Page 51 of Bound

“Exactly,” Jackson grumbles as he rounds the steel table and stands next to me. “Because we’re supposed to be eating, not cooking.”

I don’t know what propels me to do it—maybe it’s that commitment to this day, this dream, this date. Or maybe it’s just that I pay attention to the small moments, the small things—or in this case, theobviousthings. I rise up on tiptoe, press my lips to his stubble-covered jaw and murmur, “Kurt’s cute but I prefer hockey players to chefs.”

He exhales.

“And thank you for bringing me here so I can learn this.”

And I get to watch the big, strong hockey player melt.

His expression is something I’ll never forget, even though I only get it for a second before he’s bending down and kissing me.

“Beautiful little kitty cat,” he says when he draws back, lightly tapping at my nose. “Now get on with those noodles. I’m hungry.”

Lips twitching, I get on with the noodles.

And so, by the time the sauce is ready and they’re dropped in the water to cook, Jackson is prebolusing for dinner, giving the insulin a head start on the carbs that are soon to follow.

“Sit, sit,” Kurt orders, gesturing toward the table he pulled us from when I started peppering him with questions thirty minutes before. Our waiter—who hasn’t been able to meet my eyes since we came face-to-face outside the bathroom—is depositing plates in front of our chairs.

Colorful salads, crusty bread, and a beautiful array of cocktails to accompany our wine.

“Enjoy,” he adds, shooing us from the kitchen and working furiously at his station.

We sit. We devour the salads, and I definitely have more than my share of the delicious bread.

And by the time my head is spinning slightly from the rainbow of cocktails, from polishing that bottle of wine off—even with all the bread soaking it up in my belly—the chef is depositing steaming plates of the most delicious pasta in front of me.

But it’s not just the food.

It’s…Jackson.

His continued awareness and consideration, the way his hand brushes mine as we share the dishes and offer each other bites, how our legs tangle beneath the table, the soft contact always there. The stories he shares of the team’s locker room antics—some I’ve heard, many I haven’t, all that have me in stitches.

And then he asks me questions about Gran, and I find myself talking about our traditions at Christmas—Chinese food and amovie at the local theater, about Junie and the bingo fiasco, about my attempts at making her a birthday cake as a teenager and not realizing that I’d swapped salt for sugar, and about the hard times too.

“…I thought I’d lose her when the cancer came back,” I admit. “I went home and cried all night, but then I did what she taught me—I got myself together, I did my research, and I made a plan. I got her doctors to get her into a clinical trial and thankfully, she responded well to it. She’s still recovering, and I hate that her journey hasn’t been easy, but she’s getting better a little more every day. And she’s been cancer free for six months now.”

Jackson squeezes my hand. “She’s lucky to have you.”

“I feel the same.”

He opens his mouth, but whatever he was going to ask is interrupted by his phone ringing.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Jackson

I pull out my phone and grimace at the caller ID, weighing my options.

If I ignore this call like I’ve been ignoring the texts all day, my mom might do something dramatic?—

Like get on a damned plane and knock on my door in the middle of the night.

And I have plans that don’t involve calming my hysterical mother.

“You should get that,” Claire murmurs.

I shake my head, pocketing my still vibrating phone. “Let’s enjoy our dinner. I don’t want to interrupt.”

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