Finding Kyle(29)

“Hi,” I say with a shrug since my hands are full. But then I nod down to the basket in my hands. “Brought us dinner.”

His gaze drops down to the basket, and then back up to me. “Us?”

“Well, yeah,” I chastise. “I didn’t cook all this food just for you to eat it by yourself. I get some of the rewards too.”

“Are there any baked goods in there?” he asks dubiously, and I know I’m moments away from him opening the door.

Good thing I threw that bread away. “Nope. Just a pork loin and some candied carrots. I’m a good cook.”

“But the baking leaves a lot to be desired,” he adds on, and I can’t help but grin—not over his backhanded slight that was said all in good fun, but because his arm shoots out and he opens the screen door to let me in.

I push past him, taking in the rustic decor of his cottage. It’s totally a man’s place as there’s minimal decorative touches. The living room is small and boasts only a love seat and a ratty-looking recliner that’s crowded around an old wood-burning fireplace with a red brick mantle. My heart warms when I see my painting hanging over it.

Beyond the living room is a small kitchen. I walk into it, setting my basket on the old, chipped countertop. As I pull out the two casserole dishes—one that contains the pork loin I’d already cut into thick slices and the other holding the carrots—Kyle wordlessly pulls out plates and flatware before turning to the fridge and pulling out two bottles of water.

I dish up our dinners. By silent agreement, we both take seats at his kitchen table that has seen better days. It’s battered wood with nicks and scratches surrounded by four mismatched chairs.

I watch him carefully as he cuts into the pork, takes a bite, and chews slowly, his eyes focused on his plate. But I’m not going to sit here in silence when this is prime opportunity for conversation.

“Any good?” I ask, and he tilts his head to look at me.

He swallows as he nods. “Very good.”

I beam a smile at him. “Thanks. I’d actually made some bread, but well… you’d be throwing me out of your house right about now if I’d offered it to you.”

“You more than make up for the lack of baking skills,” he mutters before spearing a carrot.

“My mom’s a good cook,” I say by way of explanation.

“How is she at baking?” he asks.

“Sucks like me,” I admit.

He gives me an amused smile as he cuts another piece of pork loin. I use this opportunity to go for it.

“So you said you lived in Wyoming,” I say as I work at cutting my food up into bite-sized pieces. “What all did you do there?”

I expect sullen silence, so I’m surprised when he says, “Worked various jobs here and there, but did a few years working in the oil fields. Eventually, I became a mechanic.”

“Wyoming has oil?” I ask curiously.

He nods. “Mostly in the western part of the state.”

“And what type of mechanic were you?” I ask as I punch my fork down into a piece of pork.

“Motorcycle,” he says, and I’m surprised when he elaborates without me being pushy or nosy. “Started out as a hobby. Bought an old Triumph and fixed it up myself, then realized I liked working with engines. Eventually moved over to the eastern part of the state and became a full-time motorcycle mechanic.”

“I can totally see that,” I observe thoughtfully.

“How’s that?” His expression is doubtfully curious.

“Well, I mean you’re handy,” I tell him. “Good with your hands. Knew exactly what to do when my water pipes broke. Some people are naturally gifted with stuff like that. I also saw you working on your truck’s engine a few weeks ago, so I figured you knew what you were doing.”

“Engines sort of make sense to me,” he mutters as his gaze goes back to his plate. “But as good as I am with mechanical stuff, I totally suck at electronics.”

“But aren’t most modern engines full of electronic components?” I ask, enjoying this simple and unstilted conversation where he’s not holding back.

“True,” he says. “Always learning something.”

I nod. “Pretty big change you’ve made, going from a motorcycle mechanic out west to a lighthouse keeper on the East Coast.”

“You could say that.”

He doesn’t offer more, and the silence becomes instantly oppressive. So I veer off the path a little and try for something a bit more personal.

“So what do you like to do for fun?” I ask as he continues to eat. “I mean, you came in the dead of winter. There’s not a lot to do around here unless you’re into winter sports like snowmobiling or skiing. You had a few months where you were holed up in here all by yourself.”

He raises his gaze from a piece of carrot on his fork to me and gives a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t know… I read a lot.”

My eyes brighten. “Really? I love to read too. What type of books?”

“Crime stuff,” he says.

“Like real crime or fiction?”

“Both actually,” he says. “I like the classics too. The guy who lived here before me left a nice collection, and I’ve read through all of them already.”