Page 52 of Where We Call Home

I pulled the chicken from the fridge and set it on the counter, trying not to think too hard about how much I disliked working with raw meat. Thick cuts of chicken had become a food aversion lately—texture was an issue. Beans, too. Just thinking about them I had to hold back a gag.

After rummaging through the kitchen for a cutting board and meat mallet, I found what I needed and tried to commit their locations to memory. This wasn’t my space yet, but I wanted it to feel like it could be.

Once I’d flattened the chicken, I needed a plate. Rhodes kept his plates on the higher shelves, well out of my reach, remembering from the first time I was here.

I grabbed a chair and dragged it to the cabinet, knowing this probably wasn’t the smartest idea. Climbing up carefully, I opened the door, expecting to find plates on the third shelf. Instead, the space was empty. Leaning back slightly, I scanned the other shelves until I spotted them on a lower level.

Stepping down slowly, I pushed the chair aside and grabbed a plate.

For a moment, I paused. Why had he moved them? The thought tugged at me briefly, but I shook it off. Maybe he’d noticed me struggling to reach them before and adjusted without saying anything. That seemed like something Rhodes would do. He was a man of quiet, thoughtful gestures.

After a while, the rumble of a truck pulling into the driveway drew my attention. Through the picture window, his headlights cut through the twilight, announcing his arrival.

Perfect timing. My culinary masterpiece was nearly finished, and I had to admit it smelled incredible. If this didn’t impress him, nothing would.

The front door creaked open, and Rhodes stepped inside. His presence filled the room, even from across the house. I leaned back slightly from the stove, just enough to catch a glimpse of him.

Dusty and tired and somehow still undeniably handsome, he paused in the entryway to remove his boots. As if sensing me watching, his gaze lifted, locking onto mine.

“Something smells good,” he said, a warm smile spreading across his face.

I grinned back. “If you’re lucky, it might even taste good too.”

He wore a short-sleeved t-shirt, dark-washed jeans streaked with dirt, and his trusty cowboy boots. Easy on the eyes didn’t even begin to describe this man. The way that shirt stretched just enough across his chest to show the outline of his muscular pecs, the snug sleeves hugging his biceps—chef’s kiss. I wouldn’t mind burning that image into my memory forever.

Rhodes tossed his hat onto the entry table and kicked off his boots. As I mindlessly stirred the pot of instant mashed potatoes, he ran a hand through his hair from root to tip.

The way I wanted to undress that man—piece by piece, layer by layer—was practically feral.

Dragging his feet slightly on the wooden floor, Rhodes made his way into the kitchen.

“You’re making dinner?” he asked, opening the fridge to grab a water bottle. He cracked the lid and leaned against the counter, settling comfortably out of my way.

“Don’t sound so shocked,” I quipped, tearing my gaze from him and focusing back on the pot. If I kept staring, these mashed potatoes would turn into an inedible lump.

“I’m not,” he replied, defensive but amused. “It’s just nice that someone’s taking the time to cook a homemade meal for me.”

“When’s the last time someone cooked for you?” I asked.

Rhodes took a sip of water, pondering. “How long ago was Easter?”

That was... sad. While I’d spent years traveling the world, meeting new people, and experiencing unique cultures, Rhodes had been here—alone. The thought hit me harder than I expected.

“What did you do today?” Rhodes asked, his sharp eyes clearly catching the shift in my mood.

“Well,” I started, trying for nonchalance, “I tested out your fancy washing machine. Did some laundry, I was running low on pajamas. I put more of my stuff in the room and started sorting through the baby’s things.”

“No documentaries?”

“Well, that too, but I figured that was a given.”

Rhodes chuckled.

“By the way,” I began, unable to hold back my curiosity any longer, “did the plates move? Or am I losing it?”

“I moved them lower,” he admitted, casually leaning against the counter. “If I’m not here, you need to be able to grab one without climbing on something.”

My lips pressed together in guilt as I looked away.

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