“Rare meat doesn’t require much skill.”
“That explains the five jars of brown sugar. You just eat it straight from the container, don’t you?”
I don’t answer.
She turns to look at me, eyes widening. “Oh my God. You do.”
“It’s a perfectly acceptable source of energy.”
“It’s a baking ingredient!”
“Bears don’t bake.”
“Clearly.” She’s laughing now, a real laugh that lights up her whole face. The sound catches me off guard—warm and painful and terrifying all at once. “What else do you eat? Honey straight from the jar? Maple syrup for breakfast?”
“I don’t have to answer that.”
“You do. You absolutely do. I need to know what I’m working with here.”
“You’re working with a man who has survived perfectly well on his own for years.”
“Survived.” She takes the peppers from me and adds them to the pan. “That’s a low bar. I want to know if you’ve ever eaten an actual balanced meal.”
“I eat balanced meals.”
“Rare steak and plain potatoes is not balanced.”
“There’s protein and carbohydrates. That’s balance.”
She stares at me like I’ve just said the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. Then she shakes her head and turns back to the stove.
“I have so much work to do.”
Those simple words do something to me. Work to do. Like she’s planning to stick around. Like she’s already thinking about feeding me properly, taking care of me, making sure I don’t die of scurvy on this mountain.
My bear practically purrs.
“What about you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual. “What do you eat when you’re not cooking for ungrateful bear shifters?”
“Whatever’s cheap and fills me up.” She stirs the vegetables, adding the chicken. “Soup, mostly. Rice and beans. I’m a good cook when I have the ingredients, but ingredients cost money.”
Money she was saving for that green velvet chair. For the home she wants to build.
“You won’t have to worry about that,” I say quietly.
She glances at me. “Worry about what?”
“Money. Ingredients. Any of it.”
Her expression shifts. Confusion, maybe. Or suspicion.
“That’s a strange thing to say to your cleaning lady.”
“You’re not my cleaning lady anymore.”
“Then what am I?”
The words die in my throat. I should tell her. Should explain about the mate bond, about fate, about the fact that she’s mine and I’m hers and nothing in this world will ever change that.
