Chapter 3
Clara
I’m not sure what I was expecting Knox’s cabin to look like inside, but I definitely didn’t think it would be so cozy and homey.
A fluffy shag rug sits in front of a fire, surrounded by two plush, deep green couches which are covered in piles of books.
A candle burns on the coffee table, and the scent of garlic and onion coming from the kitchen makes me feel like I’ve stepped not just into his cabin, but into his home.
Knox rushes the groceries into the kitchen, and I follow him. Melting snow falls from my hair, turning my sweater damp, while he examines what I’ve brought him.
“These apples are no good,” he says with a grimace.
Yep, this is what he always does.
I roll my eyes. “What’s wrong with them this time?”
“Old.”
“Well, they’re no longer in season. These are the best we have.”
“They’re bruised.”
“That’s from where you dropped them on the porch.”
He scowls up at me — his eyes are so dark green they’re almost brown. Not hazel like mine, but darker, like a deep river that’s filled with silt and covered with algae. His silty-river eyes flash in that weird glowing way they do when he’s pissed about vegetables.
“What’s with your eyes?” I ask, then immediately regret it. If it is some kind of medical condition, I’m going to feel like a real asshole.
“Allergies,” he says without missing a beat.
“Sure, sure,” I say, looking around his kitchen. A mug sits on the dining table by the window, and for some reason, that mug sitting there all by itself makes my heart ache. It just looks so lonely.
I mean, it’s not like I have a life partner or anything, but at least I have a roommate. Me and my best friend Mercy are pretty good at making a mess of our kitchen with cups and plates and pancakes and whatever the hell else we feel like making.
At least, that’s how it was before she got a boyfriend. Now we do it a lot less. And I guess I have a lot more single mugs lying around now, too.
It’s only now that I realize he’s still barefoot. He ran after me in the snow barefoot.
“Do you live here with anyone?” I ask as he stares down a carrot.
“No.”
I sigh. “Okay, what’s wrong with the carrots?”
“Looks like someone took a chunk out of this one.” He holds it up, raising a dark eyebrow at me like I did it on purpose, just to mess with him.
“Look, I bring you the best produce we have. I literally go through every single fruit and vegetable in the market for you. Would it kill you just to say thank you?”
“Thank you?” he scoffs.
“Yeah. It’s what people say when someone does something nice for them, in case you didn’t know.”
“It’s your job to deliver my groceries. You’re not doing it to be nice, you do it because you get paid.
” A dark tendril of hair falls over his face, and yeah, he is fucking gorgeous.
Especially in that tight-fitting t-shirt that shows off just how huge his biceps are, and those jeans that hang off him in a way that makes me very curious indeed about what could be underneath.
He could actually be the world’s sexiest guy.
It’s just a shame about his ugly attitude!
“I don’t have to go through every basket of apples for you, but I do!”
He puts the carrot back in the carton. “You do that because you don’t like it when I critique your produce. You do it for yourself, not for me.”
I take a second to think about that. There’s some truth in it. I don’t want him to get pissed off with me, but I also do genuinely want him to be happy with what I bring him.
Unfortunately, he’s just a grumpy asshole and I’m pretty sure nothing would make him happy.
“Is there somewhere I can go sit? Get out of your way until the storm passes and the snowplow comes through?”
“Huh?”
“Wow, you are seriously the worst host ever.”
“Host?”
“Yeah, you’re supposed to be hosting me.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m stuck in your cabin. The last place on Earth I want to be right now.
You could at least ask me if I want a cup of coffee or tell me to go watch TV or something instead of making me stand here while you complain about things totally out of my control.
” I look down at my sweater that’s wet from the snow.
“You could also give me a sweater to borrow.”
His eyes flick down to my chest, and then he quickly looks away, staring into the carton I brought him. “If you want a cup of coffee, you can make it yourself.”
I let out a loud belly laugh. “Sure. Fine. You want one?”
“What?”
“Do you want a cup of coffee?”
He looks at me like I’ve just asked him if he wants to go to the moon.
“Coffee?”
“Yeah. If I’m going to make one for myself, I might as well make one for you too. This is what people do,” I explain sarcastically. “They make each other coffee.”
“Oh. Uh. Yes?”
“Please,” I prod.
He just ignores me and goes back to examining his carrots.
I shake my head, pull off my wet sweater and throw it onto one of his dining room chairs. I grab the sad, lonely mug from the table and start on the coffee.