Page 35 of Absinthe Dreams
“Yeah?” he asked, handing me a bag of bagels.
“Yeah. I think I really needed it. I didn’t realize how hard I’ve been cooping myself up.”
“Happy to help,” he said.
“I’m off tomorrow, but I work the next two days after that,” I said.
“Not a problem,” he said. “I pretty much make my own schedule unless a storm hits and knocks out power somewhere. I get a list of shit that needs to be handled and a timeframe within which to handle it, but working around your schedule should be no problem. If it is, I’ll get one of the guys to help out by getting you home for me if it should come to it.”
“Okay.” I smiled. “I’m kind of a crockpot queen when I work. I dump things in and delay the start, and when I get home, there’s food. Is that alright?”
“More than,” he said. “Slow cookers are man’s best friend in the summer months in the South.”
“Oh, I know, right? I use it more than I use my stove. My mom got one for me as a graduation present when I graduated high school and I just love the thing. Most of the shit I bought today is going into freezer bags as dump-and-go meals for the week. Only time I generallycookis if it’s something stupid easy. And if the shift was just too damn much, that’s what the pot pies are for.”
He chuckled and said, “No, I get it, I’m right there with you. Speaking of weather, you good if I turn on the local news for the report? Helps to know if I’m in for it in the next few days.”
“Absolutely, of course. I mostly stream, but I think there’s a way to get local news on the TV. You may have to hunt for it, though.”
“I got you.” He retreated from the kitchen and went into the living room, settling into the wing-backed chair that he’d stashed his gym bag under.
“I’m going to get dinner started,” I said. “Let it take its time if that’s okay.”
“All good, it’s whatever you want and need to do.”
“Thanks,” I murmured and got comfortable, slipping out of my jacket and taking it into my bedroom to hang it up. While I had the closet door open, I took off my boots and returned them to their proper place, too.
My feet sighed with relief at the plush carpet beneath them. My socks I ditched in the hamper for dirty clothes.
It was good to be home, and I was strangely comfortable in my domesticity.
“You good if I take a shower?” he asked when I returned to the living space.
“By all means,” I said. “Help yourself.”
“K, thanks, just making sure you didn’t need to go before I got in there.”
“Actually, now that you mention it…” I laughed and went in to use the bathroom really quick. There was nothing worse than discovering you had to pee onlyafterthe water started running and you were stuck in the position of having to wait and hold it until the only bathroom in the place opened back up.
I washed my hands and returned. He slid past me with an armload of clothes and bath stuff into the small space.
“Thanks,” he said, and I nodded.
By the time he came back out, dinner was going in the oven, and I was curled up on the couch watchingMurder on the Orient Expresswith its all-star cast. I thoroughly enjoyed Kenneth Branagh’s take on the classic character of Poirot. I’d loved Agatha Christie’s books in high school, and they remained my comfort reads throughout college.
When Chainsaw appeared, I felt my breath catch in my throat. He was in just a pair of loose cargo shorts, zipped, but not buttoned, andholy shit –he mostdefinitelydidn’t look likeanyof my uncles.
I blinked owlishly at him, and he chuckled.
“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” he asked, and stuffed the clothes he’d been wearing into a rough ball, dropping them beside the couch.
“Nope,” I said.
“Problem?” he asked, and he took a seat on the other end of my couch from me, lifting the towel that was around his shoulders to rub it over his still-wet hair.
“None at all,” I said, and I fully admit, it took more effort than it should have to tear my eyes off him. Once I’d pulled that off, I resolutely glued them to the television screen.
“Good movie,” he said.
