Can’t survive a day on her own.
I give my hands a shake, trying to move past my depressing thoughts.
I think back to Dylan and how he cooked us such a delicious dinner, and an idea comes to mind. I look up a simple recipe on my phone. Pan-fried garlic shrimp with lemon and herb rice. A mixed green salad on the side. Scanning through the steps and ingredients, it seems easy enough. I grab some fabric bags from the closet by the front door, pop downstairs, and start the quick walk to the closest—and only—grocery store in town.
There’s a weight lifted off my shoulders as I step inside with a cart and a plan and walk down each of the aisles,finding exactly what I need. It’s a bit more expensive than my Buldak ramen, but it’s going to be homemade by me and only me, and that’s something to be proud of. After finding all the ingredients, I head back home to start cooking.
I empty all the bags onto my kitchen counter and pull my hair out of my face into a topknot with an autumnal-themed scrunchie adorned with pumpkins. An impulse purchase I spotted while waiting in line with my groceries. “Okay, here goes nothing,” I say out loud to my empty kitchen. I turn on theMidnightsalbum (3am Edition, of course) so it plays through the speaker on my phone and work my way through the recipe step by step, taking it slow and taking my time to read through everything.
In the end, it turns out okay. Nothing amazing, but it’s tasty and edible. Sure, the shrimp is a tad overdone, and the rice turned out wetter than I’d hoped, but the feeling of pride I have from making something completely on my own, other than instant ramen, is huge.
“Screw you, Marcus,” I shout as I clean up after dinner.
I like to think Dylan would be proud if I told him. He’d probably say something sarcastic, but I can picture the way he would crinkle his eyes and the full-on grin he’d give me.
I can’t help that the thoughts of him linger as I wipe down the counter, my mind constantly drifting back to those emerald eyes.
Chapter Twelve
By the time Saturday rolls around, I have successfully cooked spaghetti and meatballs (okay, frozen meatballs and jarred marinara sauce, but it still counts) and chicken stir-fry.
I had debated seeing Dylan one evening after work, but since I can’t call him and I don’t know his schedule, I thought Saturday was probably a safer bet. The weather is cool and calm today, so I dress in a cute black Lululemon sleeveless bodysuit, throw a long light brown cardigan over top, and pair it all with my mini Uggs. My hair is up in its usual claw clip as I get in the car to drive down the coast to Killick Point.
When I get to the rusted red door, I knock a few times and then open it to go inside. “Ouch,” I say as I’m greeted with that slight shock once more.I wish that would stop happening.
“Hello? Is someone there?” I hear a deep voice yell from upstairs.
“It’s your favourite person,” I call back sarcastically.
I walk into the main level of the lighthouse just asDylan stomps down the stairs holding, yes, of course, his usual cup of coffee in hand. He doesn’t look like he’s been up to much this morning, wearing a pair of black joggers and a plain white T-shirt. I spot the black ink on his arm that I want to explore so badly, peeking out around his bicep. He’s got a black toque on, and his hair falls loose, messy but sexy, almost touching his shoulders.
“You again,” he muses as he cocks an eyebrow at me, a teasing grin already appearing as he goes to take a sip of his coffee.
“Hi,” I breathe out, taking in the sight of him. I can’t help but notice how his eyes drag down over my body in the tight fabric and lock onto my chest for the briefest of seconds before landing on my eyes.
“Do you dance?” he asks, motioning for me to follow him upstairs. Sunlight peeks through the window and bathes the surrounding space in a bright, golden light.
“No, why?”
“It looks like you’re dressed for a dance class,” he says without turning back to look at me.
“I think you need to get a better handle on women’s fashion,” I reply. “Maybe I need to get you out of this lighthouse and out into the world, where you can see people other than your own reflection in the bathroom mirror.”
“I see you now, it seems,” he responds quietly.
We get upstairs, and I take my usual place on the plaid couch, taking off my cardigan to cool down. The light is really pouring in now; it must have warmed up significantly since this morning.
He walks over to me with a coffee that smells like pumpkin. I can’t wait to try it again.
“Mmm, I’ve been dreaming about this drink all week,” I tell him as I breathe in the scent before lifting the cup to mylips for that first sip. “I told my friend Priya about the creamer, and she wants to try it.”
“It was easy to make.” He shrugs. “I have all the ingredients. We can make more, and I’ll teach you.”
“Okay.” I cup the warm drink in my hands and take another sip. “After I finish this, though.”
He comes and sits with me on the couch, one hand holding his mug, the other placed down at his side. He’s in my personal space, and I don’t mind it one bit. I let myself absorb every detail of him, so close beside me. His full lips, the beauty mark on the right side of his face, beside his eye. His long, dark lashes and the sharp cut of his nose. Everything about him is perfect. It’s almost too much to handle. He’s all muscle, his skin tanned from being outside so much.
“So.” I need to stop staring. “What made you want to be a lighthouse keeper?” I ask. I don’t know much other than he took over after his dad retired.
