Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 61868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
“I’ll have a coffee.” My gaze roots her to the spot, but I jerk my head, and she immediately scuttles off. Perhaps we’re beginning to understand each other.
Finn stiffens in my periphery; he disapproves of my tone. Too bad. It’s a firm message.
Both he and West are clean, fresh, and ready for something. The atmosphere is relaxed, and I’m here disturbing the peace.
West raises his bulk from the table and slaps me across the shoulder in an attempt at camaraderie. I straighten myself up, but my eyes travel back to Skye.
“I haven’t got all day!” Growling, I fail to keep a lid on my brewing frustration.
I’m conflicted.
I want her to tend to our needs, but how comfortable do I want her to feel in our space?
West interjects, snapping me out of the moment. “Bloody hard grind today. Let’s have something stronger.” He lumbers over to the unit in the corner that I carved last year and reaches in for the Jack Daniels. Skye appears at my side, her body heat radiating tangibly through her flushed cheeks and patchy red chest. Is she scared or just not used to working so hard?
“I have a bottle of red here. I found it in the pantry. It could go nicely with the steaks?”
Skye gingerly extends a dark and slightly dusty glass bottle, trembling almost imperceptibly with nervous energy. She smells of something sweet and lingering, which stays suspended in the air after she returns to the grill. She sounds so desperate to please that I almost feel sorry for her. I grip the back of my neck and shoulders, which have now seized up, as ripples of pain seer through my upper body and down my arms. Three sets of eyes are trained on me now.
Am I that much of an ass that everyone wants to see how I will respond to Skye’s wine gesture?
She’s not getting around me that easily.
Maybe, if she has made fries to accompany the meat, I’ll show her my appreciation later. A sly smile twists my lips.
“You gonna set the table, Skye?” West’s deep and husky voice carries across the room. Finn looks over at him in surprise. And something else. Skye’s bottom lip wobbles.
West has the bottle of Jack pressed under one arm and three tumblers wedged between his thick fingers. With his free arm, he pokes the hearth, which releases a satisfying groan and a burst of heat. I stare into the flames that share the intensity of my own simmering rage, lurking like bright orange cinders at the back of my throat and deep in my core.
The heat and intensity are the same.
Perhaps West’s idea isn’t so bad. I anticipate the quick fix of a shot burning the back of my throat. He isn’t including Skye in his gesture. It’s her and us. He at least recognizes that.
Skye stands at the griddle, turning four huge steaks that she doesn’t struggle to handle. I salivate at the smell radiating from the heat of the meat, and I focus on my foot as it taps against the wooden floorboards. Finn’s silence feels strangely loud, but I avoid his gaze. I’m not sure how to play this. It’s his fault that she wasn’t here earlier to prepare lunch because he had her playing Hansel and Gretel in the forest.
“How do you all like your beef?”
West places a shot glass in front of me, and I down its contents. I exhale sharply and twist my neck in appreciation of the burning sensation as it shoots down the back of my throat. The bones in my spine crack audibly.
“I like mine dripping blood.”
Skye nods as if in agreement, keeping her eyes cast low. West refills my shot glass.
We both down it in one gulp before West responds. “It will be good when you know what we like and don’t have to ask. I like mine well done, so you’ve got to get the timing right.”
West seems to have listened to me earlier, at least. Finn leans in to pick up the wine bottle to fill the glasses. My eyes tell him to sit back down. It’s her job to pour the wine and our job to relax and enjoy.
Skye struggles under the weight of the huge, loaded plates as she lays them on the table. We all inhale, lingering on the smell. There hasn’t been something quite this good served at the table in a long while, if ever. West’s attempts at serving a meal are reflective of his military mindset, portion-controlled basics. Finn will do something that requires as little cooking as possible. He would have us live on cereal and potato chips if he could. I‘m tired of being the only one who can throw together a decent meal around here. But this plate here suggests that I can hang up my imaginary apron. I inhale the steam as it rises off the perfectly done fries; she has cooked the steak exactly how I like it.