The next thing I knew, gray morning light was filtering through the curtains. I jerked upright, disoriented and alarmed. I’d fallen asleep. Scout was standing at attention, his gaze fixed on the kitchen. My heart hammered at the soft clink of dishes.
Rising silently, I moved toward the kitchen doorway, my sock-feet making no sound on the hardwood floor. Scout stayed close to my side, tense but not growling.
Julia stood at the counter, her back to me, filling the kettle with water from a bottle. My stomach tightened at the sight of lit candles on the counter and the table, making me wonder where she had found them. Had she been snooping around, trying to get information, or had she truly just been looking for a source of light?
She turned with the sugar bowl in hand to find me standing there and jumped, spilling it everywhere. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” she said, setting the bowl down on the counter.
I gestured towards the candles. “I see you found some light.”
“Yes! I’m so sorry,” Julia laughs nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t snooping, I swear. I just looked in the utility room when I woke up and found these candles. I hope that’s okay?” She gestures to the kettle. “Would you like some coffee? The gas stove still works.”
I nod, pulling out a chair and sitting down. Scout stays pressed against my leg, watchful but not aggressive.
“I feel terrible about imposing on you both,” Julia continues, moving around the kitchen with surprising familiarity. “I thought making coffee was the least I could do. And when Caleb wakes up, I’d like to make breakfast as a thank you for helping me out last night. I’m actually a pretty good cook.”
She keeps chattering about recipes and how her mother taught her to make the perfect omelet, but I’m only half listening. There’s something off about the way she navigates the kitchen, like she’s been here before. When she walks directly to the cupboard where the frying pans are stored, without hesitating or searching, my suspicion deepens.
“How did you know where those were?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.
“Oh, I just—” Julia reaches for a pan, but it catches on another one. The resulting crash is deafening in the quiet house as metal clatters against the floor.
Seconds later, Caleb bursts into the kitchen, gun drawn and ready. His hair was all messed up from sleep, standing there shirtless and pantless, unlike when I left him last night, fully clothed. The only thing he is wearing is a pair of form-fitting boxers that leave nothing to the imagination. The bandage on his thigh stands out starkly against his skin, but what catches my eye is everything else—broad shoulders, defined chest, and the collection of scars that tell stories I suddenly want to hear.
Both Julia and I stare at him. Well, I’m definitely staring. I can’t seem to look away.
“What happened?” he demands, eyes scanning the room while keeping his weapon pointed in Julia’s general direction.
“I’m so sorry,” she stammers, her face flushing crimson. “I was just getting a pan, and they all fell.” She looks genuinely mortified, her eyes darting between Caleb’s gun and his bare chest.
I finally find my voice. “Everything’s fine. Just a kitchen accident.”
He lowers his weapon a couple of inches, his eyes meeting mine, silently questioning if I’m sure we’re safe. I give him a small nod, though I’m still unsettled by Julia knowing exactly where to find the pans.
“Sorry for the dramatic entrance,” he says, his voice still rough with sleep as he drops his arm to his side. “Old habits.”
“No, I’m the one who should apologize,” Julia insists, kneeling to gather the scattered cookware. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
I force myself to stop staring at Caleb’s torso and focus on the situation. “How’s the storm?” I ask, moving to the window.
“Still going strong,” Caleb answers. “We won’t be going anywhere today.”
The implication hangs heavy in the air—we’re trapped here with Julia for at least another day. Caleb and I exchange a look of mutual understanding. We’ll need to be careful about what we say and do until we figure out if she’s really who she claims to be.
“Coffee will be ready shortly,” Julia says, seemingly oblivious to the tension. “And I saw some eggs in the fridge. I make a mean scramble.”
“That would be great,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’ll help.”
“I’ll put some clothes on,” Caleb mutters, looking slightly embarrassed now that the adrenaline has worn off.
As he turns to leave, I catch myself watching the muscles in his back shift. When I look away, I find Julia observing me with a knowing smile.
“Ten years together, huh?” she says quietly when Caleb is out of earshot.
Heat rises to my cheeks. “Yep.”
“Lucky woman,” she comments, turning back to the stove.
I don’t correct her. Better to maintain our cover story, especially now that my instincts are screaming that something isn’t right about Julia Smith. The way she found the pans without searching, the ease with which she’s making herself at home.
