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14
I decided on the shower. I hadn’t bathed since leaving Vegas, and over 24 hours of tears and travel had left me feeling grimy and blah.
It was heavenly. Even though we were out in the middle of nowhere, Ryan hadn’t skimped on a hot water heater during the remodel.
Afterwards I put on one of my few clean outfits and padded out to the kitchen, my hair still damp, my face free of makeup.
Ryan wore a new pair of jeans and a white, long sleeve shirt. He was already busy at the stove, presiding over a steaming skillet. Delicious aromas competed in the air, including what smelled like a baking pie.
He looked over and saw me. “You look nice.”
I touched my hair unconsciously, until I realized I was doing it. “I look terrible.”
“Terribly nice,” he grinned, then said, “I’m just whipping up something simple. You okay with chicken stir fry, maybe some apple pie for dessert?”
“That’s great – but how do you have any food? When was the last time you were here?”
“When I called, Mrs. MacCruder stocked the fridge for me. And, I cannot tell a lie, she’s the one that brought over the pie. I’m just heating it up.”
“Thank God for Mrs. MacCruder, then.”
“Amen. You like white or red wine?”
“Well, you’re fixing chicken, right? So we should do white?”
“We can do whatever you want.”
“…then red.”
“Red it is. Strong or velvety?”
“Oooh, velvety sounds nice.”
He walked over to a fancy, free-standing cabinet and opened it up. Dozens of bottles lay in wooden racks inside. He traced his finger down a couple, then selected one, pulled it out, looked at it, decided yes.
“Damn, Ryan, you’ve got a nice little selection there.”
“This is just the tip of the iceberg. You should see the wine cellar.”
“You have a wine cellar?!”
“Gotta have something to do on long winter nights. Drinking’s as good as any.”
He pulled out a couple of beautiful wine glasses and poured a generous portion into each.
I sniffed it and sipped.
Exquisite. Soft and just slightly sweet, with so many subtle flavors.
“Oh my GOD that’s good,” I sighed.
“Glad you like it,” he grinned, then turned off the stove and spooned out our dinner from the skillet: chunks of chicken breast with slivers of carrot, broccoli, asparagus, mushrooms, cabbage, celery, and sprouts.
“Smells wonderful,” I said.
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
“This isn’t cooking, really… but yeah, I enjoy it. I used to cook for everybody back when we lived in the crack house in Athens.”
My heart hurt a tiny bit as I thought of Derek living there, but I got past it. “You cooked for the band?”
“Yeah. No one else was going to do it. If you gave Killian a choice, he’d just live on mary jane and whatever he could grab when he had the munchies. And Riley would be fine with hot dogs and Jack Daniels.”
