Page 96 of Dream Chaser
“Fucking cold out here,” Oz grumbles, zipping up his coat.
“We play in colder weather than this.” Hart chuckles.
Oz shivers. “I’m already dialed into the off-season.”
Iz and Lo walk out, one with a tray and one with pot.
“I really think you should let us take the crab legs inside and boil them,” Lo states as she holds it out.
“Then her whole place will smell like crab,” I remind her.
“You do get they’re coming inside, right?” she asks.
“With a lot less stank.” I snap the tongs at her.
“Looks good,” Iz says.
“Best steak you’ll ever have,” I say in the best nonsexual way I can, which isn’t easy for me, at fucking all. Not now. Not with her.
It’s not lost on me that everyone is quiet, and it’s also not lost on me that she hasn’t noticed.
I lean back, take in the old carriage house with its wide doors, exposed rafters, and lofted storage. “What do you see this place turning into?”
She shrugs, but I catch the flicker of something in her eyes—big ideas always brewing behind them. “Maybe a studio. Maybe a farmstand.”
I point toward the upper loft. “Could be apartments. Or townhouses. You’ve got enough space to build out.”
She looks inside, eyes smiling. “It would take a year to declutter. Probably a century’s worth of?—”
“Junk?” Oz asks.
She elbows him. “Treasures.” She looks at me. “You have a time guestimate?”
“Thirty minutes.”
The table looks like something straight out of Grand’sCountry Home Magazines,but better—because it’s real. Candles flicker in mismatched holders, the table runner’s a swath of hand-cut linen, slightly frayed at the edges, like it’s got a story to tell. Plates are cool as hell in the way they’re old as hell and still being used. There are dishes—some with covers, some without—filled with roasted veggies, a crisp green salad drizzled with something that smells like lemon and herbs, salted potatoes piled high and still steaming, crusty bread torn into pieces with little shallow bowls of butter scattered between bottles of wine and carafes of water.
Oz leans over my shoulder. “Pretty sure if I even look at another carb after this meal, I’m gonna need compression socks for my flight.”
I sit down across from Iz. “Worth it.”
“Can we get a blood sugar monitor for the table?” Hart asks, eyeing the bread.
Grimes shrugs and grabs three rolls. “Bulk season.”
Hudson chuckles. “You used to say that at Lincoln every time you were near carbs and emotionally unstable.”
Lo snorts. “Welcome to the carbocalypse, gentlemen. Bread’s fresh, potatoes are salted, salad’s optional. You’re welcome.”
“Tell me again why we’re not eating like this every day?” I mutter.
“Because this was made by women whoactuallygive a damn about flavor,” Boone states.
“I feel attacked, since all of you eat at the brewery three or four days a week.” Riley pouts.
Iz points a fork at her. “Let Skinner off the hook; he specifically mentioned the brewery to that food influencer on Fan Appreciation Day. He loves your food, Riley Mae.”
Silence. She feels it.
