Each day I’d been there, she’d made dinner for us, though “made” was a generous term considering it was one microwavable meal after another, even after I got her kitchen up and running, which told me she was probably a terrible cook.
So tonight, maybe I could shift things, say I wanted to cook for her instead. I could even offer to teach her, and that could buy me a few more days. But even as the thought formed, it unraveled, because if I taught her, then she wouldn’t need me anymore, and I’d be right back where I started.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, dragging a hand through my hair, my fingers snagging on my ponytail. I sounded like some awkward teenager, overthinking every possible angle. I didn’t need to jump through hoops just to have a reason to see her, I could just be an adult and admit that I liked spending time with her. But then again... what if she didn’t feel the same? I had shut that channel down to give her some privacy, so I had no idea how she felt now. And what if she only liked having me around because I was useful, because I was fixing things and providing something she needed?
No.
No, she wasn’t like that. Even in the short time I’d known her, there had always been something genuine about her. And yes, I knew she was attracted to me, that much was obvious, but I also believed it was more than that. Or maybe I just hoped it was.
I turned away from the hardware store, my mind made up as I set off down the street, fully committing to the idea of cooking dinner for her. I could make something from home, just a traditional Japanese dish, nothing too overwhelming. Salmon and rice would be easy enough.
With a renewed sense of purpose, I headed toward The Salty Gull Market, gathering what I needed. Some rice, fresh fish, vegetables, and of course, seasonings, because those mattered just as much as anything else.
By the time I paid and stepped back out into the evening air, the sky had begun to dim, the soft glow of lanterns flickering to life along the street. I adjusted my grip on the bags and turned toward the path leading up to the cliffs, a new plan for the evening settling into place. I just hoped she didn’t see through my lies.
Chapter 7:Kara
THERE WAS AN OCTOPUS shifter cooking in my kitchen.
That should have felt strange, like something out of a dream I hadn’t quite woken up from yet, or the beginning of some ridiculous, slightly inappropriate joke. A few weeks ago, it absolutely would have. But now? Now it just felt normal. Comfortable, even, as I stood there watching his tentacles move with effortless precision, taking over my kitchen like he had done it a thousand times before.
I leaned against the counter, watching him work. Each tentacle seemed to have a task of its own, moving in tandem in a way that was almost hypnotizing—one stirring, another chopping, while another adjusted the heat on the stove, all in perfect rhythm.
And I didn’t exactly mind the view as I watched him work.
When he had shown up earlier, I had been fully prepared for another round of repairs. Instead, he arrived without any supplies, claiming the store had closed early, and showed up with grocery bags instead, saying he didn’t want to come empty-handed. A part of me wasn’t buying it, because if there was one thing I had always been good at, it was reading people and knowing when they were bluffing. And something told me he didn’t want this whole “fixing Kara’s cottage” situation to end any more than I did. I didn’t call him out on it, though, because a home cooked meal soundedtoo good to question.
Rice steamed in a pot, while a pan sizzled on the stove where he worked on something he had calledteriyaki salmon, the scent already having my stomach grumbling and excited for something that wasn’t a microwavable entrée.
I shifted slightly, my hip pressing more firmly into the counter as I watched him, my gaze following the ease of his movements and the quiet confidence in everything he did. And somewhere in the middle of it, I realized I was going to miss this.
The repairs were almost done, and the house was livable now. Once it was finished, once there was nothing left to fix, he wouldn’t have a reason to come back.
The realization settled deep in my chest, because as much as I knew I needed to continue my incognito life, which meant being alone in fear of getting caught, the truth was I was enjoying this.I was enjoying him.
Plus, he was hot as hell, a fact I couldn’t deny even if I wanted to. Every time he swung a hammer or drove a screw into place, I felt that familiar drop in my stomach, the way my attention snagged on the movement of his muscles as they flexed. I was attracted to him, obviously. I mean, I was sure everyone in town was. But even beyond that, with him here, I didn’t feel alone, and that was such a new feeling I hadn’t felt in so long.
For the past few years, even when I’d been surrounded by people—crowded gambling dens, loud voices, constant movement—I had still felt that deep, lingering loneliness, no matter how much noise tried to drown it out.
But right now? Standing here in this newly functioning kitchen, watching an octopus shifter cook me dinner, I didn’t feel that wayanymore, and I just wanted to hold on to that feeling as tightly as I could.
He moved about the space, plating the food with a level of expertise that made it look like he’d worked in a restaurant at some point. He set a plate in front of me before fixing his own, then joined me at my newly sanded table, courtesy of eight very efficient tentacles two days ago.
“Careful,” he said, sliding the plate closer. “It’s hot.”
