Page 23

23

Lena

A pparently it was possible to grill in the snow. It just required one person—or in this case a few—crazy enough to stand out there in a T-shirt until the meat was ready.

Lena stood at the window, watching as Tristan, Hugo, Ry, and Alex huddled around the grill like it was a campfire. Around them, everything was covered in snow, but they’d cleared up a narrow path between them and the house. Smoke curled into the crisp air, carried sideways by the wind, and despite the ridiculousness of the whole scene, they looked—content.

“Can you tell me what they’re doing?” asked a soft, husky voice behind her.

That was Jo, Hugo’s wife. Hugo’s very pregnant wife. Lena glanced at her and felt that familiar flicker of awe. If she were in Jo’s shoes—unable to see, carrying a child, navigating this room full of noise and motion—would she have the courage to ask that same question?

“Your husband mans the tongs with the gravity of a man performing open-heart surgery.” Lena waited for Jo’s laughter to die down before going on. “Ry is standing next to him. I think he’s telling them some story, judging by his hand gestures. Alex is standing further back. He looks like he’s calculating the distance to the fire. And Tristan?—”

Lena trailed off. Tristan leaned against the outside table, arms folded, face tilted up towards the night sky. His mouth moved, laughing at something the others said, and the sound didn’t quite carry, but she could imagine the sound. She knew what his laughter felt like now.

Most of all, Tristan looked focused. Alive .

He didn’t look like a man who’d been in a helicopter crash just weeks earlier.

“Yes?” Jo asked. A small, knowing smile played on her lips. “You were saying?”

Lena licked her lips. “Sorry. I got distracted.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Jo said, her smile widening.

“I am so hungry,” a soft voice said behind them. Lena turned to see the redheaded doctor who’d helped her out at the hospital after Tristan’s accident.

“Val. Hi. I don’t know if you remember me, I’m?—“

“Lena. Of course I remember you. How are you doing?”

“I never said thank you. For your help.”

Val’s expression softened. “It’s more than okay. I was happy to help. Tristan’s part of the family.”

“They’re all family,” another voice said. Yvette wore a bright lime green top and jeans that looked airbrushed on. Lena blinked at her beauty, but the woman’s smile was easy, warm. “Nice to see you again, Lena. I take it you and Tristan?—”

Jo came to Lena’s rescue, stepping in smoothly. “Come on, Yvette. Leave the interrogation for another time. Let’s go make some salad, in case they burn everything out there.”

As they opened the door to the kitchen, a warm scent hit them—of rosemary, garlic, and something golden and rich in the oven.

“What’s that smell, Jo?”

“I’m making focaccia. I’ve been craving carbs like crazy. It should be just about ready to come out of the oven.”

“Surely that’s the advantage of being pregnant,” Val said. “You can feed the cravings.”

Jo touched her rounded stomach. “I’m not sure I should be feeding them quite so enthusiastically. I already look like I swallowed a basketball, and I still have seven weeks to go.”

“You look great, Jo,” Val said.

“There should be some open wine bottles on the table,” Jo added. “Please, help yourselves.”

“What do you prefer? Red or white? And what can we get you, Jo?”

Jo wrinkled her nose. “Sparkling water with lime, please. To convince myself I’m drinking something fun.”

Yvette poured a round—red for Jo and Lena, white for herself and Val. “You’ve clearly never been a bartender,” Lena observed, laughing as she eyed the deep pour.

“Why’s that?” Yvette asked, clinking their glasses together.

“You’re too generous. Most bars try to squeeze six glasses out of a bottle.”

“Fair enough,” Yvette said, laughing. “But we’re celebrating.”

“What are we celebrating?” Val asked, taking a sip of her wine.

“The fact that Hugo and I only have seven weeks left to meet our baby,” Jo said smoothly. Though she didn’t say it, Lena thought they might also be celebrating a crash that hadn’t claimed anybody’s life. These men and women all knew just how fragile life could be.

“Let me get the focaccia,” Yvette said, tugging on a bright green oven mitt. She opened the oven, and a blast of fragrant steam filled the kitchen. “I hope it doesn’t need to cool before we eat it.”

Jo shook her head. “That’s the great thing about it. It’s out of the oven and straight onto the plate.”

As Yvette cut the focaccia into uneven squares, the kitchen filled with that classic fresh-baked yeasty aroma and the rich, fruity smell of olive oil and rosemary. The kind of smell that made Lena’s stomach growl and her shoulders relax.

“Forget the salad,” she announced. “And forget whatever the men are cooking out there. This right here is dinner.”

Val bit into a piece and closed her eyes, humming contentedly. “I agree. This is heaven.”

“Glad you like it,” Jo said. “Please eat. I can’t be trusted alone with all these carbs.”

“By the way, where’s Isla?”

“She was working late tonight, doing tattoos for a joint bachelor and bachelorette party.”

“Wow. That’s … unique. Not a bad idea, though.”

“Honestly, kind of romantic,” Lena said. “In a very… permanent kind of way.”

The women all laughed as they sipped some more wine and snacked.

Lena glanced back at the window. The guys were still out there, laughter ghosting through the cold, but in here she felt somehow … anchored. Anchored and grateful for this moment. She didn’t have many friends. She’d lost touch with many of her high school and university friends, through her own fault mostly. Too much traveling for her job, and too little time spent staying in touch. But here, for the first time in a long while, Lena felt like she’d found real friends.

Tristan

“Brrrr, it’s cold,” Alex said, sliding his arms around Yvette.

She squealed, quickly escaping his grip. “You’re not going to use me as a hot water bottle. Not after choosing to stand out in the snow for an hour.”

“But look at what we brought in,” Alex argued, pointing at the large tray in Hugo’s hands. “We’re like the hunters of yore.”

“I’m not sure the hunters of yore picked up their meat in a grocery store.”

Hugo set the tray down on the long wooden table with a flourish. “We can agree to disagree … after we’ve eaten.” He popped the foil off the tray. “Chicken sausages and steak, cooked to perfection.” He used his fork to pick up one of the steaks. “This one’s well done, Jo. For you.”

Jo’s face lit up. “Thank you. Overcooked meat. It’s just one more reason I can’t wait for Rébé to get here.”

Alex sniffed the air. “What is that smell?”

“That’s probably you,” Yvette said, laughing. “You four smell like smoke and snow.”

Alex shook his head, his expression serious. “No. Not us. You’ve been baking,” he said accusingly.

“You have the nose of a hound, Alex,” Yvette said, laughing. “It’s focaccia. There might still be a few pieces left.”

“Three pieces, to be exact,” Lena laughed—actually laughed, the sound bright and sharp. “You’re going to have to fight for them.”

Tristan smiled. For a long time, he’d taken this—this camaraderie—for granted. But watching the way Lena fit in, teasing and laughing like she’d been part of this circle for years, he felt something catch in his chest.

“Fight for them?” Hugo asked, already reaching for the tray. “I grilled meat in sub-zero temperatures. I deserve at least one piece.”

As if she could see him, Jo smacked his hand away with a light touch. “You’re not going to take one before our guests do,” she said. “But I’ll make you more later.”

Hugo settled at that—or maybe it was just Jo’s touch that settled him.

The room buzzed with low conversation and clinking plates, the scent of grilled meat and warm bread thick in the air. Outside, snow tapped against the windows in rhythmic bursts.

When dinner was over, Tristan caught Lena yawning delicately into her hand. Shit . It was late, and it’d been a long day. He didn’t have to make anything up, because that wasn’t the kind of people his friends were, so they said their goodbyes. He kept an arm behind Lena’s back on the way to the car, knowing her shoes weren’t great for snow. They’d have to pick up her boots the next day, if she still couldn’t go home. The thought gave him pause. As much as he hoped the Colonel figured things out soon, he didn’t want her to go home.

He bundled Lena into the car and stepped around to the driver’s seat, turning on the engine.

“That was fun,” she said, through another small yawn.

Her words warmed him. “I’m glad you liked them.”

“Your friends are warm and chaotic,” Lena said. “In the best possible way.”

“Welcome to chaos,” he said.

She looked up at him, a smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he wanted to share a lot more than this with her but, in the end, he decided against it. Because he knew, by now, how skittish Lena could be, and he didn’t want to scare her.