Page 57 of Staying for You

“I imagine you do,” she murmurs, mixing together the cheese and tomatoes in a glass dish then popping it into the microwave. I turn back to the stove to start browning the hamburger and she hands me the little packet of taco seasoning mix to use when it’s ready. I check the noodles and they’re almost ready so I point to where the strainer is and she gets it ready, putting it in the sink.

The hamburger is browning nicely and the noodles are finished cooking so we swap places. I drain them and start mixing them with the cheese while she works on the taco meat and dip.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I don’t have any of the other things that make tacos. No tortilla shells or tomatoes or lettuce. Looks like we’ll be mixing it with the dip after all.

Lucky for us, the meal comes together quickly and we’re loading up our plates and bowls. She layers chips on the bottom of a plate then spoons dip over as well as some taco meat then repeats on a second plate while I dish up bowls of macaroni and cheese.

“We’re about to feast on about two thousand calories.”

She waggles her eyebrows. “I have a few ideas of how to burn them off.”

Man she’s cute.

“Yeah, me, too.”

After setting our food down on the coffee table, I grab us each a can of Coke and we settle on the couch instead of at the table. I turn on the TV for some background noise and we dig in. Neither of us talking much while we’re eating and watching an old sitcom. Laughing lightly and moaning at the simple but delicious tastes we made together.

“You’re right.”

“I know.”

I chuckle. “Do you want to know what you’re right about?”

“Because of the taco meat and dip?”

“Right. It’s delicious. I can’t believe I never thought of mixing that together before.”

“Well, thank goodness I came along, huh?” She pops another chip into her mouth and crunches away.

“Tell me about Mr. Eight Years.”

She groans. “Ugh, really?”

“If you don’t want to, no.”

She waves me off, wiping her hands and mouth with the paper towel that was sitting on her lap. Her plate is clean, bowl empty, and can of soda empty. She kicks up her feet, crossing them at the ankles.

“Scott.” She pauses, looking at the fireplace that’s not burning any wood at the moment. We were a little preoccupied earlier and even though I normally would have started one, especially with the way the snow is continuing to come down, there’s no way I’m going to stop her from continuing.

She changes her mind for me, though, when she asks, “Can we light it? You said you’d show me how to start a fire, right?”

“I thought that’s what I did earlier,” I tease, getting up and gathering our dishes.

Cami’s laughter fills the air between us and she stands with me. We quickly load the dishwasher, store away the leftovers in the fridge, and fill a couple glasses of water then return to the living room.

I gather some wood from the rack and clean up the ashes before stacking the wood. She’s watching me closely, asking questions and paying attention to how the wood is placed and where I add the kindling. I’ve started a million fires so it ignites quickly, the flames taking control of the wood. With the TV turned low, the lights minimal, and the wind whipping loudly, the fire adds a romantic aspect to the evening.

We sit back on the couch and I turn the TV to a music station that plays old school country music. It feels like we should be sipping on whiskey or wine instead of water.

“Want a drink? Something other than water, I mean?”

“What do you have?”

I chuckle. “About anything. My brother-in-law, Ethan, owns his own bar and Rex used to work for him. They travel with booze when they visit.”

“Whiskey?”

“You got it.”

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