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Food. More alcohol.
Then figuring out what in the fuck-all I’m going to do with my life while a certain hockey player sleeps it off.
A certain hockey player who’s pulling out ingredients and walking toward the stove.
Shit.
“I—”
His head whips toward me and the question just flies off my tongue.
“Do you want to look at my pictures?”
Twenty-Four
Lake
I scrollthrough the camera like she taught me, clicking through picture after picture.
Seeing confirmation of what I already knew.
She’s supremely talented.
And someone was stupid enough to fire her.
I set the camera to the side, looking at her at the stove, watching the way she mouths the lines to the cheesy Christmas movie she put on a few minutes ago, whatever she’s cooking making my mouth water.
Spicy and rich.
Bright and tart.
I don’t know what she’s making. I’m just ready to eat it.
“Santa! Oh, my God!” she fake screams as she stirs the pot. “I know him. I know him!”
My mouth curves, thinking of my last Christmas. We had a team party and though most of the guys hadn’t shown, enough had been around to see Knox dressed up in an adult-sized elf costume.
He hadn’t managed to get any of us to sing Christmas carols with him, though.
I set the camera on the counter, round the island, and move to Nova’s side, drawn like an idiotic moth to the flames, ready to burn up, happy so long as I’m in the light.
“Why did you get fired?”
She startles, spoon jerking, hot liquid from the pot splashing up and hitting her hand. “Shit,” she hisses, but I’m already moving, taking the wooden spoon from her hand, drawing her over to the sink, turning on the cold water.
“Sorry,” I say, running my thumb over the reddened spot on the inside of her wrist.
A shrug. “Not the first time or the last I’ve been involved in a kitchen emergency.”
“Yeah, I remember the butter.”
Her mouth screws up. “That was Steve’s fault. The only thing I usually burn is the bread.”
I pick up one of the freshly washed dish towels and carefully pat her hand dry, inspecting the burn, trying to decide if it needs some antibiotic cream and a bandage.
“It’s fine,” she says softly, drawing away, going back to the pot and spoon and stirring what I now saw was some sort of thick, creamy soup. “But, speaking of bread”—she moves to the oven, opens the door—“it’s time for it to come out.”
She snags the towel, grabs the sheet pan, and my mouth waters when I see the loaf of bread has been sliced and slathered with butter and herbs and is now toasted to golden brownness.
