“Uh, I could sleep on the recliner.”
He chuckled. “For reasons I will never understand, the chair doesn’t recline. Your father is rich, but he didn’t spend any of that money on this place.” He opened the can with an opener, dumped the contents into a pot, grabbed a wooden spoon, and headed to the stove. He put the pot on top and handed me the spoon. “Stir.”
I wanted to fight against his highhandedness, but I was also starving. The last place I’d stopped was a fast-food place near Prince George. I hadn’t thought of stopping at a grocery store to pick up food. I supposed I had assumed this place would be well-stocked. Or that, come morning, I’d be able to run into town.Should’ve checked the weather forecast. One of only about a dozen mistakes I’d made so far—some of which might’ve gotten me killed.Yeah, but would anyone have noticed?I didn’t like my inner voice’s question…but he had a good argument. At some point in time, my father would wonder where his SUV was. OrLori would ask about my well-being. For all that she was hellbent on proving herself to Dad, she did—on occasion—notice me. So I stirred.
Marco returned with two slices of buttered bread on a frying pan. He handed me a spatula. “Flip every few minutes—don’t let it burn.”
Not wanting to appear stupid, I merely pursed my lips.
He reappeared a moment later and handed me a glass of water. “You need to stay hydrated.” He looked me up and down. “What is it that you do exactly? That you can just come up here and what, hang out?”
I jutted my chin. “I…am very important.”
“Flip the bread. More like you’re a waste of space. I don’t need to be watching out for your ass, but if I return you to your father with frostbite, I doubt that’ll go over well.”
“My father wouldn’t give a shit.” I muttered the words as I flipped the bread.Damn, a little singed. Pay attention, dammit.I stirred the pot of beans.Have I ever eaten brown beans? Shit. I can’t even remember. Oh well, I’m going to pretend they’re the best thing ever made.I sipped the water, then put the glass on the mantel so I could continue stirring and flipping. “I am not a waste of space.” I said the words louder than needed in this small space—but I had to get my point across. “How do I boil water for my hot chocolate? Is there no microwave?” I frowned. “I guess they would require power. But that kettle thingy…” I pointed. “And where are the marshmallows?” Because one simply couldn’t have hot chocolate without marshmallows.
“There’s a kettle I can put on the wood stove to boil water.” He glared. “I don’t have fucking marshmallows. And who said you could drink my hot chocolate?”
I bit my lower lip. “Well, I just thought?—”
“Don’t think. Just stir and flip.” He kept doing something else in the kitchen I couldn’t identify.
Finally, he returned with two plates. He placed them on the coffee table, grabbed the handle of the pot with a potholder, then removed the wooden spoon from my hand. He apportioned us each some brown beans.
Despite myself, I was grateful he split them pretty evenly. My stomach gurgled.
Whether he heard or not was a separate question. He put the empty pot in the sink, then returned with the potholder. He grabbed the frying pan along with the spatula. A moment later, he placed a piece of toast on each plate. He put the frying pan in the sink, then returned a moment later with two spoons. He handed me one, grabbed his plate, and settled on the recliner that didn’t recline.
Taking that as a signal, I grabbed my fork and plate, then sat on the couch. The thing wasn’t that far away from the stove, but I missed the warmth.Admit it—you’re a softie.I wasn’t certainsoftiewas the right word. If it meant I was soft, then that was certainly true. If it meant I was a caring and gentle individual who let himself be walked all over?
Yeah, that too. I ate in silence, trying not to feel uncomfortable, yet not able to relax either. Once I’d sopped up the last of the sauce with my bread, I could admit the meal had tasted better than I expected.
Not that I was going to admit that to the prickly man sitting near me. Still, I had to do something to break the deafening silence. “So what is it that you actually do?”
“I’m an environmental science doctoral student. I’m studying the effect of climate on ice formation.”
I frowned. “Really?”
He cocked his head. “You realize companies like your dad’s are ruining the world, right?”
“And yet you asked him to let you stay here.”
“I made a persuasive case. I made the macro micro.”
I frowned. “You did what now?”
“I convinced your father that my research could help explain the anomalies he’d seen in the past few years to do with his lake. I can’t believe he owns an entire lake.”
“Yep, that’s my dad.” I brushed a crumb off my shirt. “You know climate change isn’t real, right?” I licked my fork. “That it’s just variations on atmospheric changes. Fifty years ago, they were studying why the Earth was getting colder. Predicting another ice age. Twenty years from now, we’ll have moved away from this climate-warming thing.”
His jaw dropped. “You realize that nine of the ten hottest years on record were in the past decade? That we’re warming our planet at an alarming rate? That your father’s companies are contributing to the accumulation of greenhouse gases in the environment?”
“I don’t understand what any of that means.”
He rose, stalked over to the bookcase, grabbed a book, and brought it over. He dropped it onto my lap. “Read this while I wash the dishes. Then you’ll want to piss, brush your teeth, and help me get the bed organized.”
“It’s barely six o’clock.”
