10. A Cottage and a Beginning #2
“I’d love to, but first, I need to stop off at the ranch and pick up a pair of pliers that didn’t make it back into the bag.”
“Does that mean I finally get to see where you live? Or are you some mysterious woodsman who survives entirely on campfires, beans, and moonlight?”
I rubbed the back of my neck, wincing slightly. “Yeah, about that.”
She gave me a look—amused but waiting.
“I don’t just live nearby. I’m right next door,” I admitted, nodding toward the break in the trees separating the two properties. “The raccoons I warned you about? I’m close enough to scare them off with a broom. Or a really stern look.”
Cassie blinked once, then tilted her head with a grin. “Let me get this straight—you moved me in without telling me you’d be my neighbor?”
“I didn’t want it to feel like... a setup,” I said. “The cottage was available. And perfect. I figured you’d want to decide for yourself.”
Her eyes narrowed, playful now. “So, what you’re saying is... I can borrow a cup of sugar without texting?”
“Exactly. Old-school neighbor privileges.”
“Is this what you were trying to tell me yesterday? When you brought up bingo night?” I nodded. She laughed and climbed into the truck. “Well then. I guess I’d better keep my curtains closed.”
I smirked as I slid into the driver’s seat. “Only if you’re doing something scandalous, like alphabetizing your spice rack.”
“Too late,” she said, buckling her seatbelt. “The paprika already knows it’s living a lie.”
We pulled away from the cottage, the trees parting to reveal the winding road back to town. The cab filled with soft silence, the cottage disappearing from sight.
The dinner invitation had been casual—almost offhand—but it sent a jolt through me, like I'd touched a live wire.
“You helped me move in,” Cassie had said, wiping dust from her hands on her jeans. “The least I can do is cook you dinner. Fair warning, though—it might take me a while to figure out that stove.”
Now, three hours later, I stood on her porch holding a bottle of wine and wondering why I'd changed shirts twice.
Through the window, I could see her moving around the kitchen, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing an apron that said “Kiss the Cook” in faded letters.
I'd bought that wine specifically hoping she wouldn't notice the irony.
I knocked, and the door swung open to reveal Cassie holding a wooden spoon like a weapon.
“Perfect timing,” she said, stepping back to let me in. “I need a second opinion on whether this sauce tastes like marinara or like I accidentally poisoned us both.”
The cottage smelled like garlic and herbs, with undertones of cleaner and the lingering scent of vanilla candles she'd lit on every surface. Boxes were still stacked in corners, but she'd managed to make the place feel lived-in already.
“Here,” she thrust the spoon toward my mouth. “Brave volunteer needed.”
I tasted it, watching her face scrunch up in anticipation of my verdict. “It's good. Really good.”
“You're not just saying that because you don't want to hurt my feelings?”
“Cassie, if this was bad, I'd tell you. Then I'd probably order us pizza.”
She grinned. “See, this is why I like you. Honest but practical.”
I handed her the wine, and she read the label with raised eyebrows. “This is way too nice for pasta with a woman who just spent the day unpacking kitchen utensils she forgot she owned.”
“It's exactly right for that,” I said, meaning it.
Dinner was chaotic in the best way—pasta that was slightly overcooked, salad served in mismatched bowls, wine poured into coffee mugs because she didn’t have wine glasses. We ate at her small kitchen table, knees bumping underneath, talking about everything and nothing.
“So,” she said, using her fork to stab pasta with intense concentration, “are you excited for late-night grading marathons?”
“Definitely. It’ll be like study night minus the stress of passing.”
She laughed, nearly choking on her wine.
“Oh, you have no idea what you're in for.
During my student teaching, I had a kid write an entire lab report about how plants get their energy from 'drinking sunlight like a smoothie.
' Another one insisted that DNA stands for 'Do Not Ask' because science is too complicated for regular people.”
“That's... actually pretty creative.”
“Creative, yes. Scientifically accurate? Absolutely not.” She pointed her fork at me accusingly. “And I can already tell you're going to find my reactions hilarious.”
“I'm looking forward to it.”
“Don't say I didn't warn you. I once spent twenty minutes ranting to my supervising teacher about a student who drew a heart pumping blood through what looked suspiciously like a garden hose system.”
“Did it work?”
“The garden hose circulatory system? Probably better than you'd think, actually.”
I leaned back in my chair, watching her animated defense of proper biological education, and felt something shift in my chest. This was what I'd been missing without realizing it—someone to share dinner with, someone whose passion for science education made perfect sense, someone who turned a simple meal into something that felt like coming home.
“What?” she asked, catching me staring.
“Nothing. Just... this is nice.”
“Even with the overcooked pasta?”
“Especially with the overcooked pasta.”
After a dessert of bakery brownies with vanilla ice cream, we cleaned up together, falling into an easy rhythm of washing and drying, bumping hips when we reached for the same dish towel, her humming something under her breath that might have been a song or might have been pure contentment.
“Coffee?” she asked, already reaching for a small gift box on the counter.
“Janet brought this over earlier—apparently, she decided I needed to experience 'proper Montana coffee culture' and loaded me up with gourmet blends.
There's something called 'Glacier Peak Dark Roast' that smells like it could wake the dead.”
“My sister's been waiting for an excuse to show off her coffee snobbery,” I said. “She special orders that stuff from a roastery in Missoula.”
“Well, I need someone to appreciate it with me. One cup?”
We took our coffee to the living room, where she'd managed to create a cozy seating area with Bob’s couch and a pile of quilts that looked like they'd been inherited rather than donated.
She curled up in the corner, feet tucked under her, and I took the other end, careful to maintain the space between us even though closing it would have been the most natural thing in the world.
“This coffee is incredible,” she said, inhaling the steam from her mug. “Your sister has excellent taste.”
“She'll be thrilled to hear that. She's been trying to convert the whole town to her coffee standards for years.”
Cassie smiled, then grew quiet for a moment, staring into her mug like it held answers to questions she was still figuring out how to ask.
“You know,” she said finally, “two weeks ago, I never would have imagined I'd be sitting here, in my own cottage, drinking gourmet coffee and planning to teach at Everwood High.”
“I’m glad you changed your direction.”
She was quiet for a long moment, considering.
“You know, when I first came to Montana, I had this very specific plan.
Miller's Pass, where my mom grew up, where she worked for a few years before she met my dad. She always talked about going back there someday, maybe finishing her career there. After she died, it felt like... like fulfilling that dream was the most important thing I could do for her memory.”
“But?”
“But being here in Everwood… changed something,” she said with a rueful laugh.
“When I met you, and your mom, and this whole town that just... welcomed me. I guess all the time I’ve been here, I was wondering if maybe I'd been so focused on living my mother's dream that I'd forgotten to figure out what my own dreams looked like.”