Page 18 of That Stranded Feeling

Once the kettle’s full I give him a wider berth as I put it back on the stove. But somehow, I still brush against his arm again. He might have moved into me.

“I’m sorry if I sounded ungrateful.” Yup, there’s that low, slightly gravelly tone again. Is he deliberately playing it up? “Because I’m not.”

I turn on the gas and refuse to look at his ridiculously handsome face as I open a cupboard door between our heads.I can’t let the belly quivers and nice guy apologies get to me. What’s the point with a guy who’ll be gone before the day’s out? Someone I’ll never see again.

“Okay. Thanks. Anyway, Earl Grey, chai, ginger, or mint?”

“Earl Grey, please.”

I grab two bags and drop them into mugs.

Elsa barks outside the back door.

“She doesn’t hang around,” Owen says.

“Would you if you had to pee in ten degrees below freezing with snow up to your knees?”

I let her in and make her stop on the doormat while I dry off her paws and give the rest of her body a rubdown. She squirms with glee and pushes her face into the towel.

I plant a kiss on the top of her damp head. “Now go warm up by the fire.”

Owen’s still in the same spot, watching us.

“Nice fire, by the way,” I tell him as I hang up Elsa’s towel.

“Thanks. I had a bit of an accident, though. Slipped and dropped the logs on the way in.”

“No doubt due to your fine-weather footwear.” I walk over to examine the hand he’s holding up. “Oooh, that looks painful.”

There’s a sliver in the palm of his hand and one in his index finger. The skin around them is red and tender.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can’t get them out. Might actually have pushed them further in.”

“If you like, I—”

His phone bursts into noisy life on the counter. My stomach lurches. Shit. Service must be back. That will mean a flurry of business calls and undoubtedly some sort of lavish plan to get him airlifted out of here.

My quiet life with Elsa is almost back within reach, which should fill me with joy. So why has a horrible lead weight suddenly settled in my belly? There hasn’t been a single second in the last year and a half when I haven’t been certain that being alone is the right life for me. But my belly is questioning it. Does my belly think this smart, funny stranger who made it do somersaults last night and again at the mere sight of him doing the dishes this morning, might be worth a lifestyle rethink? My belly is an idiot.

Owen holds his phone up to show me. “It’s the timer. Breakfast is done.”

He pulls the tea towel off the oven handle and opens the door. My stomach moves seamlessly from lurching at the thought of him leaving, to rumbling at the sweet, fruity aroma that wafts out. “Oh, God. That smells amazing.”

He pulls out a perfect loaf sitting in a pan I haven’t seen for at least a decade. “Where did you find that?”

He gestures to a high cabinet. “Up there.”

“Grandma used to make cinnamon apple cake in it when I was a kid.”

“Well, I can’t promise this is as good as your grandma’s baking. Particularly as it’s missing my secret ingredient.”

“And what would that be?”

“Cranberries. You don’t have any.”

“Cranberries? In banana bread?”

“You should try it some time.”