"Uh-huh." She doesn't believe me. Smart woman.
The radio's still out. Rangers say it'll be another day or two before they can get a vehicle up the mountain. The tower's fixed, but the roads are still a mess from the storm.
Which means more days with Lila in my space, filling it with her presence, making it harder to remember why I prefer being alone.
She's adapted faster than I expected. Doesn't complain about the lack of cell service or modern conveniences. Doesn't fill the silence with pointless chatter like most city people do when they're uncomfortable. She just... exists alongside me, finding rhythm in the simplicity of my days.
It's unnerving.
"Can I help with dinner?" she asks, setting her book aside. "I feel useless just sitting here while you do everything."
I slide the knife back into its sheath. "You're injured."
"My brain and one leg still work perfectly fine." She grabs her crutch and makes her way to the kitchen. "What are we having?"
"Trout. Caught two in the stream this morning."
"Fresh fish? Fancy." She smiles, that easy, bright expression that does something uncomfortable to my chest. "Put me to work, mountain man. I can chop, stir, whatever you need."
I should say no. Every shared task creates another connection, another thread between us that I'll have to cut when she leaves.
But I nod. "Potatoes need cleaning and slicing."
She beams like I've given her a gift instead of a chore. "I'm on it."
We work side by side in the small kitchen, her movements surprisingly efficient despite the crutch. She doesn't fill the silence with nervous chatter, but when she does speak, her questions are thoughtful.
"Where did you learn to fish?"
"My grandfather. Same one who taught me woodworking."
"He sounds like an important person in your life."
I nod, scaling the trout with practiced motions. "Raised me and my cousins after my parents died. Taught us everything that matters."
The words come easier than they should. I don't talk about my family, especially not with strangers. But Lila has a way of asking that makes answering feel natural.
"The McKenna brothers?" She remembers the name I gave her that first night. "You mentioned cousins. Are they nearby?"
"Some. Sawyer's the sheriff in Grizzly Ridge. Cade lives up another ridge. Others scattered around."
"Do you see them often?"
I hesitate, focus on gutting the fish. "Not anymore."
She catches the tone, doesn't push. Instead, she bumps her shoulder lightly against my arm, a brief touch of solidarity.
"These potatoes are officially sliced to perfection," she announces, changing the subject. "What's next?"
I show her how to season them with herbs I've dried from the garden, how to arrange them in the cast iron skillet so they'll cook evenly. Her fingers are delicate, nails short but neat, skin softer than anything that belongs in this cabin.
"You're good at this," she observes as I prepare the fish. "Better than any of the chefs I dated in New York."
"Dated a lot of chefs?" I shouldn't ask. Don't want to know about the men before me. But the question comes anyway.
She laughs. "Just one, actually. Peter thought he was God's gift to the culinary world. Turned out he was better at serving bullshit than food."
The bitterness in her voice is fleeting but unmistakable.
