Page 5 of Brought By the Storm

Chapter Four

Eric

I had a load of laundry in the dryer and food laid out on the counter, ready to prepare the evening’s meal. The wind had picked up, and I wondered how long it would be before my generator would have to kick on. It had an automatic switch, ready to take over if my house lost power. It had never been needed, however, so I hoped it would work. The one thing worse than a house full of strangers would be hosting them without utilities.

I was beginning to chop celery for the pot roast when I heard footsteps descending the stairs. I turned—Carrington was approaching the kitchen.

“Everything squared away?” I asked, turning back to my chore while awaiting his response.

“Yes, thank you,” he replied. He stood silent for a moment, so I turned back to him with a quizzical glance. He looked down at his shoes, some embarrassment reflected on his face. “I’d like to apologize for how I’ve behaved toward you. You’ve been most kind, and I’ve been rude and ungrateful.” He raised his cobalt blue eyes up, laser-focused on how I’d react.

At first, I nodded. His intense stare didn’t alter. “Okay. Thank you for saying that. Do you want to help me make dinner?”

From his reaction, it was as if I’d asked him if he wanted to help me scalp a neighbor. “Um…”

I jumped in to spare him. “It’s okay. Go watch the television or read. Whatever.”

“No,” he protested. “I want to help. I just don’t know how.”

All the swagger and sourness from earlier was gone. He seemed relaxed now, and it highlighted his attractiveness. I knew he was taken, but I couldn’t help but admire him like the time I had first seen him. His hair was a rich light brown with darker highlights, brushed back and falling into waves in all the right places. His eyes were emotive, and his angular face was highlighted by high cheekbones and a strong, squared, dimpled jaw. His lips were a soft pink and shaped for kissing. And I thought to myself, all of that belonged to Stefan, so I willed my eyes to look away. “Uh, that’s okay. I’ll teach you. Nobody knows how to cook—until they do. The secret is, if you can read and follow directions, you can cook. Do you want to finish chopping the celery? Just cut them to the size I’ve been making them.” I handed him the knife. Pointing to the chuck roast, I added, “I’ll start the rub for the pot roast.”

“Pot roast?” he asked with concern.

I assumed it was a dish his country didn’t make, or he was intimidated by the prospect. “Yes, I’ll make it with potatoes, carrots, celery, some onion and garlic and a red wine-beef broth mix. There are other seasonings too, but nothing too complicated.”

“I don’t eat meat,” he stated, as if his diet should have been common knowledge.

“Oh,” I sputtered. “Gosh. That’s…okay. You can have the vegetables, right?”

“Not if they’ve been cooked in beef broth,” he responded. “I’m quite all right and can do without dinner. I don’t wish to be a burden.”

“You can’t just have a sandwich for the day. Hey—you had a sandwich at lunch,” I remembered.

“A roasted vegetable sandwich,” he clarified.

I prayed I had lots of pasta in the pantry. The vegetables wouldn’t last more than a couple of days, and it was anyone’s guess how long we’d be stuck together. “Is there anyone else who is a vegetarian?” I asked, hoping the answer was no. Otherwise, they were going to be scrounging for berries from my bushes.

“Only me,” he assured me. “And everyone else can have dairy.”

“You can’t have dairy either?” I exclaimed. “You’ve just eliminated ninety percent of the food in my house.”

“I have a dairy allergy,” he explained. “I’ll make do. I don’t wish to create difficulties.”

“This will be interesting.” I sighed. “Um, well—on the bright side, it seems to work for you. You have awesome skin and a rocking body.” As soon as the words escaped my mouth, I realized they could be perceived as flirtatious. I felt compelled to add, “I do photography as a side job, so I can appreciate when a subject makes my work look even better. Not that you’d be posing for me, of course.” I had to shut up before he thought me insane.

Carrington looked bashful, but gave me a slight grin and side eye while he started cutting the celery. “What sort of photography do you do? Models?”

“Amateurs wanting to be models,” I explained, starting the rub for the pot roast. “I haven’t even done that since moving to Connecticut last year. I did a lot of photography when I lived in the city—New York City, that is. Way more aspiring models there. When my firm for my real job wanted to relocate me for a bigger assignment, I was sad to give up the photography, but more money and a lower cost of living are hard to turn down.”

“What’s your real job?” he asked, seeming to be interested as opposed to making small talk.

“I lead a project management office for one of the large insurers. Hartford is the insurance capital of the world. Our headquarters are downtown. I miss city living, but I also like the peacefulness of this town and its history.” The blood rose to my cheeks when I recalled Carrington slapping me down for suggesting the United States had any meaningful landmarks. “Brief as it may be,” I added.

Carrington must have remembered his earlier jab, for now it was his cheeks that blushed. “Your country has a proud heritage. I was being disagreeable when you spoke of your town. I, once again, must apologize. The area is charming. Maybe, once the storm passes, if there is time, you can show me more of it.”

I nodded and smiled, but I thought it was odd that Carrington wouldn’t have included Stefan—at a minimum—in that suggestion. As if suspecting shenanigans, Stefan entered the kitchen with Carrington’s mother in tow. He shot a look of shock in Carrington’s direction, and I hoped he hadn’t heard his boyfriend’s last comment. “What are you doing? You should put down that knife before you cut yourself,” he exclaimed to his partner. “You don’t know how to do that.”

Carrington appeared flustered, then annoyed. “I can assure you I am capable of cutting a celery stalk.”

“Yes, of course you are,” Olivia intervened. “Stefan, why don’t you let the boys finish what they’re doing? Carrington is in good hands. You and I can read in this sitting area.”

“Dinner will be ready in an hour,” I told them as they walked into the family room. “I have an Instant Pot.” Of course, they had no idea what that was, but it made sense to me to explain the quickness of cooking a large slab of beef.

“That sounds marvelous, dear,” Olivia remarked. “My son won’t eat the meat, though, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, what are we going to do about that?” I asked Carrington. Before he could answer, I offered to roast the carrots and potatoes for him, and make a side salad.

“I’ve been enough bother,” he protested.

“I want to,” I assured him, because the person before me was nothing like the cranky man I had met earlier. Carrington gave me his first big smile, revealing large, straight white teeth. I was afraid my knees would go weak. “So, um…I’ll just start those now.” I feared my face was giving away how I was feeling, and was thankful Stefan wasn’t in the room to see it. I spent the rest of dinner preparations looking at Carrington as little as possible.