Three bowls of beef stew. Four slices of bread with butter so thick it leaves prints on her fingers. A glass of water she drains twice without coming up for air. The whole time, her hands tremble around the spoon.
Carmen Reyes is sitting at my kitchen table in a wrinkled scrub top she clearly forgot to change out of, dark hair falling out of a knot at the back of her neck, and she's beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight. Soft. Full curves under that thin cotton. Exhausted eyes with lashes so long they brush her cheekbones when she blinks. Brown skin that catches the late light coming through the window over the sink.
She smells like road coffee. Underneath that, something warm. Vanilla, maybe.
My jaw aches from how hard I'm clenching it, because the woman sitting in my kitchen drove fourteen hours alone across three states to take a job that doesn't exist because somebody in my family decided my love life was a community project.
Mabel swears it wasn't her. My cousin Colt won't answer my texts. Rhett sent back a single emoji. A bear. Helpful.
"You want more bread?"
Carmen looks up from the bowl. Her eyes are bloodshot. "You don't have to keep feeding me."
"You haven't eaten since Amarillo." Pulling the bread board toward her, I cut another slice. "That's not a suggestion."
Something flickers across her face. Not offense. Closer to confusion, like she can't figure out why a stranger is cutting her bread with this much intention. She takes the slice.
"Thank you." Quiet. Genuine.
"Don't thank me yet. We gotta figure out what happens next."
Her spoon stops. "I can leave in the morning. Find a motel in Durango."
"That's ninety minutes back down the mountain, and you can barely keep your eyes open." The chair creaks when I lean back. "Cabin six is empty. Clean sheets, hot water, woodstove. You stay tonight, get some sleep, we talk logistics in the morning."
"You don't know me."
"You don't know me either, and you're sitting in my kitchen eating my stew."
That almost gets a smile. Almost. The corner of her mouth lifts a fraction before exhaustion pulls it back down.
While she finishes, I clear the counter. Wash the pot. Try not to think about how long it's been since someone sat at this table. My parents used to host Sunday dinners here, back when the cabins were full every summer and the McCall name meant something in this valley beyond "the family that might sell."
The developer's name is Greg Weston. Calls once a week from his Denver office with a number that keeps climbing. Last offer was enough to pay off the property taxes I'm three months behind on. Enough to fix the roof on cabin two that leaks everytime the wind comes from the south. Enough to stop lying awake at night doing math that never adds up.
"The ad." Carmen's voice pulls me back. She's staring at the table, tracing a knot in the wood with her fingertip. "It talked about the retreat. The cabins. How remote it was. It said the owner needed someone who could handle solitude and hard work."
My jaw tightens again. Whoever wrote that profile knew exactly what they were doing. Made it sound professional enough that a smart woman would apply. Made it sound like me without making it sound like a dating ad.
"Can I see it?"
She pulls out her phone, scrolls, turns it toward me.
The listing has my photo. Not a selfie. A candid someone took at last year's town barbecue, me leaning against the porch rail with my sleeves rolled up. Underneath, a bio that reads so close to my own voice it makes my skin crawl.
Owen McCall, 36. Runs a family cabin retreat in the mountains of Colorado. Looking for a partner who values quiet, hard work, and real connection. The right woman won't mind the solitude. She'll crave it.
Partner. Not employee.
"That's not what you thought it was."
"Obviously." Her cheeks flush. Dark rose against brown skin. "If I'd known it was a dating site, I wouldn't have..." She stops. Pushes the phone face-down on the table. "It doesn't matter. I'll be out of your hair tomorrow."
But she won't look at me when she says it. Her fingers are still shaking. The circles under her eyes are so deep they look bruised.
"What'd you do in Houston?" The question comes out before I think about it.
"ER nurse. Twelve years."
