Page 19 of Seale the Deal

I hope she carries on our tradition without me. I imagine her twirling around Kay’s kitchen in mismatched socks and some princess costume while scream-singing Taylor Swift and pouring herself Froot Loops.

Kay calls me a bad influence. I call myself a personality builder.

But since I don’t want to wake Ruger, earbuds feel like the considerate choice for our first full day pretending to be an engaged couple. I shimmy my hips while pouring more milk into the bowl, fully committed to the song currently rattling in my skull. Which is exactly why I don’t notice Ruger standing in the kitchen doorway until I turn around mid-dance move and make eye contact with the six-foot-something Alaskan wilderness man, who somehow looks better this morning than he did last night. His faded camo Henley stretches across broad shoulders, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair still mussed from sleep.

I scream.

So does Chad Kroeger in my earbuds.

My hand jerks violently, and the mixing bowl launches from my grip like it’s attempting to escape the embarrassment on my behalf. Thick pancake batter splatters down my front, across the floor, and directly onto my socks with a cinematic splut.

I whip around and yank out one of my earbuds.

Ruger stands in the kitchen doorway, one hand covering his mouth, eyes wide with horror. It’s very evident he’s trying not to laugh.

Oh my God, I’m so sorry, he blurts and steps forward like he’s about to help, then thinks better of it and steps back again.

Are you? I deadpan, trying to channel dignity, even though I’m dripping pancake guts and might cry out of sheer embarrassment.

He grabs a dish towel and wets it under the tap, then offers it to me like a peace treaty.

You’re a menace, I mutter, wiping at my chest as a glob of batter slides into my bra. Now I’ll have to start over.

Or, he says, clearly trying not to smile, you could go shower while I make breakfast.

I narrow my eyes. Yeah, about that… I casually try to tuck some of my hair behind my ears, but I get a fingerful of pancake batter into it instead, the sticky substance adhering my tight curls to my cheek. I was going to ask… how do bills work around here? Like, water, electricity… I don’t want to accidentally bankrupt you by trying to stay hygienic.

Ruger leans against the counter, arms crossed, expression unreadable. That would be an impressively tragic and embarrassing headline: Ruger Seale loses house after woman takes too many showers.

I’m just saying! I throw up my hands, causing more batter to fly. Oops.

Ruger chuckles. Nothing to worry about. This house is on a well, the electricity bill isn’t that bad, and most of my heat is from wood, which is easy enough to find.

Okay, but what does being on a well mean? If I wash my hair twice a day, will it run dry?

You wash your hair twice a day? he asks.

Hypothetically!

Uh, no. Definitely not.

So, there is no way I could bankrupt you? I ask, still feeling a bit uncomfortable being a freeloader.

If those two hair washings a day are done with diamonds, he says.

I narrow my eyes and suppress a smile. So… is that a no on the diamond shampoo budget?

He doesn’t miss a beat. Hard no. But I’ll allow one glitter bath a month.

I snort. You’re joking, but I do love a lavender bath bomb.

Ruger just nods, deadpan. I’ll make a note for my list of errands.

I shake my head, trying to get a chunk of batter off my neck and failing. You’re very calm for someone staring at a woman who just bathed herself with carbs.

He shrugs nonchalantly.

Seriously, though, I add, a little softer. I don’t want to be a financial burden. I know I’m not contributing much right now.