Chapter 3

3

" P enny! Where are you? I brought coffee!"

Millie comes barging into the kitchen with a drink carrier in one hand and a half-eaten scone in the other. She stops dead in her tracks when she sees the guys, her mouth falling open, utterly oblivious to the crumbs falling out and sticking to her pink lip gloss.

"Morning, Millie," the guys call out, smirking.

"Thank you, Millie." I take the drink carrier from her and wave my hand in front of her face, trying to snap her out of it.

"What?" She blinks at me dazedly, then abruptly goes into a tirade. "Why didn't you call me last night? I had to hear it from my neighbor! I'm supposed to be your best friend, Penny."

"I know, I'm sorry, Millie." I wrap my arms around her, hugging her tight. "You are my best friend. It was late, and I passed out the second I got home."

"No! I'm the one that should be sorry. I drove by the restaurant on my way here and saw the damage. What happened?"

"I wanted a snack."

"You wanted a snack," she repeats dumbly, her eyebrows lifting toward her hairline .

"I don't know what happened. I was using the fryer for fish and chips, and then the wall was on fire."

"Holy shite. I'm so glad you're ok. And at least it wasn't the entire restaurant, aye?" She takes another bite of her scone, her eyes narrowing as she looks between me and the guys. "Okay, well, I'm off to work. I'll stop by later and see what you need help with. Love you, Penny Lou Who." She blows me a kiss and then bounds back out the door, leaving a cloud of sweet-smelling perfume behind.

"Penny Lou Who?" Archer asks, looking at me over the top of his glasses.

"Long story," I say, waving my hand in dismissal.

"Any relation to Cindy Lou Who?" Sammy asks. "You have a nose just like hers." He swipes one long finger down my upturned nose.

"Leave me and my Whoville nose alone," I grumble, stomping out of the kitchen and up the stairs to change into my work clothes.

I'm standing in front of the still-smoldering ruins of the kitchen and bunkhouse, trying not to cry. Two of the kitchen walls are entirely gone, the roof caved in, and not a single scrap of the bunkhouse is left standing. One of my neighbors was nice enough to bring a dumpster by early this morning, so we get to work filling it.

After three hours of back-breaking work, soot covers all of us from head to toe. I sit down on a lump of metal that probably used to be the prep table, dirty and dejected.

"Hey, we've got this, boss," Sammy says, sitting beside me. "Tell you what. I'll go to the store right now and get what I need to make a delicious lunch. You'll feel better after you eat my food. I promise. Bring the crew back to the house in a couple of hours." He pats me on the head awkwardly, and a minute later, I hear the rumble of the work truck, and he's pulling out onto the road.

Two hours later, the kitchen is cleared of debris, the dumpster is almost full, and somehow I feel even more hopeless than I did this morning. There's nothing left of the kitchen. Not one single spatula went unscathed.

"It'll be okay, Sugar," Spencer says, walking up behind me, warm hands squeezing my shoulders .

When I don't respond, he turns my body toward him and wraps his arms around me. I haven't been hugged by anyone other than Millie or Lach in so long that I don't know what to do, so I stand there, stiff as a board in his arms.

"Jesus Christ. Relax." He pushes on the back of my head until I rest it in the crook of his shoulder. I turn my face into his neck, his skin warm against my forehead, and I break. He gathers me close as sobs rack my body, making soothing shushing sounds, his lips pressed to my hair.

"We need to go meet Sammy at the house before the food gets cold," I mumble, hiccupping, refusing to let go of him.

"We will."

I pull back a little, wiping my sooty hands over my sooty face, ending up dirtier than when I started. "You give good hugs," I sniffle.

"It's because I'm short, Sugar. But thank you all the same," he says in his deep southern drawl.

"You're not short," I protest, craning my neck to look into his gray-blue eyes.

"Maybe not to someone that's five-foot-one, but I don't know many people that consider five-foot-eleven to be tall. I make up for it in other ways, though, don't you worry."

I pull away from him, my cheeks on fire. "I—I'm not worried," I stammer. "Why would I be worried?" My voice cracks, and I'm suddenly wishing a hole would open up beneath my feet and swallow me whole. He looks at me, tilting his head, awareness flashing in his eyes.

"I was teasing. Sorry if that made you uncomfortable," he says gruffly, his gaze sliding down to my lips.

"So you don't make up for it in other ways?" I ask, my mouth working faster than my brain. Fuck. I tilt my head toward the sky, closing my eyes. Breathe Penelope. Fucking breathe. "Will you round up the guys so we can go back to the house for lunch?" I ask him, not daring to look him in the face.

"Sure thing, Sugar, but for the record, I wasn't lying."

The house smells incredible. "What are you making?" I ask as we walk into the kitchen, trying not to ogle a shirtless Sammy as he stirs something in a pot on the stove.

"Oxtail stew." He turns toward me, full lips pulling into a grin. "You'll love it."

"I'm sure I will. It smells amazing." I squeeze my hands into fists to prevent myself from doing something stupid like reaching out and running my hands over his skin. He looks so soft. And warm. I clear my throat, reeling myself in. "I didn't know you could cook."

He shrugs. "I haven't needed to since working for you, but I'm glad to have the chance now. I don't want to forget everything my mother taught me."

"My stomach is glad you have the chance, too," I laugh.

The timer on the oven dings, and he takes out a tray of freshly baked, yeasty rolls.

"I didn't make these, they were frozen," he says apologetically.

"I think we'll survive," I tease, grabbing what I need to set the table.

Jamie walks into the kitchen, looking over Sammy's shoulder to see what he's making.

"God, that smells amazing." He runs his hand up Sammy's arm, squeezing his bicep gently before sitting at the table.

I look at the spot on Sammy's arm for a little too long, trying to puzzle out what I just saw. Sammy hands me a trivet to set on the table, interrupting my thoughts. The six of us dodge and swerve around each other as we grab drinks, and then we're all sitting down, talking over each other as we serve ourselves. The table quickly descends into silence as we start eating, all of us appreciating an incredible meal after hours of hard work.

Once finished, I sit back, watching as the guys clean their plates. The silence quickly turns into them making jabs at each other and then sharing stories back and forth, laughter filling the tiny space.

I like this—a lot. I didn't realize how lonely I was living here alone.

"We need to talk about meals," Archer says, rapping his knuckles on the table to get everyone's attention. "I assume all of us at least know how to make one meal?" We all nod. "Perfect, what do we think about taking turns making dinners? Lunches can be leftovers or easy things we can grab on the go. Sandwiches, cheese and crackers, stuff like that."

"I'll take the extra day every week," I offer, liking the idea of being able to cook for them.

"Perfect. Is that settled, then? Anything else we need to discuss before we get back to work?"

"How are we going to handle grocery shopping?" I'd love to be able to say I could handle it myself, but just thinking about it gives me anxiety.

"We can make a weekly list and go shopping together every Sunday," Spencer suggests, tipping back in his chair and locking his hands behind his head.

"We should be able to get most of the fresh stuff out of the garden at the restaurant." I stand and walk over to the kettle to make myself another cup of tea. "I just realized it's my responsibility now since the kitchen staff won't be around to take care of it."

"No," Liam says, except with his accent, it sounds more like 'naur.' " Our responsibility. If we're all eating from it, we can all help take care of it."

"Let me know if anyone thinks of something else we need to discuss. Should we draw names to see who cooks tonight?" Archer asks, looking around at us.

"Let's start tomorrow night. I want to take you guys out to the pub as a thank you." I push my hand through my hair, tucking it behind my ear.

"Thank you for what, Pen? We're just doing our job," Jamie says, patting me on the back.

"Fixing my screw-ups isn't your job, Jamie," I say softly.

I know he's just trying to help me feel better about everything, but those are the last words I want to hear. Am I just a job to them? Their boss? Are they hanging around because they're still getting paid, have somewhere to sleep, and have a full belly? Or are they staying because they care and want to help? I'm too much of a chicken shit to ask, so, per usual, I guess I'll just spend the next two months overthinking it. Fuck me.

"Don't do that," Archer says, nudging my chin up with his knuckle so I'm looking him in the eye. "We're not going anywhere, Pen, and it's not because you're paying us. It's because you've been there for all of us the last few years, and now it's our turn to be there for you."