There’s no turning back now.
“You still looking for a roomie, Jesse?”
Ididn’tnoticethelast time I was here, because a naked Jack was wielding a coffee pot, but he hasn’t added any personal touches to the place. Besides his coffee pot sitting faithfully on the stove, there’s only the standard white dishes and mugs Wren stocked the place with. No jackets hanging on the coat rack by the door or books on the coffee table. I’m pretty minimalistic on my backcountry guides, but even I pack my Kindle. I would have imagined a travel nurse would bring an array of items to make their temporary lodgings feel homey. The cabin, though, is devoid of anything personal.
The entire living space is one large room, with the kitchen to the left and the living room to the right. It’s all warm tones, with cedar-shiplapped walls and an overstuffed leather couch in the corner, a faux-fur blanket draped over the back. I remember Wren finding the artwork on the walls—watercolor illustrations of trees and bears and antlers—at a flea market in town last summer. A brown and white gingham rug spreads out across the floor. Above the fireplace, a TV is mounted, and on the built-ins, there are stacks of thrift store paperbacks and a turn table Wrenbought at a garage sale. It’s cozy, for sure, but still looks exactly like the listing photos. Nothing to suggest someone has been living here for any amount of time.
I spin on my heel to see Jack carrying in one of my bags. He insisted and I was too tired to fight him on it.
“Are you a serial killer?”
He blinks at me. “What?”
“Seems a pretty easy question to answer.”
“Seems a pretty weird question to ask,” he shoots back, setting my soaked bag on the hardwood, water droplets falling in fat drops onto the floor.
“You haven’t answered.”
He sighs. “No, Stevie, I’m not a serial killer.”
He says my name a lot. Probably to prove he knows mine even though I’ve pretended I don’t remember his. Regardless, I like the way he says it. It makes me feel at ease around him, which is probably the reason I decided to stay here in the first place. It’s not the first time I’ve stayed with strange men. My job has me camping for sometimes days at a time with people I’ve only just met, but this is different. Out of even my comfort zone. But for some reason, I feel safe. I trust my gut. It’s saved me countless times on trips from bad weather and dangerous climbs and wildlife. And right now, it’s telling me I don’t need to worry around Jack.
“You didn’t ask if I am,” I point out.
“I’d rather not know,” he answers before kicking his shoes off and padding back into the kitchen in his socks. “I was making dinner if you’re hungry.”
I follow him into the kitchen and peer around him at the pot on the stove. “What are you making?”
“Ramen.”
“I love ramen.” As if on cue, my stomach rumbles, and I realize I haven’t eaten anything besides a beef stick and a handful of M&Ms all day. “What kind?”
He picks up a foiled silver packet from the counter and reads it. “Chicken.”
My heart sinks, and before I can stop myself, my nose wrinkles. “Oh.”
Blue eyes meet mine over his shoulder, brows high on his forehead. “You don’t like chicken?”
“I don’t like ramen packets,” I clarify.
“Oh,” he echoes. “You thought I meant fancy ramen.”
“I thought you meantrealramen.”
He sets the packet down. “Unfortunately, no.”
“Do you have groceries?” I ask. “Besides ramen.”
He nods and I move toward the fridge. A blast of cold air hits my wet clothes as I open it and I shiver, goosebumps prickling along my skin. Inside, I find ingredients I can work with—eggs, soy sauce packets I’m assuming are leftover from takeout, chicken breasts, and bone broth. Typical bachelor food.
“Give me fifteen minutes,” I say, pulling the ingredients from the fridge and lining them up on the counter.
“What are you doing?”
I glance up, find him staring at me with a divot between his brows. “Making dinner.”
“No,” he says. “I’mmaking dinner.”
