Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
I pull out my knife and get started on the vegetables. Cooking is something I enjoy, though I haven’t done it much lately. Not at home. But thinking of home and all the reasons I’ve preferred to eat at restaurants the past year and a half—to be anywhere but home the past eighteen months—makes my stomach fill with lead. Because this time in Harris’s cabin is a godsend…but these two weeks won’t last forever. Real life will intrude again. The voices of my mom and sister will intrude again, and they’ll tell me I’m not making the minestrone right (as if there’s one right way to make it), that I’m making too much (as if there’s no such thing as leftovers), and that next time we should all agree on what to eat together (as if my vote would even matter.)
I won’t think of them, though. Not now. I won’t think of what awaits me when I return home. I’ll just enjoy my time here, because even with a concussed Reed Knowles taking up a good portion of the air in this cabin, he’s been less terrible than spending five minutes in their company is.
To be fair, though, he’s been sleeping most of that time. He’s just as horrible—or worse—when he’s conscious. And, god help me, when he’s talking.
He actually admitted to being glad that my mom’s house was bulldozed. That he went to watch it happen. Admitted it. And waved off the underhanded way his dad got his hands on the property. It’s no surprise the Knowles men are trash. But for fuck’s sake. Reed had to realize that was also my childhood home. It doesn’t matter that I got out of there the second I turned eighteen. He couldn’t know that. So the indifferent manner of his admission was simply staggering.
Oh, and now my blood’s up. But I will not commit murder. I won’t.
But only because it’s Christmas. And hiding a body is not in my Yuletide plans.
I plonk bowls onto the table and yank a pair of crusty French rolls out of the oven (not baked by me; I enjoy cooking but my bread always has the density of a white dwarf star.) And, okay—the soup smells amazing, and the bread smells even more amazing—and somehow those two things take the sharpest edge off my anger.
This will be the best Christmas ever. It will. Even if only because of the food.
“Lunch is ready,” I announce. Then because I’m not a monster—unlike a certain abominable asshole with the last name of Knowles—I grab his chair from beside the bed and return it to the table.
Though awake, Reed still seems half out of it when he lurches out of the armchair to join me. His leg obviously pains him. His breath hisses each time he puts weight on it—which he barely does. And though stubble covers most of his jaw, the rest of his face is flushed. At first I thought it was either from the effort of crossing the cabin or the heat from sitting in front of the fire, but even after he eases into his seat at the table, his cheekbones retain a reddish hue. Then there’s his hand, which trembles slightly while bringing the spoon to his lips.
He takes a bite and his gaze lifts to mine. I brace myself for whatever shit he’s about to say.
“That’s damn good.”
Well, well, well. Christmas miracle number two. Three, if I count his mumbled tit-tiddler apology.
But I don’t think I’ll count that. As apologies go, it wasn’t much of one.
I’ll be polite, though. “Thank you.” Asshole.
“Thank you. I know you don’t have to. And don’t want to.” He glances toward the fridge while I’m still fighting the urge to declare how very much I don’t want to. “Do you have enough food for both of us, however long this snow lasts?”
Does he think I wouldn’t have enough sense to ration if I didn’t have enough? Is the big man with the ouchy leg going to take charge here?
Eyes narrowed, I ask, “What are you going to do if I don’t?”
“Go out and hunt a bear.”
I stare at him. He can’t be serious. But it’s hard to tell. He doesn’t return my stare. Instead he’s calmly looking down at his bowl, tearing a bite from the roll and dipping it into his soup.
Maybe he is serious? His tone was even, as if hunting a bear was a completely normal thing to do. And he did whack his head pretty hard.
“A bear,” I finally echo, keeping my tone as even as his was. “With what weapon, I wonder? Will you whittle a spear?”
“I’ll just do it with my bare hands.”
No. He did not just make that joke. I regard him in horror. There was no emphasis on bare and yet…his expression is bland, too bland. Then his mouth kicks up at one corner. God help me. He knew it was terrible, but he did it anyway.