Page 73 of Hero's Heart

Eva shook her head. “That woman is a riot. And more power to you if you can work with her day in and day out. It would be too much for me.”

“I don’t mind at all, to be honest.” It was so much better than what her life had been like for the past five years of working for her family.

They finished and left. Eva hugged them both then headed off in the opposite direction, while Annie walked Sloane to the car.

“You’re sure working here would be okay? With…everything?” Sloane asked, her hand resting on her stomach.

Annie’s gaze softened. “Absolutely. Waiting tables won’t hurt the baby. And speaking of things that won’t hurt the baby…” She paused, a sly smile playing at her lips. “You should go backto Callum’s. Spend some time with him. You know, reconnect through those other things you were asking me about.”

Sloane’s cheeks flushed. “I’ll think about it.”

Annie grabbed her hand. “I once was the quiet girl arriving in Oak Creek half in love with a hero widower I wasn’t sure felt the same way about me as I did about him.”

“Really?” That seemed hard to believe.

“God’s honest truth.”

“And did it work out for you?”

“I’ve been married to him now for over thirty years, we have a beautiful daughter together, who’s now married, and we have a grandbaby on the way. So yeah, I’d say it worked out.” She smiled. “And I have a feeling it’s going to work out for you too.”

Chapter 25

Sloane’s gaze flitted across Callum’s kitchen, her lips quirking with determination as she pulled open the next cabinet. Inside, neatly lined jars of spices stared back at her, their pristine labels a testament to his orderliness.

She grinned to herself. Of course Callum’s spices were alphabetized.

Shutting the cabinet, she crossed to the fridge. The cool air brushed her face as she surveyed its contents. Chicken breasts, fresh vegetables, and a carton of eggs. All things he’d bought while they were at the store in Oak Creek yesterday. Simple, but workable.

Her fingers tightened on the fridge door handle. She hadn’t really cooked in years. She’d done it all the time when her mother had been alive because there hadn’t been any other choice. If Sloane hadn’t cooked, they wouldn’t have eaten most days, especially when her mother’s depression had been at its worst.

But once she’d come to live with the Gettys, they’d had her use their cook for her meals. They’d charged her for the service—it had come out of her weekly paycheck, despite Sloane wanting to do it herself to save money.

Was her family looking for her? Would they discover she was here and tell Callum she was a criminal before she had a chance to explain things to him herself?

She had to force those thoughts out of her mind. If she didn’t, they would pull her under. Tonight wasn’t about her. It was about doing something for Callum.

He’d done so much for her, first in Moldova and now since she’d arrived here in Oak Creek. He was always taking care of her. Tonight was about her taking care of him.

She grabbed the ingredients and set them on the counter. She opened the laptop Callum had given her access to, searching “easy chicken recipes.” Her brow furrowed in concentration as she scanned the results. Lemon garlic chicken. That sounded perfect.

She skimmed through the recipe, muttering to herself. “Preheat the oven to 400 degrees, season the chicken…” Her movements quickened as she gathered the tools she needed.

Time was slipping away too fast, and she knew Callum would be home in less than an hour now.

She seasoned the chicken breasts, her confidence growing with each step. When she turned to slice the lemon, her hand slipped. The knife nicked her finger.

“Damn it,” she hissed, sticking her finger in her mouth to stop the sting. Shaking it off, she pressed on, determined.

By the time she placed the chicken in the oven, the scents of garlic and rosemary were already filling the air. She turned her attention to the vegetables, slicing them swiftly but carefully. A splash of olive oil, a sprinkle of salt and pepper, and they were ready for the roasting pan.

The timer on the oven beeped just as she slid the vegetables in. She opened the door, feeling the blast of heat, and frowned. Something was wrong. The chicken was too dark.

Her stomach sank. She grabbed a fork to check it and realized, to her horror, that the chicken had burned on one side. The pan was too small; the juices had dried up.

“No, no, no,” she muttered, trying to salvage it. But as she moved the pan, the edge tipped, and a drop of hot oil splattered onto the heating element.

Flames flared to life.

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