Page 19 of Challenged By the Ex-Military Lumberjack
She laughs, and the sound fills the cabin in a way that feels foreign and familiar at the same time. I can't remember the last time someone laughed in here. Can't remember the last time this place felt like anything other than a place to sleep and eat and wait for the next day.
Ridge's tail thumps against the floor.
"He really does like you," I say, looking at the dog.
"I like him too. He's a good boy." She scratches behind his ears, and Ridge leans into it like she's performing some kind of magic. "How long have you had him?"
"Three years. He just showed up one day. Wouldn't leave."
"Smart dog. He knew a good thing when he saw it."
I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything. The rain is starting to ease up. Not by much, but enough that I can hear the individual drops instead of just a constant roar.
She notices too. "Sounds like it's slowing down."
"Yeah."
"I should probably get going soon. Let you have your space back."
She should. That's exactly what should happen. She should leave, and I should go back to the way things were before she showed up at the hardware store with her questions, her smile, and her complete inability to take a hint.
But I don't want her to leave yet. When's the last time I wanted someone to stay? When's the last time I sat with another person and didn't feel like I needed to escape?
I can't remember.
"The road's going to be bad for a while," I say. "Even after the rain stops. Mud takes time to settle."
"Are you saying I should wait longer?"
"I'm saying you shouldn't risk it if you don't have to."
"Okay." She settles back against the couch behind her, pulling Ridge closer. "I'll wait."
I look at her, sitting there in my too-big clothes with my dog pressed against her side, and I make a decision that's probably going to bite me in the ass later.
"If you're staying," I say, "we might as well try that lasagna."
She blinks. "Really?"
"You drove all the way out here with it. And you said you wanted to know if it's any good."
"I did say that." She pushes herself up off the floor, Ridge moving with her. "Okay. But don't say I didn't warn you."
I stand and head to the kitchen, grabbing the pan from the table. It's still slightly warm, which is something. I pull out two plates from the cabinet, plain white, nothing fancy, and cut into the lasagna.
It looks good, I'll give her that. Layers of pasta and cheese and what smells like Italian sausage. She comes to stand beside me, watching as I dish out two portions.
"Moment of truth," she says.
I hand her a plate and a fork, then grab my own. We move back to the living room, and I sit on the couch this time instead of the floor. She hesitates for just a second, then sits down beside me, leaving that same distance between us.
I take a bite.
It's—
Not great.
The pasta is slightly overcooked. The sauce is underseasoned. And there's something off about the cheese ratio, like maybe she used mozzarella where she should've used ricotta, or vice versa.
