Then I met Becca.
Becca, who’s now chattering excitedly as we eat our chicken quesadillas. She’s describing how I could offer the option of beef or salmon too. About how she’d change the seasonings and offer an alternate dipping sauce for each. Horseradish for the steak, she decides. Capers and fresh dill for the salmon, she tells me.
One night with her turned into two, and now it’s turning into three. Once the rain has stopped, she’ll probably head back to wherever she normally spends her nights.
To be completely honest, I’m not looking forward to her leaving.
But she will. The sun is expected to come out and put us under a thick blanket of humidity by tomorrow morning.
Becca takes another hearty bite of her quesadilla, lifting a string of cheese off her chin and sucking it off her thumb.
She’s fucking adorable.
Her choppy blond hair adds to her spunk, but it’s not the source. She slid out of that bedroom in a baggy pair of white pajama bottoms covered in little cartoon wine glasses, her tight white shirt leaving nothing to the imagination. Makeup free, her golden skin is smooth and beautiful.
She’s not the least bit concerned about eating in front of me or being naked with me or talking about anything we’ve done or if we’ll do it again. She’s nothing short of incredible—and unlike any woman I’ve been with before.
My last girlfriend and I imploded a year and a half ago. I’d purchased my second bar by then—Chaplan’s—and kept myself as busy as I could so I didn’t have to think about Courtney leaving me at the same time I was running two businesses and hiring new employees.
Court left, saying I didn’t value her, whatever the hell that meant. She said I didn’t share enough, that I never opened up. She then piled on how I didn’t take her seriously, which was as confounding and hard to grasp as every other reason she’d listed.
Until a photo popped up online a few weeks later, and then it all made sense. She was standing at a state park with an engagement ring on her finger, her arms wrapped around another guy.
I’m not sure if he “takes her seriously” or “values her,” but I’m guessing the main reason she left me wasn’t my inability to be who she needed. She’d found someone else. Courtney and I dated for a hair short of two years, so yeah, her bailing was a blow.
Becca’s hand lands on mine and I jerk my attention to her.
“What’s up?” she asks gently.
“Nothing, why?”
“You got really quiet.” She wrinkles her nose. “Am I boring you by talking about food?”
“No. I’m just...” I recall our agreement not to talk about our pasts. I understand why she laid that rule out. The past can be fucking depressing. “I was thinking about how you have all these ideas and nowhere to use them. Until now. You’re hired.”
She laughs as she clears our plates instead of staying with me. “I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be flattered. Be hired. I was serious about paying you. You can be my chef consultant. My consulting chef.”
“Is that even a thing?”
“Could be.” I shrug. “Why not?”
“Um. Because I’m not a professional?” she continues arguing.
“Doesn’t mean you’re not valuable.”
For the second time, I watch as her chest puffs with pride. Does no one compliment this woman? I stand and cross the room. When I reach her at the sink, I sift my fingers through her short hair and appreciate how tall she is.
“You’re talented in the kitchen, Becca.”
“And in the bedroom?” she quips.
“Well, yes, but I was trying to give you a compliment outside of great sex.”
She loops her arms around my neck, leaning against me for a kiss that could spiral out of control really fast. She doesn’t let it, pulling back and gazing up at me instead.
“Speaking of bedrooms, how’s your bed?” I ask.
“My bed?” Her eyebrows rise. “Fine. How’s yours?”
“Bigger than yours.”
“You’re bigger than me, so that only seems fair.”
“There’s room for you in it.” It’s a blatant invitation and one I’m not sure she’ll accept. Becca has a bunch of strange boundaries I haven’t quite figured out yet. “There’s a rule, though.”
“Just one?”
I pull her closer, lacing my fingers at her back. I like her in the circle of my arms.
“Let me guess.” She tightens her hold at the back of my neck. “I’m not allowed to wear clothes.”
“If you’re as good a psychic as you are a cook, you should start working the fairs.”
“Ohh.” Her eyes pop wide. “A career to fall back on.”
I match her smile with one of my own.
She takes my hand and leads me to the living room. “I demand we watch television before we disrobe and climb into bed together. Think of it as a date.”
“A date?” I allow her to tow me to the couch. I don’t mind sharing a cushion with her in the slightest, but a date? After we had sex on this very piece of furniture?
“Sure, why not?”
I can’t think of a single reason why not, so I sit. She sits too, leaning against me, remote in hand.
She flips through what feels like a thousand channels, lingering on each one for about two seconds before flipping to another. Until she lands on the Cooking Channel. She sends me a questioning gaze.
I answer by taking the remote from her, tossing it on the coffee table, and tucking her closer. We watch Giada De Laurentiis work her magic.
Me? I don’t believe in magic. But I don’t believe in coincidence either.
The woman who smells sweet like sugar lying delicately against me isn’t a coincidence. “Fate” isn’t the right word either, but I don’t believe it was an accident that I ended up trapped on the same mountain—in the same cabin—with Becca this weekend.
MONDAY MORNING
Becca
Dax’s bed isn’t only bigger. It’s better. The one in the other room has a notable sag in the center. I make a mental note to talk to Tad about upgrading the mattress in there.
I stretch and the sheet slides over my bare breasts, startling me. I don’t sleep naked—I’ve always had roommates and now I live with my brother—but when I move out on my own, maybe I should start. Then again, given how frisky I feel, maybe I shouldn’t start. Waking up nude and not next to someone doesn’t sound as fun.
I roll over to greet my bedmate, but it looks like I woke up by myself after all. Dax isn’t in bed, and after I check my phone I understand why. It’s after eleven. I’m not an early riser by any stretch of the imagination, but I never sleep this late.
I pull on last night’s jammies and walk to the kitchen to find the coffeemaker off, a few inches of cooled brew in the bottom of the pot.
“Dax?” I squint in the sunlight streaming in through the blinds. Last night while we watched TV, the rain stopped. No storms meant my first full night of sleep since they started.
In the middle of pouring out the cold coffee in the carafe and scooping grounds into the basket so I can make a fresh pot, I hear the unmistakable buzz of a chainsaw. I leave the kitchen and walk to the front door. Then I pause in the doorway, leaning on the frame, arms crossed over my chest.