“Better get used to it. Cooking over an open flame is Camping 101.”
It’s not the open flame or even the act of cooking my own food that has my stomach cramping with revulsion. Even I’m not that much of an asshole. No, it’s the smell of cheap, processed meat—a smell far too reminiscent of fried bologna sandwiches—and dark, soupy beans. Beans that taste like ass. At least, that’s how I remember them from my childhood, when they were often the only thing I had to eat for weeks at a time.
Just the thought of their grainy texture is enough to trigger my gag reflex.
And then there’s the rodent roommate.
I never would’ve thrown out that stupid bet if I’d known about Gremlin.
Too late to turn back now.
Besides, I only have to stick it out for two weeks—or until Lucy cracks.
“You know, some people actually find this kind of thing relaxing,” she continues, pulling her skewer back to inspect the hot dog. She must decide it’s done, because she grabs a roll from the package resting on the edge of the firepit and uses it to slide the meat stick off the thin metal skewer, smooth and efficient as usual.
“I’m not most people.” I follow her lead and grab a roll. Maybe if I put enough ketchup and relish on the damn thing, I can forget I’m eating emulsified meat trimmings.
“Don’t I know it.” Lucy smirks and squirts a thin stream of mustard on her hot dog before settling back in her chair. Then she looks right at me and takes a giant, deliberate bite, chewing slowly. “Mmm.”
Just pretend it’s a fillet.
Yeah-fucking-right.
I need a distraction, not make-believe.
“What’s the deal with the Jeep?” I squirt so much relish onto the faux meat that it’s no longer visible. Then I finish it with a metric ton of ketchup.
“What do you mean?” Lucy’s tongue darts out, and she licks a spot of mustard from her upper lip. It’s a perfectly normal gesture. One I’ve probably seen a thousand times during working lunches, but this time, my gaze lingers on her lips. On her full, wide mouth—the one she’s been using to throw shade all day—and I can’t help but wonder if it’s as soft as it looks.
I shove the thought down, burying it deep.
“What happened to the Civic?” I know for a fact that Lucy used to drive a small, practical, fuel-efficient Honda in a nice, boring shade of greige. I saw it every time she worked late and I walked her out to her car.
“I traded it in.” Her tongue darts out again, this time lapping at a blob of mustard dangling precariously from the end of her hot dog.Jesus. How much mustard does one hot dog need, anyway? “I couldn’t very well pull Tallulah with a compact car.”
True, but…
I shrug and force myself to take a bite of my hot dog. It’s sweet as hell with all the toppings, and I can almost pretend it’s not bologna’s reimagined cousin as I force it down.
“But why cherry red?”
“Why not?”
“It’s a bold choice.” And Lucy isn’t a bold woman. “It practically screams ‘Look at me.’”
Her cheeks flush, but she squares her shoulders, and when she speaks, there’s a spark of defiance in her dark eyes. “It was a dealer vehicle. I got a good price on it.”
Bullshit. Ten to one, she chose it because it’s bold. Ostentatious. A fucking statement.
I should know. My Porsche is the same color.
And that has me reconsidering everything I thought I knew about Lucy Gonzalez.
I watch in silence as she scoops some beans onto a paper plate and settles back into her chair to eat them, legs tucked under her body.
The night is growing cold, but with the fire crackling high and bright, I’m in no hurry to get to bed. Lucy was right. The longer we sit here, the more the tension eases from my shoulders and, against my better judgment, I relax. Forgetting about the clusterfuck that’s currently my life. Or maybe that’s Lucy’s doing. The knowledge that as long as I stick this out for two weeks, she’ll be back at her desk, helping me sort out the mess.
We finish eating and sit in silence for a while, watching the stars wink into view.
