Page 56 of Unlocking Melodies

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I stared at my phone in bewilderment. These messages were coming faster than most corporate crisis alerts. And somehow, they felt more intimidating than any board meeting. It might have a group chat, too.

Liam

He likes the corner booth by the window. And he still can't handle spicy food, even if he says he can. Don't let him try to prove otherwise.

Caleb

Melody expects pre-date pets. Non-negotiable.

I should have been annoyed by their meddling. Should have been concerned about how they'd all got my private number (a mystery for another time). Should have been maintaining professional distance and corporate composure.

Instead, I found myself overwhelmed with gratitude for this town's absolutely unsubtle but completely sincere investment in our happiness. They'd been protecting Jimmy all this time, holding his story safe until we could both find our way back to it.

Mr. Quackers made one final appearance, waddling past with what could only be described as a threatening stare. Message received, sir. No more messing this up.

Chapter 14

Sweet and Sour

Turns out muscle memory only went so far. While Past Jimmy could apparently juggle complex music contracts, organize town events, and lead duck rebellions, Current Jimmy couldn't figure out what the hell went into a basic pasta sauce.

“How do you burn water?” I muttered, staring at the disaster that was supposed to be dinner. The kitchen looked like a crime scene where the victim was Italian cuisine. Even the smoke alarm seemed judgmental, chirping warnings at suspiciously regular intervals.

Nina had sworn I was good at this. “You make the best comfort food,” she'd said. “It's like watching a conductor in the kitchen.” Either she was being incredibly kind, or Past Jimmy's cooking skills had taken a vacation along with his memories.

The doorbell rang just as I was contemplating whether takeout menus counted as comfort food. Because of course Ethan would be early. And of course he'd look like that – casual sweater that probably cost more than my rent somehow makinghim even more attractive than his usual suits, and jeans that... well. Those jeans required their own warning label.

I, meanwhile, looked like I'd lost a fight with a flour bag. Which, technically, I had.

“Something smells...” Ethan paused diplomatically, taking in the kitchen chaos.

“Like regret and broken dreams?” I offered. “Pretty sure that's not what Past Jimmy meant by 'comfort food.'”

His laugh was warm and real. “I take it dinner prep isn't going as planned?”

“Apparently Current Jimmy and kitchen appliances have a complicated relationship.” I gestured at the mess helplessly. “I swear I had this whole plan. Nina said I used to be good at this.”

“Hey.” He stepped closer, and suddenly those jeans were very much in my personal space. “It's fine. Really.”

“I just... I wanted to do this right.” The admission felt more vulnerable than it should have.

“Who says this isn't right?” His smile was soft. “Besides, Liam recommended this little Italian place just in case. Tony's? Said it was your favorite.”

The relief of a backup plan mixed with embarrassment at my kitchen disaster. “I'm sorry. I'm the one who suggested cooking and now?—“

Before my brain could catch up with my body, I'd kissed his cheek in gratitude. We both froze, the gesture hanging between us like a question neither of us was ready to answer.

“I should...” I gestured vaguely at my flour-covered everything. “Shower. Changed. Words.”

“Take your time.” His voice had gone slightly rough. “I'll... deal with the smoke alarm.”

Twenty minutes and one minor hair crisis later, we walked into Tony's to find the entire town had apparently decided Italian food was the evening's theme. Mrs. Henderson sat inthe corner, holding a newspaper upside down while peering over it with what appeared to be new opera glasses. The local Crocheting circle had claimed three tables, their yarn completely forgotten in favor of not-so-subtle observation.

Tony himself emerged from the kitchen like he was greeting visiting dignitaries rather than regular customers. “Jimmy! Ethan! Your usual table is ready.”

I didn't remember having a usual table, but apparently I did because Tony led us to a cozy corner booth with an excellent view of both the street and the kitchen. Maria, Tony's wife, kept peeking out with obvious approval, occasionally whispering rapid-fire Italian that made Tony beam.

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