Page 10 of Caught By the Lumberjack

"That sounds suspiciously fancy for—" She broke off as I pulled two plastic-covered frozen dinners from the freezer, both featuring sad approximations of the meals I'd described on their packaging.

I held them up with a deadpan expression. "Chef's specialties."

Her horrified face was almost comical. "Please tell me you're joking."

"What? They're perfectly good meals. Just need seven minutes in the microwave."

She stood up, approaching the kitchen with purpose. "Are those even real ingredients? Let me see that." She snatched one of the packages, scanning the label with increasing dismay. "Sodium phosphate? Modified food starch? Caramel color?" She looked up, eyes wide. "You actually eat these regularly?"

"Not every night," I defended, though it was probably close to the truth. "I work long hours. Cooking elaborate meals isn't exactly a priority."

She set the frozen dinner down like it might contaminate her fingers. "And I'm guessing that 'filet mignon' is actually just a processed meat patty?"

I shrugged. "It gets the job done."

"Oh my God." She peered into my refrigerator, then began opening cupboards. "Do you have any actual food in this kitchen? Vegetables? Grains? Anything that once resembled a living plant?"

"I have beer," I offered helpfully.

She shot me a withering look before continuing her inventory of my kitchen. To my surprise, she began pulling items from shelves and the vegetable drawer of my refrigerator: an onion, several cloves of garlic, a slightly wilted bell pepper, a bag of brown rice I didn't remember buying, a can of beans, some spices.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Saving you from nutritional disaster," she replied, rolling up the sleeves of my flannel on her arms for the tenth time. "I can make something edible from these. Something that won't eventually require you to be on blood pressure medication."

"Let me guess—you're vegan?" I couldn't keep the amusement from my voice.

"Mostly plant-based," she corrected, washing her hands at my sink. "I occasionally have sustainably sourced eggs and dairy. But meat?" She shuddered dramatically. "Not since I was sixteen."

"So I should put these gourmet feasts back in the freezer?" I held up the frozen dinners.

"Unless you want to use them as doorstops." She was already dicing the onion with surprising efficiency.

I leaned against the counter, watching her take over my kitchen with the same determination she'd shown at her protest. "You seem to know your way around a cutting board."

A wistful expression crossed her face. "I've always loved cooking. It's actually been my dream to open a farm-to-table restaurant someday. Source everything locally, build relationships with organic farmers, create seasonal menus that showcase what's growing right there in the community."

This unexpected revelation caught me off guard. "Seriously? I thought your life ambition was professional protesting."

She laughed, the sound warming something in my chest. "That's just my side hustle. Food is my real passion."

"Why haven't you done it? Opened the restaurant?"

She focused on chopping the pepper, not meeting my eyes. "Startup costs. Finding the right location. Mostly, I've never stayed in one place long enough." She glanced up. "Hard to put down roots when you're always on the move, fighting the next environmental battle."

Something about the vulnerability in her admission made me want to know more. "Sounds like there's more to Clementine Fox than chains and protest signs."

"Just like there might be more to Vaughn Ridgeway than chainsaws and flannel shirts." She gestured toward one of the cabinets. "Do you have any kind of alcohol other than beer? Cooking wine? Whiskey?"

I pulled a bottle of bourbon from a high shelf. "Will this work?"

"Perfect. And we should probably have some too. For medicinal purposes. You know, to ward off the chill."

I found two glasses and poured us each a finger of bourbon. Our hands brushed as I passed her glass, sending an absurd jolt of electricity up my arm.

"So," she said, taking a sip and returning to her cooking, "make yourself useful, Mr. Lumberjack. Chop these carrots while I start the rice."

For reasons I couldn't fully explain, I found myself following her directive, stepping beside her at the counter and taking up the knife she'd indicated.

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