Christmas at Fox Ridge

5. Eira

Chapter five

Eira

December 21

C learly this man knows nothing about me if he’s expecting me to make him dinner.

Clearly I know nothing about myself— or I’m in denial— because I’m actually trying like hell to make something that’ll impress him.

It’s not that I’m incapable of cooking, because only a full-on moron would fuck up a basic recipe. But I don’t have a cookbook. Or internet. And I brought food for simple girl dinners—charcuterie, cereal, popcorn, grilled cheese.

But soup? That’s just vegetables in a broth. Easy peasy.

An hour later, things are chopped and floating around in a pot, and I feel like a goddamn domestic goddess. I untie the apron strings slung over the hips my mother insists on referring to as “childbearing” and grab my iPad and Apple Pencil en route to the plush couch. Before long, the only thing on my mind is cobalt-blue alien penis. And trying to figure out exactly what the author meant by barbed tip .

“Shit. Fuck. Shit.” My hands sting as I let go of the pot handles, fingers crisped like a batch of breakfast sausages. I was deep in the weeds working on my alien commission when a burning smell sent me reeling toward the stove. And I grabbed the pot before thinking about whether the handles could be hot.

Scowling at my pink hands, I make out faint fingerprints. Which means I’m not burned too terribly, and I’ll still need to wear gloves when I murder my best friend after this shitshow.

Delicately wrapping a tea towel around the pot lid, I lift it and fill the room with black smoke. Every trace of cottagecore bliss in the air dies alongside the charred carrots and potato sludge.

“ Shit. ” The lid slams back down, and I whirl around to collect my belongings as I mutter like the haggard old spinster I am. “Go to the cabin, she said. You’ll get to relax, she said. Everything is so fucking simple, she said.”

Now I need to go to town to buy a new pot for the cabin and figure out a plan B for dinner.

I’m still muttering when my feet slide into my soggy Ugg boots. Still carrying on when I wrap myself up in a coat I know won’t suffice in the cold mountain air and the cute silk scarf Lucas laughed under his breath about. Unrelenting even when I slam the cabin door and come face to face with a pretty young girl, staring at me with a sweet smile.

Oh, shit.

That’s why Lucas didn’t follow me to bed last night. He has a girlfriend. One who looks a little young for him, but we all love a fictional age-gap, so who am I to judge in real life? Especially considering my best dating candidate’s weenie barely fills a standard-issue hotdog bun.

She pulls a hand from the pocket of her thick, canvas jacket and waves. I can’t make out details of her face, and she’s fully bundled up from head to toe, but jealousy rears its ugly head regardless. I just know in my gut she’s gorgeous.

Fighting the urge to flip her off, I return the friendly wave then press my fully extended middle finger against the backside of my car door—aimed right at her—as I slowly drive by.