Page 50 of The Bombshell and the Bodyguard
One evening, I made several regionally inspired side dishes to go with the fresh fish Wilder had caught earlier in the day.
The menu included spicy jasmine rice, a green salad. I even attempted “rujak,” an Indonesian fruit salad with peanut sauce comprised of star fruit, water apple, jackfruit, banana, pineapple, and bright red dragonfruit. The fish I simply brushed with coconut oil, sprinkled with pepper and sea salt, and put in the oven to bake.
As usual, Wilder was hiding in his office, but the scent of cooking food must have lured him. He appeared in the kitchen just as I pulled the fish from the oven, practically licking his lips.
“Smells amazing,” he said, hobbling to the counter.
“I hope it will be. How’s the knee? Looks like you’re able to put more weight on it today.”
He took a seat at the island, and I pushed a salad plate toward him.
“Yeah, it’s getting there. Your fantastic cooking has cured me.” He immediately dug in, tackling the fruit first.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it. I have to do something with my time, and it would be a shame to cook and then have to throw it all out.”
Wilder looked mortally offended by the idea. “Don’t throw anything away,” he said between bites. “I’ll eat it all. I can never get enough of home cooking.”
I laughed out loud. “So I noticed.”
After devouring both salads he polished off the fish and rice. When he came up for air, he said, “I heard you playing the piano today. I didn’t recognize the tune. Working on a new song?”
“Yep. I think it’s pretty good. It has a little bit of a tropical feel to it. Want to hear it?”
Wilder’s posture stiffened, and his lips pressed into a tight line, but he said, “Sure.”
Out of habit, I reached for his arm to help support him for the walk to the living room, but he shooed me away. “I’m fine. I can make it.”
“Suit yourself, hero.” I walked to the piano and sat on the bench in front of it.
Wilder made it there a little more slowly. He stood beside the baby grand, leaning on it for support and looking down at me.
Though I’d performed in front of literally millions of people in my career, I suddenly felt nervous. Maybe it was because he was standing so close, right there in my peripheral vision.
Maybe it was because this song, like so many of my other songs, was about him.
I began to play and sing. Wilder stayed silent, though at one point, I noticed his fingertips clench around the edge of the piano’s lid. Was that good or bad? Was his knee hurting?
When I finished, I looked up at him.
The look on his face nearly stopped my heart. The stoic mask was gone.
His eyes, usually so cool and hard to read, were shiny with moisture. Across the bridge of his nose and atop his cheekbones, the skin was flushed.
After a few seconds he blinked and cleared his throat.
“That was... that was beautiful. Really, Jess, it was just... amazing. The melody and the... words.”
I felt my own face and neck flush with pleasure. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely. Swear it on my life. I mean the writing is just... mine is nowhere near as good.”
I blinked in surprise. “Yourwriting? You write lyrics?”
Now Wilder’s blush covered his entire face. “Not really.”
“Isthatwhat you’re always scribbling in that little note pad of yours?”
The top edge of the small leather-bound notebook he always kept in his back pocket was right at my eye level. Acting on impulse, I plucked it out and spun away from him on the bench, opening the booklet and hunching over it to keep him from getting it back.
