Page 84 of Torin

I turn back to the stove.

Beside me, Orson says nothing.

He just picks up the bowl of carrots and holds it out.

I take it from him.

“Thanks.”

I get the roasting tin into the oven and set the timer.

Orson looks around the kitchen. “What’s next?”

“We wait.”

He nods, apparently satisfied with that.

Then he rubs a hand through his hair. It leaves it sticking out worse than before.

“So, I got time to shower?”

I look at him. His hair is matted around his shoulders, and I think there’s some dirt crusted into it.

“Plenty. You could even squeeze in a deep-conditioning treatment.”

He frowns. “A what?”

I laugh. “Never mind.”

He gives me a long, suspicious stare, then disappears down the hallway.

I pour myself a glass of cold water and take it outside.

The sun is sinking behind the mountains, throwing long bars of gold across the clearing. I sink into one of the chairs and stretch my legs out in front of me.

I wonder what Torin’s doing.

Probably fixing somebody’s truck. Or helping out a neighbor.

Whatever it is, I bet somebody needed him.

I picture him coming through the door when he gets back. That easy grin when he smells dinner. Does he even like roast potatoes?

I smile into my glass. Honestly. It’s been two days.

The screen door opens behind me. I turn. Orson steps onto the porch, and for a second, I just stare. His hair is clean and damp around his shoulders, the dirt gone from his face and arms. He looks like a different person.

“Why are you staring at me?”

I bite back a smile. “Dinner should be ready soon.”

The timer goes off a few minutes later, and I follow Orson back into the kitchen.

When I open the oven, heat rolls over me along with an appetizing smell of rosemary and garlic. I check the potatoes with a fork, then set the roasting tin on the stove.

Orson appears beside me with two plates.

“I’ll serve.”