“Whatever you want to make.”
“That’s not an answer.” She crosses her arms. “I need to know what you like. What’s your go-to comfort food? What do you crave?”
I shove my hands in my pockets. “I’m really not picky.”
“River.”
“Anything is fine. Seriously.”
“You’re paying me thirty dollars an hour to cook for you, and you won’t even tell me what you like to eat?” She raises an eyebrow. “Come on. What would you make yourself right now if I wasn’t here?”
I look at the floor. “You’ll laugh.”
“Probably. But I still need to know.”
“A peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” I mumble.
She pauses. “I’m sorry, what?”
“A peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” I look up and meet her eyes. “It’s what sounds good to me right now.”
Kiera stares at me. Then she starts laughing—not mean laughter, but genuine, surprised amusement that makes her whole face light up. “You bought pule and caviar, but what you want right now is peanut butter and jelly?”
I rub the back of my neck. “Well, you asked.”
“River.” She’s still laughing, shaking her head. “Oh my gosh. That’s—” She cuts herself off, pressing her lips together like she’s trying to compose herself. “Okay. Okay. I’ll figure something out.”
“You really don’t have to?—”
“Go.” She points toward the door. “Go edit your documentary or whatever. You hired me to cook while you work, so go work. I’ll call you when food is ready.”
“I can stay and help.”
“Nope.” She makes a shooing motion. “Out. This is my kitchen now. You’re paying me to do this, so let me do it.”
I hesitate. Part of me wants to stay, to watch her work, to have an excuse to be in the same room. But she’s right. This was the deal. She cooks, I work, we both get what we need.
“All right,” I say. “I’ll be in the editing room if you need anything. Second door on the left down that hallway.” I point.
“Got it. Now go.”
I leave the kitchen, glancing back once to see her already pulling out a cutting board and rummaging for the peanut butter. There’s something about the way she moves through the space with confidence that makes my chest warm.
The editing room is my favorite part of the house. It’s smaller than the other rooms, which makes it feel more manageable, and I’ve set it up exactly how I want it. My desk is facing the window, with two monitors, a comfortable chair, and shelves lined with hard drives and camera equipment.
I settle into my chair and pull up the documentary footage. I’ve been working on this for months. I have interviews with longtime residents of coastal communities, shots of fishing boats and docks, and way too much footage of the way the morning light hits the water. It’s the most personal project I’ve ever done, and I can’t seem to get it right.
I scrub through the timeline, looking for the right transition between scenes. The audio needs work. The pacing feels off. I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of editing, making adjustments, trying different cuts.
I don’t know how much time passes before there’s a knock on the doorframe. I turn to find Kiera standing there. “Dinner is ready.”
“Great.” I expect her to bring it to me, but she motions toward my formal dining room.
“Come and eat.”
I stand and follow her down the hallway, even though I never use that room. I either eat in my editing room, or I eat curled up on my couch. I enter the dining room and see that she’s set a formal place setting for me, complete with folded napkin on the plate. It looks silly, a table for ten people, with one place setting.
By my glass is a pitcher of water and a silver platter. On it are what look like small sushi rolls, arranged in three neat lines with a side of french fries that are topped with grated parmesan andlook like they came out of a magazine. A small dish of ketchup sits next to them.
