Chapter 16 #2
But this? The jazz. The candlelight. The way he holds me, swaying in our bedroom like we’re the only two people in the world.
This is the part no one else sees.
The MC gets the president—granite jaw, iron will, a man who’d burn the world down to protect his people. But I get this. The man who remembers that I mentioned Coltrane once, weeks ago. Who plans romantic gestures.
Two halves of the same man. Dangerous and tender.
I used to think those things couldn’t coexist. That men like Stone were one thing all the way through—that the darkness would eventually swallow everything else.
But I was wrong. He’s not dark pretending to be light, or light pretending to be dark.
He’s both, fully and unapologetically, and somehow that makes him the safest place I’ve ever known.
We dance until the candles burn low and Maggie brings out chocolate cake that’s so rich I moan with the first bite.
We talk about everything and nothing—his favorite books (historical fiction, naturally), my guilty pleasure TV shows (trashy reality dating competitions), the places we’ve always wanted to visit (he says Ireland; I say Greece).
By the time we make our way back inside, I’m full and warm and so stupidly happy I could cry.
“Thank you,” I tell him at the door to our room. “For tonight. For all of it.”
“Thank you for letting me try.” He cups my face in his hands. “I know I’m not perfect at this. But I’m going to keep trying. Every day.”
“That’s all I ask.”
He kisses me then—slow and deep and full of everything we’ve said and everything we haven’t. And when he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark with want.
“I believe I promised you dessert,” he murmurs.
“I already had cake.”
“I wasn’t talking about cake.”
He pulls me into the room and closes the door behind us.
STONE
I wake to the smell of bacon.
For a moment, I just lie there, trying to remember the last time someone cooked breakfast for me. Maggie makes food for the club, sure, but that’s different. That’s communal, impersonal. This smells like someone is specifically making breakfast for me.
The bed beside me is empty but still warm. Josie hasn’t been gone long.
I pull on a pair of sweatpants and follow the smell downstairs to the kitchen.
And stop dead in the doorway.
Josie is standing at the stove in one of my t-shirts, her hair piled in a messy bun, singing along to a song playing softly from her phone. She’s swaying slightly as she flips pancakes, completely absorbed in the moment, clearly unaware that she has an audience.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“You’re staring.”
I jolt. She hasn’t turned around.
“How did you know?”
“I can feel you.” She glances over her shoulder with a smile. “Also, you’re not exactly subtle. I could hear you breathing from across the room.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like it.” She gestures to the table with her spatula. “Sit. Coffee’s ready.”
I pour myself a cup and settle into a chair, watching her move around the kitchen with easy confidence. She’s clearly done this before—there’s a rhythm to it, a practiced efficiency that speaks to years of early mornings and solo breakfasts.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” I say.
“I’m a woman of many talents.” She slides a plate in front of me—pancakes, bacon, eggs over easy. “My grandmother taught me. She believed everyone should know how to feed themselves and the people they love.”
“Smart woman.”
“The smartest.” Josie settles into the chair across from me with her own plate. “She raised me, mostly. My parents were... not great at the whole parenting thing.”
“You don’t talk about them much.”
“Not much to talk about.” She shrugs, but I can see the old hurt beneath the casual gesture. “They had me because it was expected, but it wasn’t what they wanted. Some people just aren’t meant to have kids. By the time I was twelve, I was basically living with my grandmother full-time.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Grandma was the best thing that ever happened to me.” Her expression softens. “She’s the one who encouraged me to go to law school. Told me I had a mouth made for arguing and I might as well get paid for it.”
I laugh. “She sounds like a firecracker.”
“She was. Died my second year of law school.” Josie’s smile turns sad. “Stroke. Quick, at least. She would have hated a long, drawn-out decline.”
“Is that why you became a prosecutor? To make her proud?”
“Partly.” She takes a bite of pancake, chewing thoughtfully. “But also because I believe in justice. Or I used to, anyway. Before Atlanta.”
“And now?”
“Now I believe in a different kind of justice.” Her eyes meet mine. “The kind that protects people who can’t protect themselves. The kind that takes down the bad guys when the system fails.”
“That’s why you work with us.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “The club does what the courts can’t.
Or won’t.” She reaches across the table, taking my hand.
“I know it’s not always pretty. I know there are things you do that would make a judge blanch.
But I’ve seen enough of the system to know that sometimes, pretty doesn’t get the job done. ”
“And you’re okay with that? Really?”
“I’m okay with you.” She squeezes my hand. “All of you. The president, the protector, the man who wanted to be a history teacher.” A small smile. “Even the part that snores.”
“I do not snore.”
“You absolutely snore. Like a chainsaw with a sinus infection.”
“That’s slander.”
“It’s truth. I have recordings.”
“You recorded me sleeping?”
“For evidence.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “I’m a lawyer. We document everything.”
I stand, rounding the table, and she squeals as I haul her out of her chair.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting revenge.” I toss her over my shoulder, ignoring her laughing protests. “No one slanders me in my own clubhouse and gets away with it.”
“Put me down! I’ll burn the pancakes!”
“The pancakes are already done.” I carry her toward the stairs. “And I can think of better uses for the next hour than breakfast.”
“Boone! The eggs—”
“Will keep.”
“You’re impossible!”
“And you’re beautiful, and you cooked me breakfast, and now I’m going to show you exactly how much I appreciate that.”
I kick the bedroom door closed behind us.
The eggs, as it turns out, do keep.