“What should I call you, then?”
“My name.”
“Callie’s too formal. We’re teammates now.”
“We’re temporary teammates.”
“Still teammates.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue further, which I’m taking as progress.
We spend the next twenty minutes dividing ingredients and claiming workspace. Callie sets up at the far end of the kitchen, muttering about “bean deniers” and “culinary purists.” Wyatt takes the opposite end, grumbling about “Yankee chili” and “vegetarian nonsense.”
Boone and I end up in the middle, trying to stay out of the crossfire.
“This is going well,” Boone observes, watching Wyatt aggressively chop onions.
“Define ‘well,’” I reply.
“Nobody’s bleeding yet.”
“Give it time.”
I walk over to where Callie’s browning ground beef, the smell filling the kitchen with something that smells damn good.
“Need any help?” I ask.
“I’ve got it,” she says, not looking up from the pan.
“I could chop vegetables.”
“I’ve already chopped them.”
“I could... stir things?”
“Jesse.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m being helpful.”
“You’re being distracting.”
I lean against the counter next to her station. “Distracting how?”
“Just... distracting.”
She’s focused on the beef, but I catch her glancing at me out of the corner of her eye.
“Tell you what,” I say, “how about I stay right here and provide moral support?”
“How about you go help your brothers?”
“They don’t need help. Wyatt’s got his system, and Boone’s...” I look over to where Boone’s trying to open acan of tomatoes with what appears to be a butter knife. “Actually, Boone might need help.”
“Then go help him.”
