As we work, I try not to think about tonight. About the fact that I invited Winnie to my house—my actual house, not the station and not the bakery—for what is definitely, absolutely, without question not a date. Just like Tacos & Trivia night wasn’t a date. Same as last night’s takeout wasn’t a date.
I’m making burgers. Serving homemade pickles. Chips. And yet, I cleaned my house for the first time in three months. Aired it out. Cleared an extra spot in the driveway.
I’m warm inside and out because it certainly feels like a date.
My small ranch-stylehouse with room to grow sits on a couple of acres. It’s fifteen minutes outside town and up a winding road most people don’t bother with. I bought it five years ago because it was practical—good bones, minimal maintenance, far enough from neighbors that I don’t have to make small talk when I’m dead tired after a forty-eight-hour shift.
Inside, it’s minimalist by default, not by design. Couch, coffee table, TV. Kitchen with the basics. Bedroom with a bed that I make every morning out of habit—military corners because that’s what Dad taught me.
No photos on the walls. No knick-knacks collecting dust. Nothing requiring attention.
The station is my home. This is just where I sleep when I’m not there.
After throwing a few logs in the woodstove, I take out the burger patties and have second thoughts.
Not about dinner in general—I’m up for burgers anytime, anywhere—but what was I thinking, inviting Winnie here? This place is depressing. James said, given my lack of throw pillows, it appears I have commitment issues. Austin accused me of being decoratively and emotionally stunted. Possibly all of the above.
But it’s too late now. Her car is already turning into my driveway, headlights cutting through the February twilight.
I force myself to breathe like I’m entering a burning building. Same principles apply—stay calm, stick to the plan, don’t panic.
When I open the door, Winnie stands on my porch holding a huckleberry pie from the diner and looking uncertain, which is unusual for her.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.”
We stand there like awkward teenagers until I remember I’m supposed to invite her inside.
“Come in. I’m making burgers.”
Her gaze darts around as if seeking an escape hatch. Since there isn’t one that doesn’t require her turning around and fleeing, she steps into my living room, peering at her surroundings with barely concealed curiosity.
“Figured we have to eat, anyway.” I take the pie she offers, hyperaware of how our fingers brush during the exchange and how dumb and dismissive my comment sounded.
We have to eat anyway. Really, Cross? Try to make her feel less important, why don’t you?
“Plus, I can’t have you skipping dinner again.”
“I ate lunch!”
“Reheated coffee and a granola bar don’t count.”
Now I sound like a concerned parent. Instead of a pat on the back, a comment like that warrants a kick in the backside.
“How did you—?” she starts.
“Small town.”
The corners of her lips drop.
Nice going. Way to make her feel bad. Pull it together, man.
“Actually, I noticed the wrapper in your trash when I dropped off the wholesale contracts.”
She blinks at me. “You notice my trash?”
“I notice everything.” The words come out more intense than I intended. I clear my throat. “Part of the job is observing details.”
