I bite my cheek to stop myself from squealing.
I’m in Hans’s kitchen.
Like his living room, it’s not flashy. The counters form a U along the side of the room closest to the road, and at the back of the kitchen, under a window showing the backyard, is a small dining table.
It’s remarkably clean. Not even a pile of mail on the table. And, not for the first time, I wonder if Hans is in the military. Or if he was.
Not the time, Cassie. Focus.
I debate for a second but decide that the stovetop is the best way to go for heating up the soup. I could try to do it all in the microwave, but it’s frozen solid and the stove just seems easier. Then I can use the microwave to heat water for the toddies. Because I’m having one too.
It doesn’t take long to find a pot with a lid in the cabinet next to the stove. I have to run hot water over the outside of the Tupperware, but then it only takes a little shaking and squeezing to slide the frozen block of soup into the pot.
I set the lid in place and turn the burner to medium heat, then turn my attention to the drinks.
There was a large glass measuring cup next to the pots, so I fill it with a couple cups of water and put it in the microwave.
The appliance hums to life, and I start to look for utensils.
The first drawer I pull open has hand towels. The next has takeout menus and mini packets of soy sauce and hot mustard. I’ve never seen him get food delivery, but apparently Hans likes Chinese food. Not that that’s a revelation. Who doesn’t?
I pull open the next drawer over and pause.
It’s filled with knives. Probably a dozen of them, all perfectly nestled in a layer of foam.
They don’t look like any of the knife sets I’ve seen before. They’re thinner, like the ones I’ve seen people use to slice up fish, and they’re a dull black, but they look expensive.
Maybe Hans is a chef too.
I take out the smallest one, needing it to slice the lemon, then move on to the next drawer and finally find what I’m looking for.
As the soup heats, I take the hot water out of the microwave and pour it into two mugs I found in an upper cupboard.
The mugs were next to matching white plates and bowls that clearly came together as a set. Another staple of bachelor life.
I add the honey to the hot water first so it can dissolve, then pour in the whiskey, a squeeze of lemon, and a shake of cinnamon.
I take a sip from one of the mugs and hum my approval.
Hot toddies are delicious and not just for sore throats. They’re also good for giving you courage when you’re inside your hot neighbor’s home.
I let my gaze rove over the kitchen again.
There’s something about this place that makes it feel like a rental or a cabin. It has the energy of a place that no one really lives in full time. The single set of dishes. The lack of clutter or art or decorations.
But I know Hans lives here. Sometimes it seems like he’s gone for days at a time, but he’s not gone enough for this to be anything other than his primary residence. He’s probably just traveling for work. And now that he’s acknowledging my existence, I should probably ask him what he does for a living.
The warmth of the mug in my hand reminds me he’s not feeling well.
I’ll ask him another time.
I’m taking another sip when my nose twitches.
I look over to the stainless-steel pot, and tendrils of smoke are seeping out around the lid.
“Ahh!” I rush the few feet to the stove.
My fingers touch the handle of the lid for just a moment, but I jerk away because it’s an all-metal lid with a metal handle and it’s scorching hot.
“Shit,” I hiss while shaking out my hand.
I know I saw hot pads in one of these drawers.
A noise sounds from the other room, and I can picture Hans getting up from the couch to come investigate.
“It’s all good!” I shout. “Stay there!”
Yanking open drawers, I find the hand towels and use one to pull the lid free.
A plume of smoke comes out of the pot.
“How?” I question the universe as quietly as possible.
I set the lid to the side and use the towel to fan at the smoke.
It disperses and thankfully doesn’t set off any alarms.
Looking into the pot, I see the culprit.
Frustrated, I scowl at the mini meatball stuck to the side.
Only I would burn frozen soup.
To prove my point, a large chunk of frozen broth still floats in the pot.
And I know exactly what happened. The pot got hot, the block of ice tipped against the side, and instead of melting out of the ice and dropping into the broth below, the meatball decided to sear itself to the metal.
Using one of the spoons, I scrape at the burned meatball. “Why couldn’t you just behave?”
When it finally breaks free and drops into the soup below, I realize I probably should have tried to scoop the burned parts out.
Whatever, too late now.
I bite my lip, eyeing the lid, but decide to leave it off.
Leaving the soup to finish melting and heating, I grab the mugs and head into the living room.
Hans’s gaze is already on me.
“Soup’s almost ready,” I say, crossing the room, noticing that it smells like smoke in this room too.
I also notice that Hans is trying not to smile.
