It was perhaps a little chilly in here for someone who wasn’t used to roughing it.
On that thought, I walked across the room, turning up the thermostat. Even if a large part of me was totally okay with the view.
“You said we could discuss the plan,” she reminded me when I said nothing, too distracted by my own thoughts.
“Yeah,” I agreed, going to the fridge, checking out what Ranger had stocked it with.
Since he was generally the team member who got the least amount of work, we employed him here and there to help me on my jobs. Like stocking safe houses on my route. He bitched and growled about it, but he did it. I was hoping the icebox wasn’t loaded down with goddamn venison and geese and fish he caught in the lakes again.
“Just gonna see what we got to eat. Hopefully, we can throw together some sandwiches or something.”
I lived on the damn things.
I never really learned to cook myself, so the only time I got something different was if I went out to eat, or Quin’s woman – Aven – cooked for me.
“We could probably do better than a sandwich,” she said, moving in closer, and I could smell one of her creams or lotions or conditioners or whatever clinging to her skin.
“You cook?” I asked as she reached for the door of the fridge, pulling it more open.
“It’s been a while, but I used to be able to,” she admitted, reaching inside to move some things around.
Ranger had been better than expected, with enough fruit, vegetables, meat, eggs, and cheese to last us over a week, not just the two days I had planned.
“Fancy shit?” I asked, not exactly excited by the prospect of one of those plates you got at those upscale places with three sprigs of asparagus, a single slice of meat, and half a potato that they dared to call the dinner special.
“Ah, unfortunately, no,” she admitted, sounding outright bummed about the fact that she couldn’t whip up duck paté like some gourmet chef.
Quite frankly, I could never eat a duck. I once saved a couple of them from a drain at my house, and the fuckers followed me around like their mama for a week until the real one came and found them.
Eating one of those things that used to quack behind me whenever I walked outside? No, thanks.
“Simple shit?” I clarified.
“I was raised on… simple shit,” she said, the words sounding odd on her polished tongue as she pulled out the pork chops, green beans, and salad greens, piling them all on the counter. “Would you happen to have potatoes?” she asked, looking around the space, eyeing up the small bowl of fruit.
“Best bet would be the bottom drawer. That’d be where he’d store potatoes and onions.”
“He?” she asked, squatting down to look, and coming back with two potatoes – one big enough to feed a family of four, one just barely enough to be considered a side dish.
“Coworker. Ranger. He stocked the place for us.”
She made some kind of acknowledging noise as she rummaged around, finding pots and pans, setting them on top of the range.
And me, well, I fucking watched her. As weird as that was. I watched as she warmed the pans, put water in the pot, found spices to season the pork, sautéed the potatoes with an onion and garlic, then went in search of plates for us as the small space filled up with the scent of home-cooking, something I couldn’t claim to know very well, but was fond of nonetheless.
It was strange to realize this woman, this person who I never would have thought even knew what a stove was, could cook something that smelled as edible as her meal did.
At some point, she mumbled about tables and decent human beings, leaving me to go fetch a fold-up table and chairs that were kept in the bedroom closet so she could have her proper dining experience.
“Leave it,” I said when she went to start to wash out the green beans pot while the pork finished up. “You cooked. I’ll clean. What?” I asked when she sent me an odd look.
“I’m not used to having people do things,” she admitted, surprising me.
If you’d have asked me, I’d have thought she’d had a staff working for her, never having to lift a finger but to hit a button to summon them.
“What? No private chef?”
She gave me that look again, that confused and slightly offended look she had given me a few times in Quin’s office the day before. “I usually ate at the office. Ordered in,” she clarified, but didn’t elaborate. “Do you want more whiskey?” she asked, gesturing toward the bottle as she put potatoes on the plates.
“I got it,” I said, feeling a bit odd to be waited on myself. “You want something? Got a practical liquor cabinet up there. Or, knowing Ranger, there is likely a bucket out back loaded down with drinks to keep cold.” They would too, with the temperature barely getting above 35 most days still. Even though we were already into fucking March.