11. Silas
Chapter eleven
Silas
M y boots crunched on newly fallen snow on the sidewalk leading up to the front porch of Jack's house. The late February chill nipped at my exposed skin while snowflakes danced in the glow of the porch light. I held my container of hockey stick marshmallows close under my coat.
Before I reached the door, Jack opened it. The aroma of roasting chicken with herbs reached out, wrapped around me, and pulled me inside. Jack wore a soft gray Henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
"Perfect timing." He stepped to the side to let me in. "We've had a slight change of plans."
I heard Cody's voice somewhere above us. I couldn't quite make out the words, but he was excited about something. Jack took my coat and draped it over the back of his living room sofa.
"Tyler's mom, Shannon, invited Cody for a sleepover." He's upstairs packing now and talking to Tyler on the phone. I can drive him over after dinner if you don't mind a brief interruption to our evening."
I instantly recognized an assumption that I would be around after dinner. The invitation wasn't only about sharing a meal. Instead of spending more time analyzing the words, I nodded, smiled, and took in the details of Jack's sparsely furnished home.
He had a simple, slightly distressed dining table set with three plates, everyday glasses, and cloth napkins frayed a bit at the edges. As I followed Jack around, I spotted a few piles of moving boxes still lurking in corners.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and Cody appeared, overnight bag slung over one shoulder with his hockey stick protruding. "Silas! Did you bring—oh, awesome, there they are, the marshmallows!" He bounced on the balls of his feet. "Can I take some to Tyler's? I'm sure his mom will let us make hot chocolate later and—"
Jack gently interrupted. "Bud, breathe, and maybe say hello to our guest properly."
While Cody greeted me, the oven timer chimed, and Jack pulled out a golden-brown aromatic chicken. Cody darted around, gathering last-minute items for his overnight bag while sharing rapid-fire commentary about Tyler's new sports app.
"Dad, can I go now? Tyler's dad said he'd show us game footage from when he played in college, and—"
"After dinner," Jack put his foot down, but he had a smile on his face. "Finish setting the table please."
"Shannon said she'd feed him," Jack mentioned as he carved the chicken with practiced strokes. "I'm sure she'll have something great, but I figured it would be good to make sure he eats something that isn't pure sugar before sending him out into the cold."
Cody rolled his eyes. "Tyler's mom makes really good shepherd's pie."
"And how many bowls of popcorn are you planning to eat while watching hockey videos?"
"That's different. That's strategic fueling."
I laughed. "Where'd you learn that phrase?"
"Coach Blake says it all the time." Cody stabbed a green bean with his fork. "He tells us proper nutrition is key to athletic performance."
"Proper nutrition, huh?" Jack raised an eyebrow at his son's loaded plate. "Is that why you pushed all your vegetables to one side?"
Their banter was as charmingly domestic as a worn family quilt. I took a bite of chicken and nearly forgot how to speak—it was perfectly seasoned, crispy-skinned, and the meat practically melted on my tongue.
"This is incredible."
Jack shrugged. "Only a basic roast chicken. Though I did steal the herb blend recipe from my grandmother."
"Nothing basic about it." I speared another piece. "Pretty sure this beats anything I learned in culinary school."
"High praise from a professional."
"Coffee's different. This is..." I gestured with my fork. "This is home cooking. It's the real thing."
Cody's phone buzzed.
"That's Tyler! His dad's here to pick me up." He was already halfway out of his chair. "Can I go? Please?"
Jack nodded. "Grab your bag. I'll walk you out."
I watched through the window as Jack spoke briefly with Tyler's father, their conversation punctuated by little clouds of breath forming in the air. Cody continued to talk a mile a minute, turning back and forth between them.
When Jack returned, he reached for my plate. "More chicken?"
"Please, and I might need that recipe for the herb blend, too."
"Family secret." He smiled playfully. "You'll have to keep coming back."
When we had finished, Jack cleared the plates with quiet efficiency, stacking them beside the sink. "Coffee?"
"Always." I watched him measure beans into a grinder that had seen better days. "I hope you don't mind that I'm kind of particular about my brew method."
Jack pulled slightly mismatched mugs from a cabinet. "I think I can handle the pressure."
Outside, snow continued to fall, muffling the world beyond the windows. Jack worked his French press with surprising skill, and I found myself studying his hands—steady, confident, like everything else about him.
"You know what you're doing with that."
"Edward was even pickier about coffee than you are." The words came easily, without the weight they might have carried weeks ago. "I learned fast."
Jack's willingness to speak openly about his ex unlocked a similar door for me. The conversation was casual, and he sounded comfortable delivering basic facts. I decided to do the same.
"His name was Nico." The words tumbled out of my mouth without a conversational cue. "That was my ex from culinary school."
Jack set the French press down, giving it time to steep. He didn't speak, but he focused his attention on me.
"We had plans. We'd open a café in Boston's North End. It wouldn't be big but significant enough to be noticed." I tapped a finger on the counter. "He was brilliant with business plans and could charm any investor. I handled the creative side—recipes, atmosphere, all of it."
"Sounds like a solid partnership."
"It was. Until it wasn't." The memory had lost some of its sting. "He left without warning. He disappeared, taking our plans and supplier contacts. He sent one text with the single word 'Goodbye.' The last I know of him, he opened a place in Medellin, Colombia."
Jack absorbed the story. The French press sat between us, coffee growing stronger by the second.
"That's why you came back to Whistleport?"
"Partly. I intended it to be temporary. I'd stay with Mom and regroup." I looked into his eyes. "Then I saw the old bait shop for sale, and something clicked. A vision developed in my head, and I couldn't let it go."
"Tidal Grounds is a brilliant creation, Silas."
"I don't know that I'd say brilliant. Sometimes, I wonder if I built it as a fortress instead of a business or a home. It was a place I could manage on my own and control who got close and who didn't."
Jack pressed down the plunger with deliberate care, and the coffee's rich, dark aroma rose between us.
"You deserved better than a goodbye text."
With the comment coming out of Jack's mouth, I finally believed it.
Steam curled from the mugs as Jack poured the coffee. For once, I wasn't making it, measuring it, or timing it. I could let myself simply experience it.
I took a cautious first sip. "This is good. Impressively good."
"High praise from Whistleport's coffee expert." Jack leaned back against the counter, holding his mug in one hand. "You know, sometimes, I wonder if I did the same thing."
"What do you mean?"
"Built walls. After Edward." He studied the dark, steaming liquid. "I focused entirely on Cody, on being the perfect dad, because that felt safer than..." He gestured vaguely between us.
"Than this?"
"Than letting anyone new matter."
I looked beyond Jack at the snow falling silently in the backyard. His admission made me feel better about the traps I'd set for myself.
"You're good at it, you know. Being a dad."
"Yeah?" Jack smiled.
"Cody lights up when he talks about you. Even when he's complaining about your hot chocolate not matching up to mine."
Jack laughed, the sound warming the space between us. "He's not subtle about playing favorites."
"Must be the marshmallows."
"Must be."
Our eyes met. Something was changing between us. The fortress walls I'd built were a little more fragile than before. They'd acted as barriers keeping me away from what I saw around me: a quiet, domestic scene with honest conversation. Jack looked at me like I mattered beyond my ability to make a perfect latte.
We drained the rest of the coffee, and Jack reached out for my mug.
"I've got it." I intercepted him. "I'll do the dishes. Only seems fair since you cooked."
We fell into an easy rhythm at the sink—me washing, him drying. The kitchen window faced east, and I watched our reflections overlaid against the dark glass, moving in sync.
"Looking forward to the quiet?" I asked, passing him the last mug.
"Sometimes." He arranged the dishes in the rack with careful precision. "Other times, the house feels too big without Cody's running commentary on whatever crossed his mind over the last five minutes."
I smiled, remembering Cody's excited chatter about Tyler's sports app. "He's a good kid."
"The best." Jack set his dish towel aside. "Thanks for coming over tonight and letting him be part of this."
I wanted to know the full definition of the word this . Turning to face Jack, I was aware of how close we stood near the counter.
"Thank you for inviting me." The words meant more than dinner, and we both knew it.
Jack's hand found mine, our fingers intertwining naturally. His palm was warm. Real. Present.
"Silas." My name on his lips sent a light tingle up my spine.
At last, I didn't run. I didn't overthink anything. I closed the distance between us and pressed my lips to his. It was a gentle, exploring kiss at first, but then Jack's free hand came up to cup the back of my head, and sparks began to fly.
I pressed closer, deepening the kiss. Jack responded in kind, and suddenly, we were properly making out in his kitchen. My back pressed against the counter, and his fingers threaded through my hair.
When we finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, Jack asked the obvious question. "Stay?"
The invitation was genuine, and my body longed for me to accept it. Still, we'd already crossed so many barriers in one night that I didn't want to jeopardize the progress. I needed to give it time.
"Not tonight." I kissed his lips lightly again. "I do want you to understand I'm not backing off or running."
"No?"
"No." I squeezed his hand. "I need to take it slow. I want us to get it right."
Jack walked me to the door with our fingers still woven together. The porch light cast shadows across the fresh snow.
"Goodnight, Jack."
"Goodnight." He caught me for one more kiss, a quick one that left me wanting so much more. "See you for coffee in the morning?"
I smiled, stepping out into the winter night. "Count on it."
My walk home never felt shorter. My steps were light, like walking on air, despite the accumulating snow. My carefully constructed walls felt like something I was ready to leave behind.