Page 17 of Snowed In with Benefits

I haven’t touched it since.

Except, of course, that there’s a storeroom attached to the workshop where we keep dry goods in bulk. I know we’re out of dry peas in the kitchen. I could get down with some pea soup with ham hocks tomorrow, a nice cold-weather meal. I’d make it tonight, but I’m already hungry and tired and I want something quick and easy.

I gingerly pick my way across the workshop and into the storeroom. The smell of dried peppers, beans, and legumes fills my lungs as I take a long inhale.

It reminds me of the Mexican corner store I used to go to when I was a kid. The lady behind the counter always gave me and Beau popsicles in the summer, even when we didn’t have the money to pay for them. I think, somehow, she knew what we were dealing with. A couple of grubby kids, one with bruises, the other with a disarming smile.

I shake off the memory and grab some ingredients. Peas, carrots, peppers, herbs and spices, anything I can think of. The luxury of being able to make the food that I want when I want is something I haven’t stopped being grateful for.

With my arms loaded, I pick my way back across the workshop and clumsily open the door. I have to wrestle with my burden to get the door closed again behind me, but I make it happen. As I cross the living room, I can hear somebody moving around in the kitchen. That’s fine, I’m not planning to cook anything too involved, so I’m sure whoever it is can work around me.

Josie is at the counter chopping things. She’s wearing leggings and a light cardigan, something suited for a sixty-degree breeze, not a frigid winter. She’s got her slippers on and her hair up in a messy bun, looking positively domestic in the kitchen.

“Hey,” I greet her with a grin.

She jumps, startling like she thinks she’s not supposed to be here. She gives me a wild-eyed look and bites her unvarnished lip. God, she looks good without makeup.

“Oh! I’m sorry. I’ll be quick and get out of your hair.” She gives her cutting board a helpless glance, scrunching up her face a little.

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her, smiling in what I hope is a reassuring way. “There’s plenty of room in here for the two of us. Don’t rush it, food never tastes as good when it’s rushed.”

She relaxes slightly and gives me a small smile. I wonder what she looks like when she’s so happy she can’t contain herself. When she’s laughing so hard she can’t control her expression. I wonder what she looks like when she isn’t wrapped in anxiety. I’d like to see her that way.

I put away my ingredients for tomorrow’s dinner and give her a sidelong look, choosing my next words with precision.

“You don’t have to be nervous around here, you know,” I tell her carefully. “We’re all happy to give you whatever space you need to do whatever it is you like. Especially in the kitchen.”

She gives me a frown and I chuckle.

“I don’t mean that the way it sounded. The thing is, the kitchen is kind of my domain. I’m perfectly happy to share it with you whenever you like.”

“Oh,” she says, flushing. She’s cute when she does that. She’s kind of cute all the time, frankly, but there’s something about her bare face and messy hair that’s really getting to me tonight.

I open the fridge to find something decent and quick to eat, and settle on salmon. I grab a lemon, some butter, an onion, and the herbs that I brought in from the storeroom and set them all on the table. I chop what needs to be chopped, grate what needs grating, and spread what needs spreading. She finishes what she’s doing and wipes her hands off on a towel. I reach for a pan hanging from the wrought iron hanger on the ceiling. She’s doing the same, and we bump into each other.

“Oh! I’m sorry.” She blushes and backs away.

I grin at her. The inadvertent touch wasn’t anything close to unpleasant, and I’m glad my kitchen isn’t any bigger. “It’s all good. What do you need? I’ll grab it for you.” The pans are up a little high for her, anyway.

“Just a frying pan,” she tells me. I grab one for me and one for her, spinning it in my hand by the handle before offering it to her.

“Thank you.” She smiles at me and it makes me want to take the pan back just so I can give it back to her and make her smile at me again. I resist the urge, but barely. I’m not sure how she’d feel about that kind of flirting, especially now.

We awkwardly work around each other, her blushing the whole time, me grinning at the whole situation. Finally, we get our pans on adjacent burners on the stove. I turn up the heat and splash some water in to test it, and almost immediately my glasses fog up.

I pull them off and wipe them clean. As I’m putting them back on, I catch her looking at me. She blinks and looks away quickly. What was that about? I could ask her, or I could ask something more appropriate.

“What are you making?”

“A grilled cheese with extras. And a salad,” she tells me shyly. It’s almost like she’s embarrassed to be cooking at all.

“That sounds delicious.”

She laughs. “Oh, I doubt it. Preston used to tell me all the time how he wasn’t marrying me for my cooking skills.”

That makes me frown. “I sure hope not. A man should want to marry you for who you are, not how you cook. Or how you do anything else, for that matter.”

She blinks as if taken aback. What, that’s a surprise to her? I add onions to the pan, irritated at this Preston asshole. What else did he make her feel bad about?