Chapter 40
JADE
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THE SCENT SUCKER-PUNCHES me straight in the gut—no warning, just thick, sweet, and sugary, packed full of memories.
I hadn’t planned on going on a scavenger hunt through an unfamiliar house, but I can’t stop myself.
“Jade? Where are you going?” Hart’s boots hit the floor behind me, not rushed, just keeping pace.
“Following the scent.” It leads me down the short hallway and into the kitchen at the back of the house.
I stop in the doorway, and the warm, golden cornbread sits on the counter in my Meemaw’s old container with the chipped handle.
“Cornbread?” The way his voice does things to my insides is pleasurably terrorizing.
Then his body presses against my back, solid, warm, uninvited but wanted more than I’d admit.
“It’s not just any cornbread.” I step away from him, and every part of my body craves to reconnect. “It’s my Meemaw’s cornbread with honey butter glaze.”
I pick up the dish and inhale the sweet aroma.
Hart stands in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning on the doorframe, just watching me. The baby blue T-shirt is not a color I’m used to him wearing, but it’s cute.
“It just looks like regular cornbread to me.”
I shake my head. “This is my Meemaw Torres’s special recipe. She cooked it every Sunday until her passing. This is the first time my mama has made it.”
“I reckon that does make it special.”
“I miss her. My mama does too. I think that’s why she hasn’t made it since.” I wish I hadn’t left her Aztec sweater in the truck so I could wrap it around me like a hug and smell her cornbread. “You know what you can never have enough of with her cornbread?”
He smirks. “What?”
“Honey. You can never have enough honey.”
“You see, this is a trap, right?” He points at the counter.
My gaze follows, and sure enough, he’s right. I hadn’t noticed the red-and-white gingham blanket folded on the counter beside an open vintage picnic basket, revealing a bottle of wine, two glasses, and covered dishes of food.
I laugh, setting the container of food down.
“They are not subtle.” I pick up a handwritten note pinned to the basket. “Welcome, lovebirds!!!” I glance at him. “With three exclamation marks. Handwritten. And it smells like”—I bring it to my nose—“violets and gardenia.”
“Very specific.”
“It’s Faye’s classic scent.”
“Not subtle at all,” he agrees.
“Today’s meal is inspired by home, thanks to the wonderful Mama Fox and Meemaw Torres.” I send him an apologetic smile. “So, my mama was in on it, and she brought my Meemaw from the grave.”
“Don’t think my ma didn’t play her part.” He crosses the room and picks up the wine glasses embossed with the Wilde Ranch logo.
“I don’t understand how they’re always one step ahead of us. Even when we leave earlier than everyone and don’t tell them where we’re going.”
“The Quylt sisters would say—” he starts.
“It runs in our blood,” we finish together, and laugh.
“Enjoy this picnic,” I continue. “Take it outside to the gazebo. Just follow the lanterns. Trust us—The Matchmakers.” I snort. “Trust them.”
“Matchmakers,” Hart grunts. “More like troublemakers.”
“Yeah, we’re not going to fall for their shenanigans.” I toss the note on the counter, ignoring my mouth watering for a taste.
“Never,” he agrees.
“Never.”
He grins at me in that way that is sexy and hot and sweet all rolled into one. “But, we are gonna eat, right?”
My lips quirk upward. “Eat this trap they’ve placed for us?”
“But, it’s your Meemaw’s famous cornbread.” His eyebrows draw together.
I plant my hands on my hips, loving that he’d step into their trap for me. “This will come with expectations.” I pinch the tablecloth. “This will be a square on our quilt. And this.” I pinch the front of his T-shirt, and his fingers circle my wrist.
“Are you opposed to a quilt made for us?”
“Not just any quilt, Hart. It’s a Love Quilt.”
“Our Love Quilt.”
I press my lips together. “It’s weird,” I say. “Accepting something I spent so long fighting.”
“I know.” His fingers trail until they find mine.
He lifts my hand and brings it to his mouth.
Reverent.
Unhurried.
Warm.
His lips brush slowly over my skin, deliberate and savoring each knuckle. “I’ll give them my T-shirt if you give them yours.”
My lips rise. “But you wearing this shirt really turns me on.”
“Imagine if it were off.”
I gasp, soft and small.
“Or if this Love Quilt were wrapped around our naked bodies, intertwined by the fireplace on a cool night?”
I swallow. “You’re very convincing.”
“Convincing enough to have a picnic with me in the gazebo and enjoy Meemaw’s cornbread?”
I slant a grin at him. “With extra honey.”
“All the honey.”
I shrug with a roll of my eyes. “I suppose you’re more of a sucker than I thought. Can’t even say no to a little food bribery. I’ll remember that.”
“You do that.” He leans down and brushes his lips over mine.
A soft, short graze before he leaves me wanting more to pack the picnic basket.
I exhale a breath before throwing the tablecloth over my shoulder and glaring at it for being an addition to a quilt I’ve always resisted.
“You trying to glare it into submission?” I love the smirk he sends me.
I tilt my chin up defiantly, letting a slow, sultry smile spread across my face. “If it doesn’t submit, maybe I’ll have to show it how I handle disobedience.”
His gaze flickers with heat. “Disobedience has never been so tempting.”
Neither has stripping off my clothes and letting him take me on this counter. And the look we share makes me briefly wonder if that’s in the cards for us.
Then he holds out his arm, elbow bent. “Ready?”
I’m ready for him to grasp my underarms and haul me into the counter and kiss me until I can’t breathe.
I’m ready for that.
But I loop my arm in his, and we walk outside.
The backyard is lush and alive, wrapped in tall plants and thick vines forming a natural wall, blocking out the neighbors. Towering greenery stretches upward, its leaves overlapping into a lush canopy.
“This garden has a whole vibe. Almost like we’re back in the country.” My eyes don’t know where to look, from the moss hanging off tree bark, to ferns clustered at their roots, and patches of clover.
“They took this Airbnb to a whole new level.” He tries to sound grumpy, but I can hear how impressed he is.
Down the stairs, we follow a narrow stone path with lanterns strung above, hanging from the trees. I can envision the way they’d light this path in the dark and how romantic it would be to stroll under.
The air is thick with the earthy scent of fresh rosemary and spring.
At the end of the path, we find a gazebo cloaked in a dense veil of ivy. The vines are tangled, crawling up the wooden beams like nature’s embrace.
“I take back the tree house,” I say, quoting one of the bucket list items. “I want this.”
The lush greenery frames the entrance, the ivy drapes loosely across the top and sides, forming a natural curtain.
“I’m staying here forever.”
My fingers brush the cool, textured leaves, and they rustle as I push them aside and step through the opening. It’s like stepping into a secret room in a secret garden.
“I didn’t know this was something I needed to add to my bucket list.” I glance at him, my heart skipping a beat as he steps inside after me.
His eyes catch mine with that look he used to have. The one that made me feel like I’m the only person in the world—the only one he ever wanted.
“There are still empty pages at the end of the notebook.” He sets the picnic basket on the wooden floor.
“Those were for our future house.” I spread the gingham blanket over the hardwood slats.
“A wraparound porch, right?” He sets his hat on the edge of the blanket before running his fingers through the damp locks.
The beams of light peeking through the greenery cast a soft glow around him, and he looks beautiful.
“Yes. With a porch swing.” I sit down, my damp jeans sending a slight chill through my body, and I’m acutely aware of my damp front.
“All made with reclaimed barn wood.” He positions the picnic basket in the center of the blanket and lowers himself beside me.
Not touching, but close enough, I feel his heat penetrating my skin.
“Of course, because reclaimed wood is full of history and character.” I unclasp the picnic basket.
Our hands brush.
My eyes crawl from our touch to his. The desire behind those eyes creates pools of heat in my belly.
“Natural wear,” I say, finding it hard to stay composed when his hand lingers against mine.
“Natural age.” His depth is entrancing. “And imperfections that give it a one-of-a-kind look.”
His thumb rubs the side of my finger, and this is where I want to stay forever.
“Every board has a story.” My voice is breathless, and I haven’t even done anything.
But he does that to me.
Every damn time.
“Whether salvaged from old barns, factories, or mills.” I don’t know how I get the words past my beating chest.
“No two pieces of reclaimed wood are alike,” he finishes.
We sit there, staring at one another—longing—for what feels like forever. Maybe the matchmaker’s ideas aren’t all bad. This one is a solid play.
“We should eat before the cornbread gets cold.”
What cornbread?
How is he thinking about cornbread?
I retract my hand, but he catches it. “Not because I don’t want to kiss you.”
My breath snags in my chest.
“I want to be clear with you. All I’ve wanted to do since I walked away from you is kiss you. Hold you. Make love to you.” He cups the side of my face, drawing my lips close enough to graze his. “But I also missed all the times we spent together, talking, laughing, and eating.”
I’ve missed them too. But the words don’t come out.
“I need a minute just to see you, watch you, listen to you,” he pauses. “Feed you.”
“Feed me?” I choke.
“Yeah, I like that idea.” His voice is so damn husky. “And lick food off your lip.” His tongue darts out and grazes my lower lip. “That’s a promise.”
And he’s gone. Sitting back and digging into the picnic basket, leaving me breathless again and all hot and bothered.