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The pitter patter of tiny paws announces my guests’ arrival downstairs. I open my eyes and there she is.
Jenny.
Barefoot. A wide smile breaking out on her face when she sees me standing at the bar.
It’s like a punch to the face, that smile. And I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime.
I wordlessly hold out her drink. Waiting all the while for my lungs to start working again.
“I still can’t get over the fact that I’m here,” she says, taking the glass.
I grunt. “No kidding.”
“Margarita looks great. Thank you. And cheers.”
I let her tap her glass to mine. “Cheers.”
She sips. Smacks her lips.
“Any good?” I ask.
Her eyes sparkle. “Perfect. Just the right amount of sweet. It’s like you know me or something.”
I like it too much. The fact that she’s having drinks withmetonight. Not with some idiot shithead at an overpriced hipster bar.
Tonight, she’s mine. She’s here and she’s safe and she’s comfortable. A much-needed win.
“I put out some cheese in the kitchen.” I head that way and she follows. “Lemme throw dinner in the oven.”
I frown when I find that said dinner—beef short ribs in a red wine sauce over broccolini and parmesan polenta, all in a foil pan—doesn’t have instructions.
“Shit.” I lift the pan to check the bottom for a sticker, a note, anything. “No instructions anywhere. The place where I got it is usually pretty good about that.”
Jen joins me at the stove. “Weird. Where’d you buy it?”
“Foster’s over in South Port. They have great pre-made things. It’s so easy even I can’t fuck it up. But without a guide, I’m... yeah, I’m no cook, so I’m totally lost.”
She chuckles. “You’re shit out of luck, because I also don’t know my ass from my elbow in a kitchen. I feel like this is something we should know, how to cook for ourselves without potentially burning your house down. Tuck’s the one who got those genes. Should we maybe preheat the oven?”
“That, I can do.” I set it to 350. Seems like a safe bet. “Allright. Then we wait til it’s warm, then put it in and see what happens? Try for ten minutes, maybe?”
Her lips twitch. “Ten minutes seems ambitious.”
“You’d better not be cracking very dirty jokes in my very clean kitchen.”
“I’d never.” She nods at the oven. “Put it in and see what happens. The warmer the better in my experience, but I’ve never had the pleasure of using your oven, so take my advice with a grain of salt.”
“All ovens are different.”
Looking away, she sighs. “They are, aren’t they?”
I’m just buzzed enough to contemplate asking her what she means by that.
I’m just sober enough to wisely keep my mouth shut. Clearly I need to take it easy on the tequila while Jen is here.
Together we sit on the stools at the island. Along with the short ribs, I also bought a charcuterie board from Foster’s. It’s a decent spread. Local goat cheese, honey, some kind of fancy ham. Bite-sized crackers that are dotted with dried fruit.
Cher and Tai wait not-so-patiently at our feet for any crumbs.
