Page 4

Carson

“ W hy you always such a dick?” Walt stares me down from across the kitchen with an arched brow.

We’ve clearly had enough of each other this morning.

“Fuck off,” I mutter, pulling my keys from my pocket and heading out the restaurant door.

It’s my day off, but I still came in early to help open with Walt—one of the other head chefs at this place I can’t stand.

I hate working here. Hell, I hate working anywhere someone tells me what to do and how to do it.

That, and the chaos of city life just outside these doors.

Two years here, and it still grates on me.

The longer I stay, the more I want to run back to a small town and never look back.

I only moved here for two reasons: one, to take a job that was hard to pass up, and two, to keep Wren from moving here alone. This hospital job was always her dream, but now that she’s making friends—or at least acquaintances—maybe it’s time I think about heading home.

I check my phone and see Wren’s message. She’s on her way back to the city for our weekly lunch. It started because neither of us knew anyone else here. Now, two years later, we still do it. Every week.

My truck roars to life when I twist the key in the ignition. I quickly blast the A/C, hoping to cool down. It’s only the beginning of summer, but it’s already hot as Hades with this humidity.

Before I can back out, my phone rings in the cup holder where I tossed it. I hate phones, but unfortunately, to function in today’s world, you need one.

“Yeah,” I answer, hitting speaker.

“Do you ever say a normal greeting?” Cal’s voice filters in.

He’s known me since we were kids. He should know the answer to this.

“And what would you consider normal?”

“Uhh… ‘hello’?”

I sigh, not in the mood to deal with unnecessary shit when I have places to be. “Hello, Callahan. How are you this fine afternoon? How are the wife and babies?” I ask, voice laced in sarcasm.

He huffs a small laugh. “You’re such a dick.”

That’s twice in five minutes. Might be a record for me.

“I’m aware. What do you want, or did you just miss me and need to hear my voice?”

“Ha. Ha.” His voice is drowned out by babies crying in the background.

Having four-month-old twins is a handful. Thankfully, Cal works from home and is able to be there for his family most of the time, only occasionally traveling to deliver orders to his clients. And though he works from home, I know he stays busy with his woodworking business.

Now I really am feeling like a dick. Cal isn’t the type to ask for help. If he’s calling, he must need something.

“What can I do for you?” I ask, trying to sound less annoyed.

“Nothin’. Just wanted to let you know I finally got the boat. Luce and the girls are headin’ to my sister’s this weekend, so I figured I’d see if you wanna take her out on the water with me.”

There’s nothing I love more than being in or on the water. Cal and I practically lived on the lake growing up. I hate early mornings, but if it means landing a fish or twelve, I’ll survive.

“Yeah, I’m in. Got some new bait I’ve been wanting to try. Guy at the shop swears it’s like crack for fish.”

We wrap up our plans, and I hang up, tossing the phone back into the cup holder.

Most people would’ve texted, but I hate that shit—usually only doing it when necessary.

There’s too much potential for miscommunication in a text.

Too many things can be taken the wrong way, ignored, or even overlooked.

Pulling out of the parking lot, I turn on my blinker for the next exit and head for the grocery store.

Wren coming for lunch is something I’d never forget, but when I cook—especially for her—I like to make sure my produce is fresh.

I’ve tried growing my own vegetables in my apartment, since those taste a helluva lot better, but it’s a battle I always seem to lose.

After pulling into the parking lot of the grocery store, I quickly check the time. Wren is coming from Alokin Falls, so I know there’s still a while until she gets here. There should be plenty of time for me to shop and still arrive home in time to prepare the food for cooking.

Wren Beckett. The sweetest damn person on this planet.

I knew from that day on the porch swing that she was supposed to be mine.

I’d never been more sure of anything in my fourteen years of life.

But I also knew that I could never have her.

The fact that she’s my best friend’s little sister had nothing to do with it either, I could give a fuck less what others think.

It’ll always be my shortcomings and the fact that I’m not made for that life— married life —that I’m never going to be what Wren Beckett deserves.

Honestly, I’m not sure any man is what she deserves.

But I promised myself that day that I’d always watch out for her.

Tink

What are we cooking today?

I press her contact and put the phone to my ear as I push the cart through the store.

“Hey! I’m?—”

“Are you texting and driving?” I cut in.

She laughs. “No, grump-o. I’m fillin’ up at the gas station. Barely made it here.”

“ Hmm ,” I hum into the phone, satisfied with her answer.

“You almost had to come get me,” she jokes. “No, I’m kidding. I’m sure someone would’ve pulled over and helped me out.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Rely on some stranger when you can call me.”

“Carse, you were at work. I wouldn’t expect you to?—”

“I’d still be there.”

Silence follows my words. I can picture her biting her lip, trying to find the right response.

“I’m grabbing some produce, and then I’ll be done here. You need anything?”

“Nope, I’m good,” she answers, and I can feel her smile through the line. “Well, actually, if you’re already there, could you grab me a Gatorade? They’re out of my flavor here.”

I mentally add it to the list. “Anything else?”

A pause. She’s quiet again, struggling to ask for what she wants.

“Spit it out, Tink.”

I already know it’s coming. The stress in her voice tells me she needs her go-to candy.

She lets out a huff. “Could you maybe grab?—”

“No.”

She laughs, the stress in her tone fading. “See? This is why I didn’t want to ask.”

“They’ll rot your teeth.” I shoot back the same argument I always do.

“You’re right. That’s why I didn’t grab any when I was inside the store.”

I shake my head at how easily she’s giving up today. Usually, she gives me a little fight. Not something she does with most people, but things with me have always been different.

Something’s weighing on her.

After finishing our call, I make my way to the checkout. I grab her lemon-lime Gatorade from the cooler and toss it on the revolving black belt.

Cooking for Wren is something I’ve always enjoyed doing; it’s the reason I wanted to become a chef after all.

When she had that allergic reaction on the side of the road, I felt helpless.

Useless. I swore I’d never feel that way again.

I knew I wanted to do something that would allow me to protect her.

To give her even a little bit of safety in a world full of danger.

I went to culinary school immediately after graduating from high school.

Before that day with Wren, I had no idea what I was going to do with my life.

Probably work some job I hated just to make ends meet.

However, the following week, after the incident, I began doing some research and practicing recipes I found in the magazines at the library.

I quickly realized it was something I could enjoy doing.

I mean, we all have to cook to eat, might as well get paid to do it.

The cashier grabs the last item from the conveyor belt and scans it over the machine.

“That all, hon?” she asks, smacking her gum and tapping the register with bright red nails.

I let out a resigned sigh as I turn around, my eyes wandering to the cavity section behind me. Grabbing the big red bag of candy from the shelf, I toss it down on the belt.

“And this.”