Page 23 of Gunnar

Gunnar also goes to what looks like a utility room and pulls out three beers. He hands one to me. “First rule of surviving a bad day.”

There are two sharp pops as more caps hit the floor.

I grasp the bottle, staring at it dazedly. I don’t usually drink beer. Always been more of an espresso martini girl.

Gunnar frowns. “Can’t open it?”

“Not if I want to keep my teeth.”

He snatches it, pops it expertly and hands it back. I take a sip.

It goes down cold, then warms as it hits my stomach, taking the edge off.

Torin lifts the pan off the stove and carries it to the table, setting it down on a thick wooden board that looks like it might once have been part of the floor.

He slides into the chair across from me and nudges the pan closer with the handle of his knife.

“Help yourself,” he says.

“What is it?”

“Deer. Hunted yesterday,” Orson says.

“By you… as a bear?” I blurt out.

“Yup.” He puffs his chest out.

I blink. Guess I shouldn’t be so shocked. I mean, how else would they hunt their meat than with their gigantic grizzly fangs?

The three of them are watching me.

Gunnar hasn’t sat down yet.

He’s leaning against the counter, arms folded, his gaze moving between the pan and me.

Finally, he pushes away from the counter and crosses the room.

Orson stops twirling the knife between his fingers. Torin shifts back in his chair.

Gunnar drops into the chair at the head of the table.

“Thanks for joining us,” Torin quips.

Gunnar grunts in response.

I hesitate, sensing them waiting.

Then I reach for the serving fork and spear a piece of the meat.

I blow on it and take a bite. I don’t even wait for it to cool properly. I close my eyes for a second.

When I open them again, Torin is looking at me expectantly.

“That good?”

“Yup.”

“Don’t have to sound so surprised,” he says.