“You two really do look alike,” I blurt out.
He snorts. “Yeah, I’ve heard that a time or two.”
I think there might be an edge of bitterness to his reply, but I don’t know him well enough to be certain.
“I’ll just get to work on making dinner,” I say before I move toward the pantry. It’s bigger than I thought, with cabinets against the bottom and shelves lining above them. There are all kinds of ingredients stuffed in bottles and sacks, and what looks to be strips of jerky hanging on a drying rack.
I circle the room, trying to come up with an idea for something I could make. But then I remember that I don’t actually know how to make anything.
“Dammit,” I murmur under my breath. I was in such a hurry to escape conversation that I didn’t really think about the follow-through. But how hard could it be?
Squinting at the labels on the different containers, I finally find rice and dried peas, along with some eggs. That’s a good meal, right?
Right.
I grab the ingredients and head out, but when I eye a bottle of wine on the cabinet just in front of the door, I swipe that too.
I’m going to need it.
Once I come back into the kitchen, Ryatt is gone, and I let out a breath of relief that I can just have a moment alone. A moment where I don’t have to pretend, don’t have to talk.
Placing everything on the counter, I eye the spices on the shelves above, but none of them are labeled, and I don’t recognize a single one.
“Want some help?”
I flinch at Judd’s voice, pasting a smile back on my face before I turn around. “No, thank you. I’ve got it.”
His hazel eyes watch me for a moment before he nods and ducks back out of the room. More murmurings erupt in the living room, and I can hear Slade’s rumbling tone cutting through right before Lu’s softer voice says, “Just give her some time.”
Yes. Time. That’s exactly what I need. The more time I can have, the better.
I spend the next hour running around the kitchen, trying to make something edible.
It’s not going well.
Bright side though, the wine is fantastic. Not only does it taste great, but it’s taking off the edge. And when I’m nothing but edges and sharp points, where one stray thought is all it would take to make me ram against one and burst, I could use a little dulling.
By the time I plop bowls down onto the table, the kitchen is filled with steam and smoke, and I’m a little drunk.
It’s lovely.
“Dinner’s ready!” I shout.
Everyone comes in. Quickly. As if they were all standing just outside the doorway. Everyone takes a seat except for Slade, who pulls out one of the benches for two and waits for me to sit.
Giving him a smile, I take a seat, and then he lowers himself next to me. Our thighs touch, which seems like such a silly thing to focus on, considering we’ve done much more intimate things than touch thighs, but my stomach flutters anyway.
“So,” Judd says, rubbing his hands together in front of him. “What’s on the menu?”
I reach over and pluck up the lid to the serving bowl with a smile. “Rice!”
All four sets of eyes stare down at the contents. After a moment of silence, Lu says, “Why is it green?”
“Oh, that’s the peas. They sort of melted.”
Stirring it with a spoon, it slops together, stickier than honey. I start scooping it up and serving a spoonful on everyone’s plates, but when I try to give Ryatt a third heaping, he holds up a hand. “That’s good.”
With a nod, I uncover the half a dozen eggs next, but there’s a bit of a smell.
Judd wrinkles his nose. “What kind of spices did you put in that?”
“I have no idea,” I answer honestly before I spoon some onto his plate.
After I’ve served everybody, including myself, I lift my fork but notice no one else has. As soon as they see me looking around expectantly, Slade clears his throat pointedly. Everyone picks up their forks very quickly after that. Then, with Slade being the first, they each scoop up some rice and take a bite.
Smiling, I follow suit.
Regret. Instant, immediate, firm—nope, mushy—mushy regret.
“Oh goddess,” I say around a huge bite of the sticky slush, because it’s bad. Really bad.
It doesn’t really resemble rice. It’s more like overcooked porridge. The spices I put in it are at war with each other, and somehow, there are parts that are absolutely boiling hot, and others that are stone cold, with little stiff grains that seem like they weren’t boiled at all. Somehow, I manage to swallow down the bite.