"This is dangerous," I whisper.
"Yes," Justin agrees. "It is."
But neither of us looks away. The ringing of his phone breaks the silence, and he heads back to the office. I shake my head. What just happened? Later, it’s almost as if we didn’t have the conversation at all. We warm up some food and watch a movie on his laptop.
When I finally slide beneath the quilt later that night, the book is still on the nightstand, no longer hidden, no longer shameful. Just there. I text the group before sleep pulls me under.
Me: I think I'm in trouble.
Madison: GOOD trouble?
Me: The kind that feels like falling and flying at the same time.
Lily: That's the BEST kind of trouble.
Chloe: We're gonna need details tomorrow.
Me: If I survive it.
I close my eyes, and for the first time in a long while, I don't feel foolish for wanting more than a vanilla relationship.
I just feel... seen.
CHAPTER 4
Iwake to silence.
Not the muffled quiet of snow falling, but the sharp silence that comes after a storm has spent itself. Sunlight streams through the bedroom window, turning the world outside into something impossibly bright, a blinding white broken only by the dark spikes of pine trees. I close my eyes quickly and reopen them slower. Ouch. It’s like icicles to the eyeballs.
I stretch beneath the quilt, muscles pleasantly sore from yesterday's trek through the park. The lodge smells like coffee and wood smoke. And something else… cinnamon, maybe. Bacon.
Justin's cooking.
The thought sends a flutter through my chest that has nothing to do with hunger. He continues to surprise me. I’d only met him a handful of times in the past, mostly just in passing. Some of the employees, the older ones who’ve worked here for generations, like and respect him. But, many others, speak poorly of him. The rich man who doesn’t care about the amusement park. Spoiled, with a silver spoon in his mouth. The last few days have demonstrated that he wasn’t that man.If anything, I’ve seen how much he cares about the park. The animals. Preserving the memories he made as a younger kid.
He continues to surprise me and this morning is no different. He knows how to cook? I wouldn’t imagine him as domestic. I guess I assumed he had a maid and a chef at his beck and call. Or something.
I find him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. There's a skillet on the stove, eggs scrambling in butter, and toast already plated on the counter.
"Morning," I say, voice still rough with sleep.
He glances over, something flickering across his face before he schools it back to neutral. "Morning, sweetheart. Hot chocolate is ready for you."
I pour myself a cup of the hot cocoa he has in a small sauce pan on the stove and watch him work. I take a sip and realize something is different. This isn’t hot water and powdered mix. He’s made a deliciously thick hot chocolate for me. I can taste the care. Yesterday, we’d run by the cafeteria kitchen and picked up supplies. He must have grabbed the ingredients we use for our world-famous hot cocoa. Heavy cream. Vanilla. It’s delicious.
He plates the eggs, without flourish, sets them on the counter beside the toast. Reaching for the plate lined with paper towels and perfectly cooked bacon, he plops three slices next to the eggs and hands the plate to me. He’s practiced and efficient. I want to see something more from him. Something… less stiff. Less perfect. I want to see the crack in his armor and watch the light spill out.
"You didn't have to do this," I say.
"You need to eat something more than junk food and boxed macaroni."
It's matter-of-fact, not a question. I slide onto a stool, pulling the plate toward me. The eggs are perfectly scrambled; soft, buttery, with just enough salt.
"You're good at this," I murmur between bites.
"At what?"
"Taking care of things. People."
