Cabin Fever(52)
“Six. You slept for ten hours.”
“I guess the snowplow didn’t come.” I look out at the white expanse beyond the windows. The last bit of light exposes the snow-covered everything. Only a few branches are showing through.
“Nope. Probably tomorrow, though.”
I sit down at the kitchen island and try to see what he’s up to.
“You feel like eating spaghetti?” he asks.
“Yes.” I frown at the stovetop. “Is that a frying pan?”
“Yep.”
“Are you frying the spaghetti?”
“No, just the bread.”
He flips the buttered slice onto a plate and shows it to me. “Garlic bread, Oliver style.”
I lift it from the plate and take a bite. “Nice,” I say, my mouth full of garlicky goodness.
“I do it diner-style, basically. Like it was done on a griddle.”
“I’ll bet you’re good with a pancake,” I say, before I realize it sounds like flirting again.
“You don’t even want to know. Pancakes are my specialty. You’ll gain five pounds in one meal.”
I look down at my stomach, regretting the fact that I probably shouldn’t indulge in these famous pancakes of his anytime soon. I’m pushing maximum density as it is.
“Not that I’m saying you can’t stand to gain a few pounds.” He’s looking at me, obviously concerned he’s said something he shouldn’t have.
I grin, not ready to let him off the hook yet. “Nice try.”
Ack! More flirting! I really need to stop.
“Seriously, you’re not fat. You’re thin. You’re beautiful, I promise.”
“Beautiful?” I look up at my bangs that I know are flying north, south, east and west.
“You’re suffering from a little bedhead, but that’s nothing a brush can’t fix, right?”
I act like I’m going to throw the rest of my bread at him and he ducks, but I don’t want to waste it. It is pretty good, this diner-style garlic bread. I drop the last bit on the floor for my faithful hound who’s sitting at my feet. He gobbles it up before it even hits the floor.
I’m supposed to be apologizing to Jeremy for my earlier mean-girl act, but now it feels like it would turn the atmosphere awkward, so I put that plan on hold.
What I really want to know is how he’s maintained such an amazing body when there’s no gym anywhere around here. His back is practically twice the width of mine and his arms are as big around as my thighs, well muscled with veins showing everywhere. But I know what kind of trouble that question would get me in, so I stay with the boring conversation topics.
“So, where’d you learn to cook spaghetti?” I ask, working hard at keeping the conversation going and on neutral, non-sexy ground.
“My wife. Laura. It was a family tradition. We used to do it every weekend, on Sunday. Everyone would come to our house and Laura would serve it up. My sister would bring the garlic bread and my brother would bring the wine.” Hearing him call Laura his wife, like she’s still alive, makes me sad again. And jealous. I want someone to feel that way about me. Someone who would want to keep my memory alive long after I’m gone. Laura was one lucky girl.
“Sounds awesome,” I say. I imagine doing weekly spaghetti dinners with a family, alongside a man I love. I could totally get into that scene. I picture Jeremy and Cassie and his siblings and my friend Leah.
When I realize I’m imagining myself as Jeremy’s plus-one, I quickly pull my head out of that fantasy and change the subject.
“So, what do you do for a living?”
He shrugs. “Not much.”
“How are you surviving out here if you don’t have a job?”
“I have money. Why?” He looks over his shoulder at me and grins. “You worried about me?”
“Maybe a little. I know your family tried to track you down and couldn’t find a trace anywhere.”
“That’s how I wanted it.”
“But you must be using credit cards or something.”
“Nope. Just cash. When I run out, I go back to Manhattan and pull some out. No big deal. I don’t live large or anything. The electricity bill is practically nothing, and I live on burgers and fries pretty much.”
“That’s horrible for your health.”
“Not something I cared about for a long time.”
“You said ‘Cared.’ Past tense?”
He shrugs but doesn’t answer.