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Sawyer isn't a good chef.
If I hadn't known it before I know it now when he burns the eggs he's cooking for the second time, his failed attempt made known with loud curses and the faint smell of, well, burnt eggs.
"You sound more British when you're mad," I mumble, staring blankly at the book in front of me. After rereading the same paragraph for the fifth time, I've given up. Might as well look like I'm reading.
"This is bollocks," He seethes, scraping the burnt eggs into the cat's bowl beside the counter. Cat stares at them with her eyes narrowed, and I give her a pitying frown.
"As many times as you've attempted cooking you should've made at least one successful dish by now," I point out, looking up at him to catch him wiping his arm across his forehead. "even by accident."
"You're an accident." He grumbles, and Jo snorts appreciatively from the chair in the sitting-room.
She's been quiet all morning, face buried in a Russian novel she found at the Laurence's house. Ever since we found out Beth was ill, she's kept to herself. Has it been days? Weeks? Without Beth around to keep the March girls on track, it seems as though time has become unreliable.
Sawyer plops down into the chair on the other side of the kitchen table from me, a little bit of the less burnt eggs he managed to salvage and some stale toast making for a grand mid-afternoon-meal.
"How's poverty treating you?" I implore, raising one eyebrow at the youngest Gently brother. When Amy was forced to stay with Aunt March due to the likelihood of her catching the Fever, Tom went with her.
To keep her company, he'd said.
Sawyer, on the other hand, stayed with us. He took the attic, and since Beth had to have a room to herself, Jo slept in Meg and I's room.
More often than I'd like to admit Jo stayed at Laurie's.
Because Sawyer stayed with us, for the first time in his life he's experiencing what it's like to be a real country girl: chores, low pay rates, and boredom.
YOU ARE READING
Little March
FanfictionHis eyes turn to me. The hazel is practically mocking, and even though I don't react, there's no way he doesn't notice the way my face warms when he stares at me a beat too long. Jo would kill me. It's enough to get it from Amy, but me too? God. _...