Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Lake
I scroll through the camera like she taught me, clicking through picture after picture.
Seeing confirmation of what I already knew.
She’s supremely talented.
And someone was stupid enough to fire her.
I set the camera to the side, looking at her at the stove, watching the way she mouths the lines to the cheesy Christmas movie she put on a few minutes ago, whatever she’s cooking making my mouth water.
Spicy and rich.
Bright and tart.
I don’t know what she’s making. I’m just ready to eat it.
“Santa! Oh, my God!” she fake screams as she stirs the pot. “I know him. I know him!”
My mouth curves, thinking of my last Christmas. We had a team party and though most of the guys hadn’t shown, enough had been around to see Knox dressed up in an adult-sized elf costume.
He hadn’t managed to get any of us to sing Christmas carols with him, though.
I set the camera on the counter, round the island, and move to Nova’s side, drawn like an idiotic moth to the flames, ready to burn up, happy so long as I’m in the light.
“Why did you get fired?”
She startles, spoon jerking, hot liquid from the pot splashing up and hitting her hand. “Shit,” she hisses, but I’m already moving, taking the wooden spoon from her hand, drawing her over to the sink, turning on the cold water.
“Sorry,” I say, running my thumb over the reddened spot on the inside of her wrist.
A shrug. “Not the first time or the last I’ve been involved in a kitchen emergency.”
“Yeah, I remember the butter.”
Her mouth screws up. “That was Steve’s fault. The only thing I usually burn is the bread.”
I pick up one of the freshly washed dish towels and carefully pat her hand dry, inspecting the burn, trying to decide if it needs some antibiotic cream and a bandage.
“It’s fine,” she says softly, drawing away, going back to the pot and spoon and stirring what I now saw was some sort of thick, creamy soup. “But, speaking of bread”—she moves to the oven, opens the door—“it’s time for it to come out.”
She snags the towel, grabs the sheet pan, and my mouth waters when I see the loaf of bread has been sliced and slathered with butter and herbs and is now toasted to golden brownness.
Food time.
I go to the cabinet, get down a couple of bowls, snag a ladle from the drawer.
“How is it that you don’t have furniture, but you have a ladle?”
I shrug as I start scooping up soup and distributing it into the bowls. “I canceled the furniture order when I saw the designer wanted to spend over six figures on it.”
She sets the tray onto one side of the stove with a clatter. “S-six figures?”
“Yup.” I go to a drawer, open it, grab out two spoons. “Including twenty-five grand for a couch.”
Her mouth falls open.
“I like to cook,” I say, latching onto the safe conversational topic, “so when I brought my shit over from my apartment, I already have most everything I need. Same goes for my bedroom set. But my couch was old and I trashed it before I found the invoices, fired her, and canceled the orders.”
That’s the first and last time I tell anyone to do what they want when it comes to something that costs me money.
“And we’ve been on the road, so I haven’t had a chance to go to a store and pick out anything.”
“Twenty-five thousand for the couch?”
“Yup.”
“Not twenty-five hundred?”
“Nope.”
Wide eyes. “Oh, my God.”
My mouth curved. “And it was white.”
Her eyes go wider.
I want to kiss her, and the urge is so strong that it, thankfully, snaps me out of myself.
I grab a piece of garlic bread—instead of her—take a huge bite out of it—also, instead of her.
“Your pictures are good,” I say after I chewed and swallowed, the garlic and butter and herb combination fucking delicious. “Really good.”
Surprise in those green eyes, as though she’s not used to compliments.
And considering what her sister did, what her ex did…
“So, why did you get fired?”
Her eyes slide away.
“Nova.”
She looks back. “An ex threw knives at you?”
Touché.
I grab the bowls from the counter. “If we eat in front of the TV, will Steve be a tiny demon and try to get into our food?”
“He sure will.”
I sigh, but she just laughs, fills a plate with the garlic bread and carries it over to the pile of blankets. “Don’t worry,” she says, settling down into them. “I can corral the beast.”
Turns out, corralling the beast is not her strong suit.
But, luckily, there’s extra soup.
They’re singing Christmas carols on the TV when I hear snoring.
I glance over, expecting it to be Steve.
Instead, it’s Nova, who’s curled up into a ball in that mess of blankets and towels and clothes and pillows. Steve is sprawled out on her chest.
But he’s not sleeping.
He’s watching me warily, one beady eye open.
Probably expecting me to go asshole again.
And, frankly, he’s not wrong to be cautious. It’s going to happen.
Just not right now. I take the bowls—which number three because the only way to tame the tiny demon was with his own dish of soup—to the sink and wash up, loading everything into the dishwasher, drying the pot and tucking it back into the drawer beneath the cooktop.
By the time Christmas is saved on TV, the kitchen is clean and I’m feeling drowsy myself.
Only, as I start to walk past the troublesome duo on my way to the bedroom, I stop.
Study them.
The pillow is half under Nova’s head, the blankets askew and bunched up.
She’s going to wake up with a crick in her neck and a sore back.
Not my problem.
I keep walking down the hall.
But I haven’t built a fire yet.
Not my problem.
Only, the power might go out and—
“Fuck,” I mutter on a sigh, knowing I’m being an idiot, but still moving quietly toward the woman sleeping in the pile of blankets. I stare down at her, warring, but then I bend and scoop her up into my arms. Steve grumbles, rolls over, tiny legs in the air.
Nova slumps against my chest, breathing slow and steady as I carry her to bed, not moving as I tuck her beneath the comforter.
I tug the blanket up and over her then go back for the dog.
Who also doesn’t move when I scoop him up and cradle him against my chest and carry him down the hall.
I tuck him in next to her, but when I go to turn away, to leave them to their nap in my bed, exhaustion washes over me.
Exhaustion and alcohol and—
No. Just exhaustion and alcohol.
And because there’s only one bed…
I crawl in next to them.