I sit.
He pulls containers from the refrigerator, moving around the kitchen with an ease that surprises me. Within minutes,something sizzles in a pan. Garlic. Onions. The smell makes my stomach clench.
"You cook," I say, immediately feeling stupid.
"I live alone."
"Most men who live alone survive on frozen pizza."
"Most men who live alone don't work fourteen-hour days doing manual labor." He doesn't look up from the stove. "You need fuel for that. Real food."
I watch him work. The way his forearms flex when he stirs. The concentration on his face. The small line between his brows that I'm starting to suspect is permanent.
"Why do you hate me?" I ask.
The question surprises us both. He goes still, spatula hovering over the pan.
"I don't hate you."
"You've been hostile since I arrived."
"I've been direct." He plates the food. Pasta with vegetables. Sets it in front of me. "Hostility would be offensive."
"You called me a city girl."
"You're from Portland."
"That doesn't make me incapable of understanding your operation."
He leans against the counter again, watching me. The firelight catches the silver at his temples. I didn't notice that before. The way the brown fades to gray, just at the edges. It makes him look older. Experienced. Like he's seen things and survived them.
"How long have you been doing this job?" he asks.
"Two years with the county. Six years total in environmental work."
"And before that?"
"Research. Forest ecosystems. Funding dried up."
Something shifts in his expression. Softens. "You're a scientist."
"I'm a compliance officer."
"Who used to be a scientist." He picks up his own plate, settling onto the stool beside me. Close enough that I can feel his warmth. "That's different than the paper pushers who usually show up."
"Careful. That almost sounded like respect."
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. "Don't let it go to your head."
We eat in silence. The pasta is good. Better than good. I finish the whole plate before I realize I was that hungry, and when I look up, he's watching me with an expression I can't read.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing." He stands, taking our plates to the sink. "Come on. I'll show you the records."
The basement is exactly what I expected. Boxes stacked floor to ceiling, labeled in faded marker. Decades of paperwork from a time before digital records. He pulls a chain, flooding the space with harsh light.
"Anything before 2020 is down here," he says. "It's organized by year. Mostly."
