"Breakfast doesn't have a schedule." I set everything on the counter and look at her. "You want to help or just watch?"
She grins. "I want to help."
"Then wash your hands and grab that cutting board."
She moves to the sink, and I start pulling out pans. Ridge settles himself in the corner of the kitchen, watching us with patient eyes.
And for the first time in six years, my cabin doesn't feel quite so empty.
Chapter 5 - Jade
I'm standing in Eli Cross's kitchen, wearing his clothes, about to cook with him, and I have to stop myself from saying something that will definitely ruin the moment.
Because this is a moment.
This man, this burly, gruff, leave-me-alone man who looks like he could snap a tree in half with his bare hands, just offered to cook for me. Not only that, he asked me to help. Asked me to stay.
He didn't complain about my terrible lasagna. Didn't make me feel stupid for screwing it up. Just told me what was wrong and moved on like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I wash my hands in his sink, looking around the kitchen while the water runs. It's sparse. Clean. Everything has a place, and everything is in its place. There's no clutter, no decoration, nothing that suggests anyone actually lives here except for the dog bowl in the corner and a coffee mug sitting by the sink.
It's the kitchen of someone who doesn't want to be reminded of anything.
"You going to help or just stand there?"
I look over. Eli's pulled out a cast iron skillet, the kind that looks like it's been used a thousand times and could probably survive a nuclear blast. He's setting it on the stove, not looking at me, but there's something different about him now. Less tense, maybe. Like having something to do with his hands makes everything easier.
"I'm helping," I say, drying my hands on a towel. "What do you need me to do?"
"Chop the peppers and onions." He nods toward the cutting board and a knife that looks sharp enough to perform surgery. "Small dice."
"Small dice. Got it."
I grab the onions and get to work. It's been a while since I've done any real cooking. The last few months have been a blur of takeout and frozen dinners because I couldn't bring myself to cook the recipes Mom taught me. Every time I tried, I'd end up crying into whatever I was making, and that's not exactly good for the food or my mental health.
But this feels different. Maybe because I'm not alone. Maybe because Eli's moving around the kitchen and it’s mesmerizing to watch.
He's cracking eggs into a bowl, whisking them with one hand while he adjusts the heat on the stove with the other. His movements are precise. It's the same way he moved when he was fixing my sink, when he was chopping wood.
Everything this man does looks like he's done it a thousand times before.
"How'd you learn to cook?" I ask, dicing an onion.
"Necessity."
"That's it? Just necessity?"
"Couldn't eat MREs forever." He pulls out a package of bacon from the freezer, starts separating the strips. "Had to figure it out."
"MREs?"
"Meals Ready to Eat. Military rations." He places the bacon in the now-hot skillet, and it immediately starts sizzling. "They'll keep you alive, but that's about all you can say for them."
I finish with the onions and move on to the peppers. "So, you taught yourself."
"YouTube helped."
I laugh. "You watched cooking videos on YouTube?"
