Page 95 of Chasing the Sun
The Drifted Spirit was quiet when we rolled up, the last stretch of evening painting the sky in hues of deep violet and burnt gold. A few guests sat on the porch, rocking in chairs, murmuring in low voices as the cicadas hummed their summer song. Scratch perked up from her favorite chair as we got closer, but she stayed put.
After she parked, I reached over to cut the engine. Elodie’s fingers flexed against the worn handlebars. She was still buzzing with energy from the drive, a live wire ofadrenaline and something else—something thick and charged that neither of us acknowledged out loud.
I turned to her, my voice low. “Hungry?”
Her eyes darkened, lips parting slightly as she glanced at my mouth. “Starving.”
Fuck.
The way she said it—like she wasn’t just talking about food—sent a slow roll of heat through my bloodstream.
I got out before I did something impulsive, like haul her into my lap and take her right there on the seat with an audience. The 4-wheeler was silent, leaving only the sound of the wind off the lake and the crunch of gravel under our boots as we made our way inside.
Elodie followed me through the back entrance, where the kitchen was already dimly lit with warm light. The space smelled like the remnants of whatever meal Helen had reheated earlier—garlic, roasted herbs, the faintest trace of something sweet. I grabbed the pack of mushrooms we’d foraged and tossed them onto the counter, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tension crawling up my spine.
“Where’s my bestie?” she asked, referring to Levi. Over the years plenty of women showed interest, but having Ellie so casually and fully embrace my son was entirely new. It was clear she cared for him as a person, not just tolerated him to get to me. Her care and genuine interest in my son made my heart crank into overdrive.
“Community service with Brody. It was part of his penance for the incident at the barn.” I moved around her, careful not to touch her. I knew once I started, it was going to be nearly impossible to control myself.
Elodie hummed acknowledgment as she looked around the kitchen. Everything was cleaned and organized with military precision, just as I liked it. She slid onto a highstool, watching me like she was trying to figure something out. “You do this a lot?” she asked, voice lazy, teasing. “Cook for women after dark?”
I tried not to smile as I set a pan on the burner and turned on the flame. “Nope.”
She bit her lip, tapping a slow rhythm against the countertop with her fingers. “So I’m special then.”
My hands stilled for half a beat before I reached for the oil. “Seems that way.”
Her teeth caught her lower lip again, and for a long moment we just ... looked at each other.
That was how I knew I was in trouble—because this date wasn’t just about sex. This wasn’t just about wanting her. It was about the fact that she could read me too easily, crawl into my damn head and make herself comfortable.
And I was letting her.
Our teasing was still there, but underneath it, something heavier. Something neither of us had the energy to fight off anymore.
“I just want to make you dinner.” Really, I wanted to take care of her, and I didn’t know what the fuck to do with that.
So I did what I always did—I focused on the task in front of me. First I filled a pot and set it to boil before taking a damp paper towel to clean our foraged mushrooms. My face heated as her eyes clocked every movement, silently observing without judgment.
The steady scrape of my knife against the cutting board filled the quiet as I chopped the mushrooms, working fast, needing something to keep my hands busy. The scent of butter and garlic bloomed in the air as I added them to the pan, the sizzle breaking the silence like a gunshot.
Elodie let out a soft, pleased hum. “You know, a man who can cook is a dangerous thing.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yes,” she said, watching the way my hands moved, the way my forearms flexed as I worked. “You make it look easy. Casual. Like you’re not over there looking entirely too good while doing it.”
I huffed out a laugh, shaking my head as I reached for the pasta, adding it to the water. “So now I’m dangerous because I can cook?”
She leaned forward, propping her chin on her fist. “It’s the fact that you can cook without a recipe and look so good doing it. That’s double homicide, really.”
The corner of my mouth twitched. “Sounds like you should be more careful, then.”
She exhaled a slow breath, dragging her fingers across the marble countertop. “You keep saying that, Callum, but here I am.”
Yeah. There she fucking was.
I looked at her—really looked. A curl slipped from the twist she’d put it in, framing her face and making her green eyes look impossibly large. She wasn’t just pretty, she was ...
