Page 13

Rolling his eyes like a right brat, Blake scoffs. “I said my name is Blake. Quit calling me hiker.”

It’s his smile that teases me more than the way he wiggles subtly as he pulls on another one of my shirts. It swamps his thin frame, hiding his beautiful curves and smooth skin. But I don’t miss the way his nipples brush against the fabric, like two hard peaks. I roll my tongue across my teeth, wondering if his nipples are always hard now that they’re pierced.

“Help me make dinner.” I step past him towards the kitchen, but Blake’s next question has me freezing and my hackles rising.

“Where are your boots?”

Shit. I didn’t think he’d notice.

He was wearing the only other pair I have, and my own are in the shed where I put them after I shifted.

My mind spins, racing to find any excuse I can muster before another wave of guilt washes over me.

“You called for me when I was in the shed. I didn’t have a chance to put them on,” I lie. My words taste like vinegar.

Blake narrows his eyes at me, his lips pursing. For a beat, we stare at one another until finally he shrugs.

“Whatever, mountain man.”

I feel my entire body grow lax. That was too close. From my footprints in the snow causing him to panic and now my missing boots, I can tell this boy is far brighter than he conveys.

If I shift again, I’ll have to be smarter about it next time. No more walking in front of the cabin, and I’ll need to leave a pair of clothes and boots to change into afterwards in the shed. The ones I’m wearing now were the last options I found in my truck.

But first, dinner.

My kitchen isn’t large enough for both of us to work together, so I set the boiling potatoes to the side while I have Blake grate some cheese from the opposite side of the counter.

He eyes the grater. “How does this work?”

I pause, looking up from where I’m tenderizing the chicken breasts. “You haven’t used a grater before?”

Sheepishly smiling to himself, Blake picks up the block of cheese and presses it against the face of the metal. Then he presses harder, his knuckles turning white.

“Not like that.” I drop the mallet and gently grasp Blake’s hand, pulling the block of cheese away from the grater.

“Hold the top,” I instruct, watching with fascination as the young man listens without argument. He even looks to me for approval when his hand wraps around the handle.

“Then move the cheese up and down against the grater.”

Silently, Blake follows. At first, he simply rubs the cheese against the metal, smearing it. But then, after a few more attempts, he finally figures out that with a little pressure, the cheese slides through the grates.

“Now you’ve got it.” I smile. “Good boy.”

My voice rings through the house. Blake keeps his gaze situated on the grater, but his cheeks twitch as he smiles beneath thick eyelashes.

For the next twenty odd minutes, we both silently make dinner. Well, I make dinner, and Blake watches me with curious eyes from the opposite side of the counter. Clearly, the young man has never set foot in a kitchen before or made anything more difficult than toast. But I won’t judge; this is a good time for him to learn a thing or two.

“So, you managed to pitch a tent, but you can’t grate cheese?” I turn to look over my shoulder from where I cook the chicken.

Blake’s head snaps up to meet mine, his cheeks turning rosy. “My mom used to take me camping when I was a kid.”

That makes sense. Most of the kids in this area went camping or hiking with their families during the summer or when it wasn’t blizzarding. As a Sasquatch Shifter, it’s written in the stars to spend time in nature. The entirety of my childhood I spent outdoors, rain, hail, or shine.

“You and her haven’t gone since?” I ask while taking the chicken out of the pan.

Laying out the wraps, along with the large pile of shredded cheese, I fish out some plates from the cupboard and set out all the ingredients before Blake. His eyes scan the counter and his lower lip wobbles.

“She died,” he whispers.