He sets the travel bag on a chair and looks around.
“Does anyone live here?”
“The caretaker prepped the house for us,” I say, peeling my gloves off.
“Is this place yours?”
“Yes. I inherited it from my grandparents, and I used to spend time here with them in the summers and the winters.”
I unzip my jacket and shrug it off, glancing at the fireplace. An armful of kindling and logs are stacked on the side.
“I’ll take care of it,” he says as I unpack.
He starts making the fire.
Soon, the flames lick the logs, and the smell of burning wood spreads through the house, following me into the kitchen.
I check the refrigerator first. It’s stocked. Pots with freshly cooked food sit on the stove. I hear his footsteps traveling from the living room to the bedroom, and I walk out of the kitchen and follow him around.
In silence, I watch him lighting another fire. From time to time, I glance around, taking in my surroundings.
The place looks the same.
A fluffy rug in the middle of the room next to a hand-crafted wooden bed. Plump pillows and a thick comforter piled up on the mattress.
“Where did you learn to light a fire?” I ask, my eyes trained on the dancing flames.
He straightens his back, his eyes rooted to the fire.
The smell of burning wood wafts through the air.
“I was born in Washington State, and it was one of the things my father taught me.”
“Interesting.”
He smiles.
“Yeah... I wasn’t always a hustler,” he says, musing.
For a few moments, we listen to the crackling fire.
“Do you miss that place?”
He shrugs.
“I don’t know. I never thought about it. I wouldn’t go back. I don’t think so.” He pauses for a moment. “Those were really good times,” he says, melancholic.
Minutes later, we exit the bedroom, and I head to the bathroom. Tall windows let in the stunning view surrounding the house.
A shower booth and a sizable hot tub occupy most of the room.
I open a cabinet, scoop out a few candles and light them.
“What are you doing?” he asks, walking in.
“I’m getting the hot tub ready.”
“For?”