Page 12 of Meet Me at the Christmas Cottage (Jonathon Island #6)

“I would have figured something out.”

Jonah shook his head. “Do you want a grilled cheese?”

“If it’s not too much of an issue.”

Jonah didn’t say anything. He plated the grilled cheese from the skillet and poured a ladle of soup into a bowl.

Bronte’s thanks was almost a whisper.

Jonah made another sandwich and bowl of soup and sat on the stool next to her. He bowed his head and sent up a quick prayer for his food.

“Why do you do that?” Bronte looked at him, eyebrows raised.

“What?”

“Pray. For your food.”

“So I don’t drop dead from unblessed food.”

The shocked look on Bronte’s face had Jonah biting the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting out with a laugh. “I’m kidding. People don’t drop dead from unblessed food.”

Bronte visibly sighed.

“At least, I don’t think they do.” He had to keep her on her toes.

Her spoon clattered to her bowl, and she huffed, “Then why do you do it?”

“It’s the simplest way to give thanks to God for providing. We could be stuck in the house without any food. We could be stuck outside. We could have both left and gotten stuck somewhere other than here.”

“It doesn’t really seem like it matters.” Bronte picked her spoon back up and swirled it in her soup.

“I think it does. I don’t think we’re left to chance. God cares about each of His children.”

“I have found that God doesn’t seem to care what happens to me.”

Jonah stilled. “I don’t believe that.”

“Whether you believe it or not, God and I came to the agreement a long time ago that I don’t actually matter.”

“Bronte—”

Bronte held up a hand, cutting him off. “No, it’s fine. I’ve been living with this truth for a long time. Life of a foster kid. Comes with the territory.”

Jonah’s heart hurt for her. He opened his mouth to respond, but Bronte cut him off, changing the subject.

“This soup is really good.”

He hesitated for a minute, not sure if he should steer the conversation back to the one at hand or wait for another time. “Thanks. There’s just something about snow days that makes me want soup and grilled cheese.”

“Did you have lots of snow days like this growing up?”

“A few.” They fell into a comfortable silence, the sounds of Bruce Willis negotiating with a terrorist playing behind them.

“How’s the writing coming?” Jonah finished off the last of his soup and pushed his bowl away from him.

Bronte’s shoulder lifted in a shrug, but she didn’t say anything, instead just dunking her grilled cheese in her soup over and over and over again.

“Oof.” Jonah winced. “That bad?”

Bronte dropped the sandwich against the bowl and let her head drop into her hands. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like all my words have dried up and this story doesn’t want to be told.”

“Have you tried writing something else? I’m not a writer, but maybe if you worked on something else, it would jog your brain into gear.

Maybe,” Jonah added after the glare Bronte shot him.

“When I was in med school and couldn’t focus on studying, I’d doodle for fifteen minutes before switching back to studying. It worked for me.”

“I don’t have time to write anything else.” Her voice quivered. “I have to get this book done. I’ve procrastinated long enough. It’s due in three weeks, and I still have…” She paused, face scrunched up as if working figures in her head. “…around eighty-five thousand words to write.”

Jonah ignored the way she clamped her mouth shut, as if maybe that was information she hadn’t wanted to freely give.

And suddenly, he wanted to help her. If he couldn’t hang out with his family this holiday season, at the very least, he could help someone else. And given their current predicament, maybe God had plopped Bronte right in front of him with a “Help her” sign flashing over her head.

“What do you need from me? How can I help you make sure you get your words written?”

Bronte stared blankly at him. “You can’t help me write my book.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t want me to help you write your book, but I can…

” Jonah looked around the kitchen for inspiration.

“Keep you fed so you don’t have to worry about eating burnt food.

I can make sure you always have a hot cup of tea whenever you need it.

And I may not be a writer, but I am a reader.

If you need to brainstorm ideas, I’ll give you a listening ear. ”

Bronte considered him with a raised eyebrow. “Just one ear?”

“Both,” Jonah amended. “You can have both, if you need them, and if they will help.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Well, first off, I can’t go anywhere, so you lucked out there.

Secondly, why wouldn’t I want to help a new friend?

” Besides, it’d help him keep his mind off his sister’s words and why he’d come home anyway.

Maybe Bronte needed him more right now. True, she was little more than a stranger, but who was Jonah if he didn’t help the downtrodden?

And something about Bronte struck him as the definition of downtrodden.

Bronte’s eyes snapped up. “Just until the weather clears though.”

Jonah shrugged. Maybe. Maybe not . “Sure. It’ll be a couple more days at least.”

Her storm-colored eyes narrowed, moving back and forth on his. Thinking. Considering. What was going through her mind?

“And,” Jonah added, whipping out his cell phone, “I’m ordering the rest of the series to read, so if you do need help brainstorming, I know the characters and plot line and can help you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Bronte protested.

“Already done.” Jonah flashed a smile.

Bronte chewed on her bottom lip. He wanted to take all her worry and apprehension onto himself, to unburden her.

“Okay, well…thank you.” Bronte swiveled back and forth on the barstool. “I should probably get back to work.”

“Me too.” Jonah held up his phone. “I have a book to read.”

Bronte rolled her eyes. “You enjoy that.”

“I plan to. I very much plan to.”

While Bronte disappeared back up the stairs, Jonah made quick work of the dishes, the sound of the start of Recipe for the Unspoken —book two—in his earbuds.

After adding a few more logs to the fire, Jonah poured himself another cup of coffee (if he wanted to get sleep, he should probably lay off the coffee), and settled on the couch. Leaning back, he let his eyes close as he listened to the second book in the Pike Family Saga.

As he lost himself in the world Bronte had created, Jonah wasn’t sure why he’d thought the first book had been boring. He should try to read it again. Maybe there was something to knowing an author before reading their book.

Whatever the cause, he was excited to read—or listen to—more.

As he drifted off to the warm cadence of the narrator’s voice reading Bronte’s words, he decided he would ignore the fact that, in a little over a week, after he talked with his dad about not taking over the clinic, everything could change. Either with his dad, with Amy, or both.

His day of reckoning would come, but today was not that day.