“Hey,” I say, kicking off my boots and dropping my keys on the counter.
She sits up straighter. “How was hunting? Did you catch anything?”
I huff a short laugh, pulling off my jacket. “You don’t catch; you shoot.”
Her brows lift. “Okay, sorry.” She holds her hands up in surrender.
“The hunting was good, though. Guys are happy,” I add. “How are you?”
She shrugs. “I was gonna make dinner, but I didn’t know—”
“Don’t,” I cut in, walking to the fridge. “I have a whole meal plan I do.”
“Oh.” She watches me, a smirk threatening on the corner of her mouth.
“What? Not what you expected?”
“Not in the slightest.” She chuckles.
I laugh once and start pulling out chicken, broccoli, cheese, and milk, lining all the ingredients up on the counter like I make this every week. I do, in fact, make this every week.
“You like Alfredo?”
“Can’t go wrong.”
“Yeah, see, I knew I liked you.” The words come out without me thinking. It sounded fine in my head.
Her cheeks turn pink and she quickly looks down. I clear my throat and pivot to the stove, grabbing a pan. “This will only take about twenty minutes.”
“Great.”
She stays at the table while I make dinner, telling me about all the apartments she looked at online today. I told her half of them probably won’t still be available if she waits much longer. Then she admitted she’s not even sure she can afford one.
I didn’t really know what to say to that. I know she’s low on cash. She’d have to land a job, fast. I can’t help financially. I’m nowhere near rich…heck, none of us are.
The best we can offer is the guest lodge through the beginning of September. Maybe even find a way to “hire” her this summer to help out around here. We don’t need it. Between Mom and Addison and all of us, we’re good on help. But it might be worth a shot.
I set the steaming-hot plate of chicken Alfredo in front of her with a salad on the side, bacon sprinkled on top of it all.
“I have a question,” she says.
“Ask away.” I sit across from her, pulling my chair in.
“Why’d she leave?”
The question hits the air like a punch. Bold. Heavy. I wasn’t ready for it.
My whole body goes still.
I clear my throat and reach for my hat, pulling it off and dropping it to the floor beside my boots. “Hold on,” I say, bowing my head.
I pray out loud—simple, steady words—over the food in front of us.
But in the quiet of my own mind, I’m asking for something else entirely. The strength to answer her question honestly without giving away more than I’m ready to say.
When I pick my head up, she laughs. “Must be serious.”
“I pray before every meal.”
