Page 55 of Finding His Redemption

“If you had a kitchen—not the bunkhouse kitchen, but your own—what would you make? Are you a cook?”

“I...” He cleared his throat. “Yeah, actually. Used to be, anyway. My grandmother, my mom’s mom, was full-blooded Italian. Taught me everything she knew before she died.”

“Really?” She settled back on the couch, surprised and intrigued. “Like what?”

“Lasagna from scratch. Proper risotto, the kind you have to stand there and stir for forty-five minutes. Osso buco that’ll make you cry.”

“Now I’m hungry,” she teased.

His laugh was soft, almost shy. “Been a while since I cooked for anyone.”

“Well, the offer stands if you ever want to use my kitchen. It’s nothing fancy, but it works.”

The words hung between them, weighted with an invitation neither of them was quite ready to acknowledge.

“What about you?” he asked after a moment. “What do you cook when you’re not making monster muffins?”

“I’m more of a baker than a cook. But I make a mean mac and cheese that Oliver swears is better than the boxed kind, which is basically the highest compliment a seven-year-old can give.”

“High praise indeed.”

The conversation drifted from there, easy, meandering, about nothing and everything. He told her more about Echo’s progress, about the rooster that seemed to have a personal vendetta against River, about his awe at Anson’s excellent leatherwork, and his frustration with the horse he’d been assigned, Lazy Susan, who moved only when she was damn good and ready to. She told him about Mrs. Pendry’s ongoing feud with the owner of the new chain sub restaurant, who was taking business away from her family’s century-old drug store and deli, and about Oliver’s latest dinosaur facts. Normal things. Safe things.

And as they talked, the crawling sensation between her shoulder blades gradually eased. The shadows in the corners of her apartment seemed less menacing. The silence of the night less oppressive.

“It’s late,” Jax finally said, his voice rough with fatigue. “You should get some sleep.”

She glanced at the clock. 1:37 AM. They’d been talking for hours, and she had to get up soon to start baking for the morning rush. “Yeah, I guess I should.”

But neither of them hung up.

“Nessie?” His voice had dropped to almost a whisper.

“Yes?”

“If that feeling comes back—the one about being watched—call me. Doesn’t matter what time.”

Her throat tightened unexpectedly. “I will.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Another pause, filled with things unsaid. “Goodnight, Nessie.”

“Goodnight, Jax.”

She held the phone to her ear long after the call had ended, listening to the silence, feeling oddly bereft. Then she rose, checked the locks one more time, and went to bed.

But sleep didn’t come easily. She tossed and turned, her mind replaying their conversation, lingering on the way his voice had softened when he talked about cooking, the way he’d sounded genuinely concerned when she mentioned feeling watched.

It had been so long since anyone had worried about her. So long since she’d allowed herself to be vulnerable with someone other than Oliver. The sensation was both thrilling and terrifying.

The next night, her phone rang at exactly 9:30. She answered on the first ring.

“Hey,” she said, unable to keep the smile from her voice.

“Hey,” he replied, and they fell into conversation as easily as if they’d known each other for years instead of weeks.

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