Property Of The Mountain Man - Gemma Weir Page 0,4

being in the same room.

“Long. Owen didn’t bother to turn up again, so I worked the whole day on my own,” I tell him, pulling a mixing bowl from the cupboard. Grabbing the ingredients for an easy corn bread from the pantry, I pull my mom’s apron from the back of the door and slide it on over my clothes.

“That kid wouldn’t know a hard day’s work if it hit him in the head,” Dad grouses as he joins me in the kitchen, sliding into a seat at the worn wooden table to chat to me while I cook, just like he did every day with my mom.

Working quickly, I turn on the stove, greasing a pan and pushing it to the side while I mix together the bread batter, doing it all with practiced hands, just like Mom taught me to.

“You should quit that good for nothing job and go to college, your mom’s gone and there’s nothing holding you here,” Dad says, scolding me softly.

“Nothing except you and my home,” I say rolling of my eyes.

“I’m an old man, but I’m more than capable of looking after myself,” he growls.

“Well maybe I like looking after you,” I tell him with a wink, setting the bowl to the side as I grab some chicken out of the freezer ready to prep tomorrow’s dinner.

“I could just get take out,” Dad laughs.

“You hate take out,” I laugh.

“I hate you looking after me even more.”

“Oh, close your mouth, old man,” I snap. “I’m not just cooking for you, I have to eat too, and right now I need to get this corn bread in the oven so I can go take a shower while it cooks,” I say, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his weather-worn cheek.

“I love you, Bonbon,” he rasps, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and pulling me in for a hug.

“Love you too, Daddy.”

Five minutes later the cornbread is cooking, and I’m stepping into my bedroom and closing the door behind me. My room is a strange mix of childish and grown up. My favourite ragdoll is still on the shelves, next to my winner’s trophy for the third-grade talent show I sang in. But alongside it are a selection of very adult romance novels, that I’m sure would make half the rowdy guys in the bunkhouse blush if they read them.

My tiny twin bed is gone, replaced with a full that’s pushed up against the wall, the comforter a pretty duck-egg blue that clashes with the pink walls my mom and I painted for my twelfth birthday that I haven’t ever got around to changing.

My bathroom is a jack and jill that connects with the room that was Caleb’s before he moved out, but as we’ve never lived in the same house it’s always just been mine, as the bottles of products, hairbrushes, and makeup can attest.

In everyday life I’m organized and tidy, in my personal space I’m a bit of a slob, so the bed’s unmade, the bathroom in need of a clean, my clothes strewn haphazardly where I’ve thrown them toward the hamper and missed.

I add tidying up and doing some laundry to my to do list as I strip out of my jeans and work t-shirt and fling them toward the other clothes. Turning on my shower I step under the warm stream of water, sighing as the heat instantly relieves some of the exhaustion in my muscles. With mechanical movements I wash my body, then shampoo and condition my hair, reluctantly turning off the water and stepping from the shower once I’m finished.

Drying myself quickly, I wrap my hair up in a towel and turn to glance at myself in the mirror. I take a moment to assess. I look like my mom, dark hair, dark eyes, and creamy skin that goes red the moment I’m out in the sun. My friend Cora calls me petite, but I think that’s just a nice way of saying short. I don’t hate the way I look though; I’m fit and reasonably slim with enough curves to look like a girl, but not enough to look like I eat more of the pastries than sell them at work. Pulling on a long-sleeve t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, I pause only long enough to slide my feet into my warm fluffy slippers as I head back toward the kitchen.

Dad’s still at the table and Caleb has joined him, bottles of beer in front of them both