I pull into my driveway and cut the engine. The house looks cozy in the snow, warm light spilling from the porch fixture across the front steps. It’s a two-story cabin-style place, cedar siding stained a deep brown, with a wide covered porch that wraps around to the side.
I built the porch myself the first summer I moved in. It’s not perfect, not even close. One section is slightly crooked if you really look. But I’m proud of it because it’s mine. A pair of Adirondack chairs sit out front, buried under a few inches of fresh powder. In summer, I sit out here most evenings with a beer, listening to the crickets and watching the sun drop behind the peaks. Sometimes Kara joins me. Maybe next summer, if Jude is still here in Golden Peak, he can watch the sunsets with me too.
Jude parks behind me and gets out, his duffel slung over one shoulder. He stands in the driveway for a moment, taking in the house. “Nice.”
“It’s not fancy,” I say, heading up the steps and unlocking the front door. “But it’s home.”
He follows me inside, and I watch him take it in. The front door opens into a living room with exposed beams and hardwood floors. The walls are a warm gray, and I’ve got a leather sectional facing a stone fireplace that takes up most of one wall. There’s a braided rug under the coffee table, a bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks and old sports trophies, and a few framed photos on the mantel: my parents at the lake, Jack and I as kids in our Little League uniforms, one of the whole pack from last year’s summer gathering. His gaze lingers longest on the photo of the pack, and a muscle works in his cheek.
“The kitchen is over here.” I lead the way past the breakfast bar with three bar stools. It’s clean because I hate a messy kitchen. Copper pots hang from a rack above the stove, and there’s a cast iron skillet on the stove. “Feel free to eat whatever you want.”
“I’ll buy some groceries tomorrow,” he says.
“Sure, if you want something special, but I just went shopping the other day. Pantry and fridge are full of food.”
“Still,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to eat your stuff without contributing.”
“Suit yourself.” I shrug. There’s no point in arguing. It’s obvious that being self-sufficient is in his DNA. “Guest room’s upstairs, first door on the left,” I say. “Guest bathroom’s across the hall from your room. There are clean towels in the cabinet.”
Jude nods, still looking around. His expression is hard to read. “This really is a great place.”
“Thanks. I’ve put a lot of work into it.” I toss my keys on the counter. “You should grab a shower first. We both smell like a campfire.”
“I don’t have to go first.”
“Sure you do. You’re my guest. Besides, I want to start dinner.” I open the fridge and scan the contents. “I’ll start dinner while you clean up. Any food allergies?”
“No.”
“Anything you hate?”
“I’m not picky.” He hesitates. “Liam, you don’t have to cook me dinner. I can just make myself something later.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not just making dinner because of you. I’m hungry.” I pull out a pack of chicken thighs, garlic, lemons, and a bag of small potatoes. “Go shower. You’ll feel better.”
He lingers for a second, then heads upstairs with his duffel.
I hear the creak of the guest room door, then his footsteps crossing the hall to the bathroom. When the shower turns on, I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and get to work.
Cooking relaxes me. It always has. My mom taught me when I was twelve, after I kept complaining about having nothing to do on summer afternoons. She figured if I was going to hang around the kitchen bothering her, I might as well learn to be useful. Turns out I had a knack for it. Jack can barely boil water without burning something, but I took to it naturally.
I season the chicken thighs with salt, pepper, smoked paprika, and fresh garlic, then sear them in the cast iron until the skin is golden and the kitchen fills with the rich, savory smell of browning meat. I quarter the potatoes and toss them with olive oil, rosemary, and salt, then scatter them around the chicken ina deep baking dish. Lemon halves go in too, cut-side down. The whole thing goes into the oven at four hundred degrees.
While the chicken roasts, I wash some green beans and get them ready to sauté later. I set the table for two, pulling out actual plates instead of the paper ones I sometimes use when I’m eating alone. I even light the cinnamon candle I have on the table, then immediately blow it out because what the hell am I doing? It’s dinner with a friend, not a date.
The shower upstairs shuts off. A few minutes later Jude comes down, hair damp, wearing a long-sleeved white T-shirt and gray sweats. Even freshly showered, his natural wolf scent breaks through the clean scent of my soap on his skin. Something about Jude smelling like my soap sends a ripple of warmth through me that I choose not to examine. Instead, I focus on the hint of smoke that clings to his clothing.
“Damn, I meant to give you some clean clothes,” I say.
“That’s okay.” He grimaces, sniffing his sleeve. “These aren’t bad. They were the best of what I had. I’ll use the washer later tonight to wash my uniform and the rest of my clothes, if that’s okay?”
“Of course it’s okay.” I hesitate. “You sure you don’t want me to go get you some clothes right now?”
“I’m sure,” he says, stopping near me. “Whatever you’re making smells incredible.”
“Roasted lemon chicken with potatoes and green beans.” I shrug. “Nothing fancy.”
He leans against the sink, watching me. “You actually cooked. I thought maybe you’d heat something up in the microwave.”
