Page 77 of Awaiting the Storm
“Good.” I tap the steering wheel. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I wanted to cook for you.”
She gives me a skeptical look. “You can actually cook?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve just never met a cowboy who didn’t think cooking meant tossing a steak on the grill and calling it a night.”
I feign offense. “I’ll have you know, I have been cooking for myself for a very long time.”
She smirks. “Is that right?”
“You’ll see.”
We make it to my cabin just past eight. I unlock the door and let her in ahead of me. I click on the lamp as we enter, and the soft yellow glow makes the place feel warmer than usual. I’m glad I took the time to straighten the place up before I left for Jackson. Dishes washed, floors swept, laundry out of sight.
“Make yourself at home,” I tell her, heading into the kitchen.
She drops her bag beside the couch and follows me, leaning against the counter as I grab a skillet.
“Cast iron. You mean business,” she notes.
“Course I do.”
She raises a brow. “I honestly didn’t know what to expect. A frozen pizza maybe.”
I laugh as I bend and give her a quick kiss. “Not a chance.”
I start throwing ingredients together—chopped mushrooms, cabbage, red onion, garlic, bell peppers, and seasoned chicken thighs. They go into the skillet to sear while I open a bottle of wine and pour her a glass.
She sips it slowly. “That smells amazing.”
“Hopefully, it’ll taste amazing.”
Dinner takes about thirty minutes to finish cooking, and I plate everything neatly, adding a drizzle of sauce I prepared. We sit at the small table near the window, where the moon is visible over the treetops.
She takes one bite and closes her eyes. “Mmm,” she moans. “Fine. You win.”
“Damn. I’d cook for you every night just to hear you moan like that.”
Her eyes open and lock with mine.
“Stop looking at me like that and eat, Miss Storm. You’re gonna need your energy.”
A small gasp escapes her at my declaration, but she recovers quickly and digs back in.
The rest of the meal passes in an easy rhythm—bites and laughter and low conversation. When we’re done, I clear the plates, insisting she relax. She tries to argue, but eventually gives up and takes her bag into the bathroom.
While she freshens up, I stack wood into the woodstove and light a fire. Then I return to the kitchen and start to wash our dishes.
When she emerges a few moments later, she’s in nothing but my shirt.
She walks over to the counter to grab the open bottle of wine to refill her glass, brushing against my side.
“I’ll be on the couch,” she says, her voice low.
I finish quickly, deciding to just leave the dishes to soak untilmorning. I find her curled up with her knees tucked under her, wineglass dangling from her hand.
I sit beside her, arm across the back of the couch, and she leans into me without hesitation. My fingers drift into her hair, slow and unhurried.
