamaster sitting on Ruger’s counter looks intimidating with all its separate pieces, even though I have a feeling it’s just a fancy drip coffee maker.
Usually, I’d have my speaker cranked loud enough to concern neighbours and be halfway through a theatrical performance by now, but I left my speaker with Kay’s daughter back in Vancouver.
She’d become one of my favourite parts of the morning.
I hope she carries on our tradition without me. I imagine her twirling around Kay’s kitchen in mismatched socks and some princess costume while scream-singing Taylor Swift and pouring herself Froot Loops.
Kay calls me a bad influence. I call myself a personality builder.
But since I don’t want to wake Ruger, earbuds feel like the considerate choice for our first full day pretending to be an engaged couple.
I shimmy my hips while pouring more milk into the bowl, fully committed to the song currently rattling in my skull.
Which is exactly why I don’t notice Ruger standing in the kitchen doorway until I turn around mid-dance move and make eye contact with the six-foot-something Alaskan wilderness man, who somehow looks better this morning than he did last night.
His faded camo Henley stretches across broad shoulders, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair still mussed from sleep.
I scream.
So does Chad Kroeger in my earbuds.
My hand jerks violently, and the mixing bowl launches from my grip like it’s attempting to escape the embarrassment on my behalf. Thick pancake batter splatters down my front, across the floor, and directly onto my socks with a cinematic splut.
I whip around and yank out one of my earbuds.
Ruger stands in the kitchen doorway, one hand covering his mouth, eyes wide with horror. It’s very evident he’s trying not to laugh.
Oh my God, I’m so sorry, he blurts and steps forward like he’s about to help, then thinks better of it and steps back again.
Are you? I deadpan, trying to channel dignity, even though I’m dripping pancake guts and might cry out of sheer embarrassment.
He grabs a dish towel and wets it under the tap, then offers it to me like a peace treaty.
You’re a menace, I mutter, wiping at my chest as a glob of batter slides into my bra. Now I’ll have to start over.
Or, he says, clearly trying not to smile, you could go shower while I make breakfast.
I narrow my eyes. Yeah, about that… I casually try to tuck some of my hair behind my ears, but I get a fingerful of pancake batter into it instead, the sticky substance adhering my tight curls to my cheek.
I was going to ask… how do bills work around here?
Like, water, electricity… I don’t want to accidentally bankrupt you by trying to stay hygienic.
Ruger leans against the counter, arms crossed, expression unreadable. That would be an impressively tragic and embarrassing headline: Ruger Seale loses house after woman takes too many showers.
I’m just saying! I throw up my hands, causing more batter to fly. Oops.
Ruger chuckles. Nothing to worry about. This house is on a well, the electricity bill isn’t that bad, and most of my heat is from wood, which is easy enough to find.
Okay, but what does being on a well mean? If I wash my hair twice a day, will it run dry?
You wash your hair twice a day? he asks.
Hypothetically!
Uh, no. Definitely not.
So, there is no way I could bankrupt you? I ask, still feeling a bit uncomfortable being a freeloader.
If those two hair washings a day are done with diamonds, he says.
I narrow my eyes and suppress a smile. So… is that a no on the diamond shampoo budget?
He doesn’t miss a beat. Hard no. But I’ll allow one glitter bath a month.
I snort. You’re joking, but I do love a lavender bath bomb.
Ruger just nods, deadpan. I’ll make a note for my list of errands.
I shake my head, trying to get a chunk of batter off my neck and failing. You’re very calm for someone staring at a woman who just bathed herself with carbs.
He shrugs nonchalantly.
Seriously, though, I add, a little softer. I don’t want to be a financial burden. I know I’m not contributing much right now.
He looks at me thoughtfully. You’re making breakfast.
Which is currently on me. Literally.
Still counts. His voice is casual, but there’s an edge of steady certainty that makes me glance up.
He’s already looking at me. The room suddenly feels too small and quiet, even with the faint moans and groans of the house in the background.
Ruger doesn’t smile, doesn’t tease. He just holds my gaze like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
It’s like he can see the real me under the endless chaos I seem to have brought with me… and pancake batter.
My breath hitches.
It’s the first time I really notice his eyes. They’re brown, but with flecks of green in them. They look a little thoughtful and a lot intense. My stomach flutters, and my brain seemingly forgets that I still need a shower.
My eyes travel to his mouth. God. That mouth. Why do rugged men always have great mouths? His is hidden beneath a beard, but I can still see his full lips. They’re a little chapped, like he’s been outside too long. But they also look like he kisses with heat and purpose. Like—
Nope. Abort.
Do not imagine what Ruger’s mouth feels like. We are here for a short time, not a good time.
I clear my throat and look away, trying to act normal, which naturally makes me look wildly suspicious.
Seriously, Ruger finally says, breaking the tension enough to ease things, but not so much that it doesn’t still linger in the air.
You go shower, and I’ll deal with things in here.
You like coffee? Like normal coffee. My sister said something about some fancy, fake coffee beverage you had yesterday.
I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath. I like any coffee that’s laced with optimism and existential hope that things can only go up from me.
Cream it is, he mutters.
There’s a beat of silence, and then a fat dollop of batter falls from my hair with a splat, and we both look down at it.
Go, Ruger says with a small smile.
I shower quickly because, despite Ruger’s reassurances, I can’t stop doing math in my head. Water pressure equals plumbing maintenance. Heating water equals energy costs. Every drop that hits my skin feels like it costs him something.
He said not to worry, but it’s hard not to when I’m living here rent-free using groceries, electricity, and…
everything, really, that I’m not contributing a dollar toward.
Save for my shampoo, conditioner, body wash, clothes, and what sewing supplies I could fit into my suitcases, nothing in this house belongs to me.
I lean my head against the shower wall as steam curls around me.
Just over a year ago, I had a career, an apartment in downtown Vancouver, and enough savings to feel secure.
Now it doesn’t matter how qualified I am; my ex managed to poison enough professional relationships that suddenly nobody wanted to touch me.
And those savings kept me afloat and helped me get here, but now it’s just a waiting game to be able to work.
Which means when Ruger tells me not to worry about money, I somehow feel both grateful and vaguely sick.
If it were Remi supporting me, I don’t think I’d feel this off-balance.
This was our plan. Ruger was supposed to be the technical part, but now I am in his house, eating his steak and being comforted by him…
it’s so much more apparent how much he’s rearranging his life to help me.
The Seale twins are doing so much for me already, and meanwhile, I’m contributing what exactly?
I groan softly and scrub my hands down my face.
Focus, Wrenley. You need this to work.
I turn off the water, dry off quickly, and immediately curse myself. I forgot clean clothes. My goopy pyjamas are bunched in the corner by the door.
This is fine. Ruger is downstairs cooking breakfast, and it’s not far from the bathroom to my room.
I open the bathroom door a crack, glance both ways, then clutch my towel tight and make a run for it—
—and slam directly into a wall of camo-covered muscle.
Oh my God! I screech. What are you doing up here?
Ruger jumps back like I electrocuted him, holding a wicker basket in both hands. I was just—I was leaving this—for your clothes. I didn’t think you’d be—sorry—I should’ve—uh—
We both stand there frozen. Me: barely covered. Him: absolutely not making eye contact. I’m not sure whether I’m mortified or furious or flattered. Maybe all three.
Thanks, I say quickly, voice two octaves too high, and snatch the basket. I duck into my room and close the door, heart hammering in my chest.
Were my tits hanging out?
I run through a mental replay of my dash out of the bathroom. I think I was covered. Mostly. Maybe. Possibly. Who designs these towels anyway? They basically can’t stay up without a seat belt.
I flop onto the bed, basket in my lap, cheeks burning.
I am living with a stranger. A hot, dry-humoured, very Alaska-man stranger. And he may or may not have seen my entire left boob.
By the time I come downstairs, Ruger is flipping pancakes like nothing happened.
Hey, I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near breathy-awkward. I hover in the doorway like a socially anxious raccoon waiting for the opportunity to steal a muffin.
He glances over his shoulder as if he didn’t possibly see me, mostly naked, five minutes ago. Hi.