I feel mildly like I’m being an ass, but every time I get snippy or mouthy, he smiles.
Davis Remington.
Smiling.
Because of me being an ass.
My entire body mellows as I watch Peggy while she continues sniffing out her new surroundings, and then I feel left out because they’re both in the kitchen and I’m not.
When I stumble into sitting at the table, Peggy leaps into my lap and rubs her head all over my boobs.
Davis is quiet while he slices a sourdough bread round on a thick wooden cutting board over the small Formica countertop next to the small sink.
No marble or porcelain in sight.
The floor is a tan patterned vinyl meant to simulate tile. Not some kind of fancy, exotic porcelain that I’m sure some rich people would put into an RV to feel more at home.
Or even budget floor store tiles that normal people might put in their often-used camper.
He drops a pat of butter into a hot stainless-steel skillet, swirls it, then sets two slices of bread down, and tops each with a single slice of deli cheese.
One’s cheddar.
The other—Havarti maybe? Provolone? Not gouda. It’s not yellow enough to be gouda.
I sip my tequila again and glance at the counter. I recognize the butter—it’s from a local farm.
But it’s the popcorn he pulls out of a cabinet that makes me straighten.
That’s not microwave popcorn.
That’s a jar of fresh popcorn kernels.
Be still my heart. The man stocks fresh popcorn kernels in his remote mountain camper.
He has limited cabinet space.
How does he have everything I want?
I count the cabinet doors, all of them painted brown with dull silver knobs, and since this space is tiny, it doesn’t take me long to finish.
We don’t even reach double-digits. Me and my counting fingers.
There’s no way he has a popcorn popper in here.
But he has a cast-iron skillet. With a lid.
“Do you have someone who buys and stocks houses for you?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“You got everything for the kitchen yourself?”
“Usually do.”
“When don’t you?”
“When Vanessa or Ellie or June get the opportunity to decide I’m doing it wrong.”
