Pride and Pancakes

by Ellen Mint

  It felt like ages since a woman had borrowed any of his toiletries. The odd intimacy struck a sour note, but as he busied himself checking the cabinets and fridge it twisted into a haunting melody. Twenty-four hours. Get through that and he never need worry about Ms. Cho again.

  Chapter Seven

  Day two of this outfit. Beth frowned at the blazer that was too warm to wear inside, the sleeves too constricting around the upper arms and the wear on her elbows fading to an ashy gray. She could go without, but that’d leave her in only the blouse. Why hadn’t she noticed how see-through it’d become?

  A gurgle of shame rumbled in her gut as she thought of his sapphire eyes first homing in on her accidental exposure, then whipping away in shock. Was it that bad to look upon?

  What do you care?

  Because, like it or not, they were stuck together for at least another day. What if it’s more?

  Bouncing her forehead once more upon the steamed-up mirror, Beth prayed that a miracle would rescue her from this nightmare. Good thing she always kept a spare toothbrush in her purse in case of emergencies. Surviving an entire day with cottonmouth while around the pompous twat sounded like a curse from hell. Though, she wished she’d been wise enough to keep her entire suitcase in the car instead of at the hotel. With no towel to dry off on, her damp body quickly suckered to the once loose clothes, pulling them tighter than she wanted. Ha. As if he’d care anyway. Or even notice.

  Annoyed at herself for being annoyed at an annoying man not looking at her, Beth strolled out of the bathroom with her head held high. Water dribbled down her hair to puddle at the small of her back, but she ignored it all under the mask of confidence. She expected Tristan to rush past her, needing the bathroom himself, but it took scanning the cabin to find him bent over in the fridge.

  Unearthly yellow light shadowed through the open door. He looked as if he intended to climb deep inside, his ass stuck far out. The jeans were so tight she could make out not only his phone but had an easy time guessing the make and model.

  You’re staring at his ass.

  “What are you doing?” Beth called. She meant it to be at herself, but it drew the slow shift of the face inside the fridge.

  After closing the door, Tristan splayed his hands over the counter and leaned toward her. “Taking stock of our food supply.”

  Beth grimaced at what had to be bad news, and the fact they even needed to worry about such a thing. “Let me guess, we’ll be cooking our own shoes?”

  A laugh rolled through his chest that was more reminiscent of his singing voice than his speaking one. For a breath, she returned the foolish smile as if she hadn’t been the one to make the biting comment. Tristan rapped his knuckles thrice on the counter. “So far we should be in the clear. There’s not much by way of fresh food, certainly no fruit or veg to speak of.”

  “Veg?” she snickered, approaching the Midwestern boy with a slow saunter in her hips. “Hopin’ for a spot of tea there, Guv’nor?”

  Where she expected a snide remark or cruel sneer, she got a shocking blush. Digging his fingers through his hair, he admitted a fact about himself of his own volition. “Too much BBC, I’m afraid. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

  “No.” She shook her head slowly. He can’t be suggesting we, what, trap rabbits for dinner? Hunt down a deer? She was in ankle boots and a pantsuit, for God’s sake.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Tristan shrugged. “There’s no meat in the freezer either. It’s mostly nonperishables. A few bags of plain, generic chips, some crackers, a pile of packets of ramen.”

  “Then we’ll survive the nuclear fallout at least.” Beth swung up onto the bar stool perched in front of the kitchen. There wasn’t much on the counter—a few brochures, the proof that he really had dug through the kitchen cabinets, and a small basket wrapped in cellophane.

  Curious, she began to tug on the ribbon around the cellophane. It crinkled with an ungodly noise as she tugged the wrapping down.

  “I thought it was only Twinkies that’d last through the apocalypse,” Tristan said, seemingly enthralled with her flaunting the rules of the welcome basket meant for another couple.

  “Common misconception. Twinkies won’t survive much more than a year or two, but ramen…that’s timeless.” She smiled while finishing her excavation of whatever was meant for the happy newlyweds who sequestered in this cabin next.

  Two mugs stamped with the lodge’s logo rested inside a pile of shredded paper. Tristan picked up the first, pulling out a foil bag crammed inside the mug. “Hm.” He spun the bag around to reveal it to be pancake mix. “I guess breakfast is handled.”

  Beth fished into the second. “And we don’t have to eat them dry.” The tiny handle for the plastic jug of maple syrup barely fit around her pinkie.

  It was Tristan Harty, famous songwriter and musician, who turned to the array of cabinets and pulled down a bowl. “Real maple syrup seems a shame to waste on pancakes.”

  After fishing out a whisk as if he lived there, he dumped the powdered would-be pancakes into the bowl. The water was easy enough to add, but to her surprise, he began to crack open an unending stream of coffee creamers to fill in for the missing milk. Beth watched, her legs crossed tightly as the fussy man whisked the dry powder into a pourable batter without a second thought.

  “What else is there to do with maple syrup?” she asked while watching a grown man make pancakes as if she was observing a bird of paradise’s mating dance. It wasn’t even from scratch, but she’d never seen such a feat performed in the wild, so to speak.

  Placing a skillet upon the micro-stove and lighting the gas, Tristan shrugged. “Desserts mostly.”

  “Wait, you bake?” she gasped in shock.

  In an instant, the easy air of two strangers trapped in an odd situation snapped away. They were once again combatants staring across a battleground as a storm raged around them. He snapped his shoulders up tight around his head, like a turtle trying to retreat into his shell. Long gone was the easy manner from when he’d stirred the batter.

  Cold, harsh movements dumped a pat of butter into the skillet and he watched it melt. That man was the prickliest creature she’d ever met, and Beth had once had a porcupine sleep on her lap. With only the hiss of butterfat bubbling in the pan for sound, the creation of pancakes passed in silence. The stack piled up with Tristan’s back turned to her.

  She tried to follow suit, keeping her gaze on the living room, or the snow shifting in the winds. But movement drew her to look back and watch as the man shivered the skillet in his hand, gave it a toss and sent a pancake flying into the air. Without any fanfare, he caught it dead center and returned it to the fire. Beth stared in surprise at the perfect flipped pancake while Tristan snatched up the full plate.

  “Here.” Cold indifference punctuated a plate of surprisingly fluffy golden pancakes being dropped in front of her.

  She darted her gaze from the breakfast that her stomach demanded she eat to the man returning to the stove. “Aren’t these yours?”

  The shoulder slouch vanished, his neck extending as he leveled a frozen glare on her. “Concerned I poisoned them?”

  “No,” she insisted even while shoving the plate away. After dropping to her bare feet, Beth dashed into the kitchen. It wasn’t until she stood trapped between stove and counter that she realized how tiny it was. Tristan had to shift to keep from knocking his elbow into her chest as she moved to pick up the skillet.

  “I can make my own breakfast,” she said, already spooning a clump of batter onto the pan.

  Even as she watched the ivory-tan liquid ooze over the hot silver surface, he remained in place. There was so little room that when Beth tried to shift the skillet to keep the pancake from sticking, she accidentally nudged into his side with her elbow. When her elbow barely sank into his rock-hard hip, the man who seemed to think he needed to do everything finally threw up his hands and left.

  Glowering above the perfect stack of syrup-drenched pancakes,
Tristan dug into his food. The first pancake Beth babied, relying upon the spatula’s help to flip it. That one went onto a plate he’d placed down for her. From behind, she could hear the methodical fork cut, drag across the plate and chew of a man who refused to talk.

  They could maintain this unending battle for hours into days, or she could try for a ceasefire. “I asked because I only know how to bake one thing.”

  “Cookies?” he snorted.

  “Nope, I burn them the second I look at the sheet.” Beth dumped the next pancake onto the plate, feeling better about herself. “Baklava,” she said, staring at him even as she poured the next round of batter.

  That caused the man’s fork to hit the plate. “You can make baklava but not cookies? Baklava? As in the honey, and nuts and layers and layers of…”

  “I know, I know.” She waved her hand to try and cut off what she always heard. ‘Beth, why don’t you whip up a cake for this random celebration?’ ‘Do you want it to be both over and undercooked, and probably ooze in places?’

  Shaking the skillet, she mused, “Something in the methodical layering compared to ‘you’ll know when it’s done’ appeals to me. Or maybe I’m a baklava savant.”

  “Hm. I’m sorry we don’t have any honey and walnuts now.”

  She smiled at that. “And phyllo dough. I’m not that much of a savant.” That brought a surprising laugh from the dour man. Feeling plucky, Beth raised the skillet off the fire and gave it a flip. The second the pancake launched, she realized her mistake. It tumbled haphazardly through the air and struck the edge of the pan.

  “Shit!” she cursed, watching one half of the partially cooked pancake flop to the floor like a wet blanket. The rest skidded down the side of the skillet, hissing as it no doubt charred to a briquette.

  Embarrassment burning up her gut, Beth was unable to face the look of certain mockery from the would-be chef in the cabin. Leaving the skillet on the cold part of the stove, she bent over to pick up the lost pancake. “As I said,” she muttered to herself as the blush rampaged to a level five, “only a baklava savant.”

  “Uh, here.” He thrust a small hand towel at her.

  After dumping the scourge of failure into the stainless-steel depths, she tried to swipe up the last of the sticky mess. “It’s a shame this is the only towel in the cabin. I could have used one in the bathroom.”

  “Yes,” a wobbly voice whispered behind her. The always certain man sounded adrift. “…a shame.”

  She risked a glance over her shoulder and found his gaze hooked right on her ass. The one with both her underwear and thin pants plastered to her skin thanks to the shower. Oh, God. Tristan walked away before he was called out, resuming his vigil at the bar counter. It was Beth who had to pull in a calming breath.

  So he acknowledged she had a backside. It changed nothing of the situation. She was the evil reporter, he the valiant artist defending his craft. Rising from cleaning the floor spotless, Beth returned to finishing the last of her breakfast. But even while she heard the walled-off man slip away to his phone, a smile blossomed. She’d gotten to him.

  * * * *

  He’d learned how to kill unending hours in his youth. While waiting for a bus to arrive, while riding on said bus, while sitting in a greenroom hours before a show, while reclining between stopovers in airports. At each one, Tristan was a master of falling into any mindless task to keep himself busy. But, sitting in the middle of a cabin trapped behind snow, he itched to leap to his feet and run anywhere.

  A tickle formed on his ear, and he lifted the noise-canceling headphones to scratch it. In doing so, he turned his head out of habit. She sat at the same counter where she’d eaten breakfast, her laptop and notebooks oozing across the space as if she owned it. At first, he ignored her syncopated typing, deluding himself into thinking he could work on his song.

  The guitar remained curled up in its case, Tristan only pulling it out to check chords. His earlier strumming had brought a glare from the woman at the counter. She’d promptly slammed her own earbuds in to drown his noodling out. It wasn’t as if he was trying to serenade her…not that he ever would. But sometimes the melody would slip past him and he’d fall behind.

  Ha. Behind. He glared at the nearly empty blue notebook that should be filled with scratched-out lyrics. A handful of words sat there, most pure dribble from staring around the cabin. For about an hour he’d thought he had something with Fires of Flame before realizing he was just describing the proper maintenance of a fireplace.

  Otherwise, all he had to show for the morning where she’d let him work uninterrupted was a sea of white. A reflection of the ever-pressing outside world, no less. Will that work in a song?

  Ms. Cho leaned back in her chair, stretching her hands out as if she was trying to scare a cougar. He thought she was about to rise, perhaps take a break, before both hands collapsed to the keyboard to type anew. She’d been at that for a while. A rather long while.

  “What are you working on?” Tristan sighed. He’d mostly meant it to be to himself, but he foolishly voiced it aloud.

  The typing paused and she tugged out an earbud. “What was that?”

  “You seem to be typing an awful lot. More than I’d expect a two to three-thousand-word article about me would require.”

  A snort rolled her shoulders, which were freed of the squaring black blazer. “You think they’d give you three k? That’s getting into in-depth reporting with real pull quotes and conclusions instead of ‘Subject does verb at noun.’”

  Her derision stung, but he didn’t want to reveal it. Tristan raised his chin higher as if he didn’t even notice. Without a second thought, she returned to her laptop. “You’re not my only interest, you know.”

  “I gathered that. I was only curious…” Tristan began before sighing. Why should he expect her to explain herself? He certainly didn’t wish to. Ever.

  A creaking noise caused him to look up. To his surprise, Beth was staring at him. With an arm draped over the back of the stool, she said, “It’s a book. Non-fiction, hence the unending sprawl of notes.”

  “An autobiography?” Tristan perked up. “Going to share all your tips for a perfect skincare routine?”

  “Smartass,” she muttered under her breath. But she did glance the back of her hand against her silky-smooth cheek. “No, it’s a biography, not autobiography. Since you can’t stop prying.”

  God help him, but now he was curious. A blogger for a mid-level entertainment website was writing a biography. He tried to run through the list of C to D-level celebrities who would require such a task for their brand, but it seemed unlikely for a ghostwriter to put so much effort into that.

  “Who of?” Tristan asked. His bored feet pulled him nearly beside her chair, his body stopping just before he could easily read the screen to answer for himself.

  She craned her head up to the ceiling as if praying for salvation, before facing him. “Just so we’re clear, in your mind it’s okay for you to ask questions of me, but not the other way around?”

  “I haven’t stopped you from asking, and I don’t require you to answer.” He tried to wipe the curiosity from his voice, but in doing so a sliver of hurt warbled in instead. To his surprise, he wanted to know this about her.

  She drew her obsidian gaze up and down him as she no doubt weighed the hypocrisy of the situation. Tristan assumed she’d shove her earbuds back in and ignore him. He picked up his blank notebook, when she said, “My dad.”

  “Your…?” He flinched, instantly hunting over her face for a hint of celebrity or recognition. While it was a surprisingly genteel visage for such a cutting tongue, there was no obvious answer. Her lips were pert, with all the master sculpting devoted to the bottom one. The nose was pixyish and gently turned upward. And those wide eyes—they burned through every damn layer of armor he had.

  As Tristan fell silent, trying to drum up an answer to a question he’d failed to ask, she stared at him. “He’s a—” Ms. Cho began when an alarm
went off from the couch.

  He pursed his lips, fearing Barry was trying to get in contact with him, when the date struck hard against the back of his head. Damn it! Leaping to his feet, Tristan tugged up his phone and yanked his charging laptop from the wall. The poor thing was struggling and ready to be put out to pasture. It took a few more cycles before it found the Wi-Fi and he opened the browser…

  Only to glance over at the strange woman sitting in and watching. “If you will excuse me,” Tristan announced dramatically. With the open laptop balancing on his palm, he picked up the guitar, draped the strap around his neck and headed for the door.

  “Are you…?” the reporter breathed, but the rest of her question was drowned out in the door slamming shut.

  The unending white burned against his retinas, Tristan’s eyes trying to bead up tears as protection. Which was when the cold winds burrowed through his somewhat thin shirt. Damn it, he’d forgotten his coat. But there wasn’t time.

  Swiping snow off the charming outdoor chessboard, he placed his laptop on it and quickly booted up Skype. As it worked through the challenging connection, Tristan tumbled into the rocking chair across from the board. His movement caused snow to plummet off the back and down the gap in his waistband. Yelping, he scurried away just as the other end connected.

  A bright pink wall came into focus first, Tristan recognizing the bunny and duck banner behind the bed. The connection cut out, freezing to ungodly streaks until suddenly a little girl dashed forward so fast he feared she might crack her head on the screen. “You’re late!” she chided him, putting all the wrath of an eight-year-old into her sentence. When she moved to cross her arms, her mom stopped her for fear of kinking the mass of tubes piped into her veins.

  “Morning, Olivia,” Tristan called, giving a little wave.

  “Where are you?”

  Surprise overtook him as Tristan set up the camera for a perfect view of the mountain range. The blues of the skyline blended in with the middle of the craggy rock until a peak of pure white pierced through the sky above. Rubbing the back of his neck, he admitted, “It’s a long story. I—”