Page 7 of Taboo & Tinsel

The inn on the other hand is…likeniceadjacent. It looks like it should be nice. It has all the cozy aspects. The patchwork quilt, the moody paint and dark wood trim. But it’s not quite there. A must smell permeates from somewhere inside the dank room. The bed creaks. And the draft coming in from the window is chilly. Every time the wind blows outside, a phantom burst of air wraps around my body. I tap the glass again, and the windowpane rattles a little.

The love affair I had with this inn through pictures is slowly fading to reality.

And its owner is much like my mother feared all those years ago. He’s a jock. Worse than that, he’s a jock who can’t jock anymore, so he’s a grumpy asshole, notonlyan asshole.

I let out a breath, and the window in front of me fogs. I’ve procrastinated long enough. Grabbing my phone, I start downstairs for the first time since I got in yesterday. I can’t spend the whole holiday avoiding my sexy as fuck uncle. After having all these hours alone to think about it, I’ve come to the conclusion that what we did was an honest mistake. Now that we know we’re quasi related, I’m sure we’ll be able to get along fine. All familial-like. One big fucked-up family like everyone else.

Still, I sneak down the steps, worried about seeing him again. My stomach twists as my foot hits the main floor. Then I freeze as a loud clatter erupts out of nowhere. Peeking my head into the closest room, I find an older couple seated at a small, circular table. They greet me with worried glances of their own. The woman’s gaze darts toward a door on the far side, and I stare at it as a frustrated grunt sounds from just beyond it.

This must be the dining room…and beyond that, the kitchen.

“I should go help him,” the woman says.

She’s about to get up from the table when I head that way. “Do you guys need coffee? Juice?” I ask, instincts taking over. I may not care about this inn or this man, but my Grandma Junie sure did.

“Everything,” the man mutters. “We need everything.”

I turn, my lips thinning. Pushing open a swinging door, I stop in my tracks. Cameron Michaels is standing in the middle of the kitchen with his hands on his hips, staring down at…something splattered across the black and white checkered floor.

But that’s not all of it. Dirty dishes are everywhere. Flour is strewn over the island like traces of snow. And smoke pours out of the oven in gray, billowy clouds. To top it all off, the smoke alarm starts beeping like an angry bystander.

“Shit!” Cameron springs into action, grabbing a dishtowel from the island and flapping it at the smoke alarm while I run to the oven to turn it off. Then, I sprint to the window above the sink and open it to let in some fresh air. When I turn, my uncle is scowling at me. “What are you doing? You’re not supposed to be in here.”

“What amIdoing?” I counter. “You’re burning the house down.”

“I have it under control.”

“Yeah, totally seems like you do.”

Luckily, the blast of cold air and Cameron’s incessant flapping helps the smoke alarm situation. It shuts off abruptly, and Cameron’s hands drop to his side, dejected. Whatever is in the oven is unsavable. That’s for sure.

“Listen,” I tell him, a plan already forming in my mind. I like puzzles and problems, but I like fixing them even more. “You head out there with drinks. I’ll figure something out in here.”

He gazes at me suspiciously.

I sigh. Are we really going to do this? "This is the part where you yell at me. Yadda yadda, big ol’ mean grumpy man routine, but then you realize that what I’m offering you is actually helpful, so please, let’s skip the macho asshole bit and get to the part where we actually feed your guests. I assume that’s what you’re trying to do.”

He still looks unsure, not moving from his spot. The poor dish towel dragging on the ground like he’s Linus from Peanuts. Dear Lord, could this get any sadder?

“Trust me, I can’t do anything worse than what you’ve already done,” I assure him. I’m no chef, that’s for sure, but I can certainly make breakfast. I point toward the door. “Juice. Coffee. Now.”

“Fine,” he gives in, though his voice is still sour. When he passes me, I notice the cutest smear of what looks like pancake batter across his shirt. Flour dots his forehead and is peppered throughout his hair. Smirking, I watch as he grabs a tray with coffee and juice already on it before bumping the swinging door with his backside and leaving me in peace.

Yep, totally not telling him he has ingredients all over him. He deserves it.

I get to work. I find a carton of eggs on the counter but have to wash a frying pan in order to scramble some. After getting them going, I search out a loaf of bread in the pantry. Eggs and toast might not be much, but at least it’ll get something in his guests’ stomachs.

Cameron comes back in with the tray. I peek behind me to see that the cups full of coffee are still there. He dumps them out in the sink and then starts a new pot. He dribbles his fingers over the counter, his foot tapping in one of the few bare spots of the floor. I try not to laugh but that must catch his attention too. “What?” he snaps, eyeing me.

“Problem?” I ask, arching an eyebrow and looking at the coffee machine pointedly.

“Coffee was cold.”

“That tends to happen when it just sits there,” I say, amused.

“I don’t find any of this funny,” he grouses. “No receptionist. No cook.”

Turning, I scramble the eggs. “Did they quit because of your winning personality?”

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