Page 38 of 4 Hints You Love Your Best Friend

“I don’t like seeing you hurt or stressed.”

“Okay.” Mischief laces into her tone. “I would be significantly less stressed if you got home from work at a reasonable hour on Mondays and cooked with me.”

Such a schemer, trying to look after me by making me look after her. “My work hours are fine.”

“If you say so, but you said you missed cooking. If you’re home this Monday for dinner, I could come up with something fun for us to make together.”

I debate making plans with Desmond’s family again. Keeping myself busy and away from Jolene. I run my tongue over my teeth, catch a whiff of her lightning-storm scent, and let out a gusty breath. “I’d love to cook with you Monday.”

chapterfifteen

Callahan

The next night, I come home late and sore. I probably shouldn’t have worked out at the crack of dawn this morning. I knew my day would be long. But I was awake. Jolene was asleep in the room next to mine, and my uncooperative mind was imaginingthings. Leaving my home seemed like the smart option.

As expected, when I walk back in my door tonight, the space is disorderly. In addition to Jo’s usual bedlam is a pile of hair elastics strewn over my coffee table. Like she was counting them and got an emergency call and had to leave in the middle of the diligent work.

“Give me patience,” I mumble as I gather the elastics and try to find an empty inch of space on her dresser. Anywhere to store the haphazard pile in her room. Not an easy feat. Her discarded clothes practically need their own zip code.

A pebble of annoyance knocks around the base of my skull, but I laugh under my breath. Never thought I’d find messiness in my home amusing, but that’s Jo for you. The loophole to my quirks.

A quick shower later, I towel my hair and trudge to the kitchen, hungry and exhausted. The idea of cooking pains me. Takeout won’t be quick enough. I don’t feel right eating the groceries Jo bought, but I should have some cheddar hanging around. A slab of cheese on bread with a few condiments is as good as tonight’s dinner will get.

I yank open my fridge and freeze.

A Tupperware container is on the top shelf, with a note attached to the front.

In case you’re too tired to cook.

Falling.That’s the only way to describe this unfamiliar sensation. My stomach is hovering above me, while the rest of my body tips over an edge I can’t see. There’s a smaller line written underneath her note. I read it and chuckle.

I hope you like live maggots.

Smiling, I pull out the Tupperware and lift the lid. Jolene made me a stew of some kind, no live maggots in sight. The meal looks hearty and plentiful. Like she knew exactly what would hit the spot.

I take off her note, careful not to crease it, and strut to my bedroom. There’s no hesitation in my movements. I pull open my closet door and drag out the old shoebox from under my duffel bag.

I don’t go through my Jolene mementos like I used to when we were apart. I refrain from running my fingers over ourSimon Saysticket stub, remembering how we snuck into the R-rated movie and spent most of the show hiding behind our hands, daring each other to watch the gore. I don’t smile at the skull-shaped rock from our adventuring days. She called it Edwin and claimed it held magic spells.

I place Jo’s note on top of our keepsakes and seal it inside, feeling less like I’m tipping over a cliff. More like I’ve landed on soft ground.

I eat her food afterward, savoring every bite, so damn thankful she cooked for me. I finish with a happy sigh, nearing food-coma status, but I don’t lie down and pass out the way my body is demanding. I grab chocolate chips from my pantry and melt them over a double boiler. Next, I pull out the strawberries she bought.

I don’t love using ingredients she purchased, but it’ll have to do for tonight. When the chocolate is perfect, I dip the strawberries in the silky sauce and line them neatly on a plate.

At the broccoli festival, Jolene mentioned she loved strawberries dipped in chocolate. Hopefully she appreciates the surprise.

I leave the plate in the fridge where her Tupperware was and place a handwritten note beside it.

chaptersixteen

Jolene

I leave my office and check the bar’s kitchen like I always do at the end of the night. Make sure the stove is off, along with the lights in the walk-in fridge and freezer, but I frown at a stray bottle cap on the prep counter. A possible sign my chef is drinking at work again.

“If you don’t get out here soon,” Larkin calls from the bar, “I’ll drink your wine and make you pay me for it.”

Laughing under my breath, I join her out front. It’s just us, as usual lately. She’s fastidious about the bar area, polishing glasses until they shine, prepping mixes for inventive cocktail specials she’s been offering.

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