“I knew it.”
“I also know how to cook.”
“I can see that.”
She reaches over to steal a slice of carrot from my cutting board.
I catch her wrist before she gets away. “Thief.”
“I was quality testing.”
“I grew them. They’re good.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss her knuckles before letting her go. She blinks, visibly caught off guard.
“You keep doing that,” she murmurs.
“Doing what?”
“Being unexpectedly sweet.”
“I kissed your hand.”
“Exactly.”
I shrug. “Felt natural.”
She looks at me for another moment before turning back to the stove, but I catch a smile she can’t quite hide.
We fall into a comfortable rhythm after that. I check on the meat while she stirs the vegetables. We move around each other easily, our bodies coming into contact in ways that feel as natural as breathing.
“So,” I say, drying my hands on a towel. “Tell me about the bartending.”
She leans casually against the counter. “It pays the bills.”
“You enjoy it?”
“Sometimes. I like talking to people. I like hearing their stories. Friday nights can be fun.” She smiles faintly. “But I don’t think it’s forever.”
“What else do you want to do?”
She lets out a thoughtful breath. “I honestly don’t know.”
“You’ve never known?”
“I always thought I’d figure it out by now.”
She reaches for the wooden spoon, absently tracing circles through the vegetables. “I’ve had jobs I liked. Trips I loved. Apartments that felt good for a while. Every time I think I’vefound the thing, another opportunity comes along and I chase that instead.”
“Do you regret it?”
“No.” She answers quickly, then slows. “I just wonder whether I’ve been so busy looking for the next adventure that I forgot to build a home.”
I look around the cabin. “I did exactly the opposite.”
“What do you mean?”
