I have to work to hold my features steady and not smile as I give her a nod of agreement.
“So.” She reaches into the basket, and I stare down her shirt as it gapes open. “I have ginger ale, cough drops, these fizzy tablets you can put in a glass of water—” She sets the items down on the table as she names them. “I brought my favorite tea, stuff to make a hot toddy, and soup.”
I pull my gaze away from her tits to see her plunk down a frosty block of something next to the bottle of whiskey.
“The soup is still frozen,” she rattles on. “But if you don’t mind me in your kitchen, I can heat it up for you.”
I lean forward and pick up the cold plastic. “What kind?” I scratch the words out.
“Italian wedding. It’s homemade. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I like to make food.” She gives me a smile that’s so vulnerable and happy I let the edges of my mouth tip up the smallest bit.
“I’ve noticed.”
My voice cracks, and her smile pulls into a grimace. “Okay, that’s enough talking.” She takes the soup from my hands, then scoops up the whiskey, lemon, and honey until her arms are full. “I’ll get the soup started. You rest.”
I should really stop her.
For her sake. For my tastebuds’ sake.
But instead, I crack open the can of ginger ale and prepare myself for what should be an interesting Saturday night.
CHAPTER 19
Cassie
I bite my cheek to stop myself from squealing.
I’m in Hans’s kitchen.
Like his living room, it’s not flashy. The counters form a U along the side of the room closest to the road, and at the back of the kitchen, under a window showing the backyard, is a small dining table.
It’s remarkably clean. Not even a pile of mail on the table. And, not for the first time, I wonder if Hans is in the military. Or if he was.
Not the time, Cassie. Focus.
I debate for a second but decide that the stovetop is the best way to go for heating up the soup. I could try to do it all in the microwave, but it’s frozen solid and the stove just seems easier. Then I can use the microwave to heat water for the toddies. Because I’m having one too.
It doesn’t take long to find a pot with a lid in the cabinet next to the stove. I have to run hot water over the outside of the Tupperware, but then it only takes a little shaking and squeezing to slide the frozen block of soup into the pot.
I set the lid in place and turn the burner to medium heat, then turn my attention to the drinks.
There was a large glass measuring cup next to the pots, so I fill it with a couple cups of water and put it in the microwave.
The appliance hums to life, and I start to look for utensils.
The first drawer I pull open has hand towels. The next has takeout menus and mini packets of soy sauce and hot mustard. I’ve never seen him get food delivery, but apparently Hans likes Chinese food. Not that that’s a revelation. Who doesn’t?
I pull open the next drawer over and pause.
It’s filled with knives. Probably a dozen of them, all perfectly nestled in a layer of foam.
They don’t look like any of the knife sets I’ve seen before. They’re thinner, like the ones I’ve seen people use to slice up fish, and they’re a dull black, but they look expensive.
Maybe Hans is a chef too.
I take out the smallest one, needing it to slice the lemon, then move on to the next drawer and finally find what I’m looking for.
As the soup heats, I take the hot water out of the microwave and pour it into two mugs I found in an upper cupboard.
The mugs were next to matching white plates and bowls that clearly came together as a set. Another staple of bachelor life.
I add the honey to the hot water first so it can dissolve, then pour in the whiskey, a squeeze of lemon, and a shake of cinnamon.
I take a sip from one of the mugs and hum my approval.
Hot toddies are delicious and not just for sore throats. They’re also good for giving you courage when you’re inside your hot neighbor’s home.
I let my gaze rove over the kitchen again.
There’s something about this place that makes it feel like a rental or a cabin. It has the energy of a place that no one really lives in full time. The single set of dishes. The lack of clutter or art or decorations.
But I know Hans lives here. Sometimes it seems like he’s gone for days at a time, but he’s not gone enough for this to be anything other than his primary residence. He’s probably just traveling for work. And now that he’s acknowledging my existence, I should probably ask him what he does for a living.