“What does?”
“Fixing everyone else.”
Her head tilts, like she’s considering it for the first time.
“Sometimes.” Then softer . . . “Other times I don’t mind.”
Something tightens in my chest. It’s pathetic how badly I want to hear her say that I’m an exception.
“And me?” The question is out before I can stop it.
Aspen’s lips part and she sucks in tight breath. “What about you?”
I nod toward the groceries and bags yet to be put away.
“Am I work . . .” My jaw tightens. “Or are you here because you want to be?”
A fresh wave of pain spears me from the tension, making my knees lock to keep me upright.
Aspen’s expression shifts instantly. The teasing, the walls, the overthinking . . . gone.
She pushes off the counter and drags the stool out from the island.
“Sit.”
I glance at the stool, then back at her.
“That’s not an answer.”
Her eyes roll, like she thinksI’mthe idiot here.
“And being so stubborn you pass out in my kitchen isn’t a personality trait.”
Despite myself, my mouth twitches. “Technically, it’s my kitchen for the next eight weeks.”
I sink onto the stool, ribs protesting the whole way down.
Before I can argue, she’s already moving—pulling bread from the cabinet, cheese from the fridge, humming under her breath, like taking over was always the plan.
I could remind her I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself.
One sharp inhale reminds me my ribs disagree.
Besides . . . watching Aspen take over is becoming a problem I’m not in any hurry to solve.
I sink onto the stool.
“Now that we’ve covered that, how do you feel about grilled cheese?”
“If you’re cooking it, I’m eating it.”
She moves away from the counter, getting right to work, as she glances over her shoulder at me. “You say that now.”
“Meals at camp are usually whatever we can shovel down between shifts,” I explain.
Soft, melodic humming drifts through the kitchen as she moves around me.
It’s an old country song—one I remember my grandmother singing on long drives down Wyoming backroads on our way home to the ranch . . . before everything changed.
