Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Emily
Ichop the onion into neat slices, the motion familiar after years of cooking for myself. My eyes sting, but not enough to slow me down. On the floor, Mixie winds between my ankles, reminding me that I’m not alone anymore.
The sound of running water from the bathroom cuts off, and my shoulders tense, anticipating the shift in the air that comes with his presence.
As I start on the mushrooms, the floorboards in the hallway creak under Jared’s weight, each footstep drawing closer until he appears.
“Hey.” Jared leans in the kitchen doorway, his hair dark from his shower, droplets still clinging to the ends.
His skin glows pink, and his borrowed T-shirt stretches across his shoulders, the hem riding up to reveal a sliver of stomach when he raises his arm to rub the back of his neck.
The scent of my soap drifts off him, mingling with his natural salt air and driftwood pheromones. The combination twists through me, setting off an unfamiliar flutter beneath my ribs.
He takes in the pile of garlic bulbs and tomatoes waiting to be processed. “Can I help with anything?”
Mixie pads over to him, her tail a question mark as she sniffs his feet, then twines around his ankles in the same figure-eight pattern she uses with me.
My heart squeezes at her immediate acceptance of Jared’s presence. She’d never been as friendly toward Auren or the Alphas he brought into our home.
“No loyalty anymore, huh?” I mutter to the cat before returning my attention to Jared. “Ever made lasagna?”
His face brightens, and he pushes off the door frame, crossing into my space with a confidence that belies the nervous energy vibrating off him. “No, but I can follow directions. I’ve survived on ramen and peanut butter sandwiches long enough to realize how much I still need to learn.”
The admission draws a smile from me, and I slide a second cutting board in front of him. “Start with garlic. Two cloves, minced fine.” I pass him a knife from the block, handle first. “You know how to mince garlic?”
Jared accepts the knife, his fingers brushing mine in the exchange and sending a spark of heat up my arm. “In theory.”
He sets to work, his brows furrowing in concentration as he peels the papery skin off a clove. His large fingers fumble with the delicate task, but he manages, crushing the clove with the flat of the blade the same way I do.
“Have you watched cooking shows?” I ask, returning to dicing my mushrooms.
“Yeah. My mom’s pack was all Alphas.” Wistfulness flickers across his features. “I used to think not being able to cook came with the designation.”
The mention of his former pack hangs between us, a reminder of what he’s lost. What we’ve both lost.
I resist the urge to ask more, to peel back his layers the way he’s peeling that garlic. Instead, I reach for one of the tomatoes, testing its firmness between my palms.
“We’ll need these diced, too.” I place it beside his workspace. “Not too small. They’ll break down in the sauce.”
“Got it,” he says, absorbing the instruction, then pauses with the knife hovering over the garlic. “Thank you. For this. For letting me stay.”
My knife slows, and the mushroom I was dicing rolls away. “You needed a place.”
“There are motels.”
“Not safe ones.” The words come out harsher than intended, so I soften my tone. “Besides, the guest room was empty. And now that Mixie is home, she’ll have one more person to con extra treats out of.”
As if summoned by her name, Mixie jumps onto the counter, slinking toward the package of ground beef.
“Down,” I command, pointing to the floor. She stares at me, whiskers twitching, then turns to Jared as if seeking a second opinion.
He shakes his head. “Don’t drag me into this power struggle. I know who feeds me.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. “Smart man.”
Mixie leaps down with an offended flick of her tail, stalking to her food bowl to paw at it in accusation.
“She’s dramatic,” I explain, adding my veggies to the bowl on the counter. “Like her namesake.”
“Mixie was named after someone?” Jared asks, his hands working with more confidence now, the tomatoes yielding under his blade.
“A friend from my first construction crew. Michelle, but everyone called her Mixie because she mixed up measurements all the time. Never met a fraction she couldn’t convert wrong.”
The memory warms me, a bubble of the past rising to the surface. “She once ordered enough concrete to pave half a county when we only needed to do a small driveway.”
Jared laughs, the sound filling my kitchen and wrapping around me. “What happened to the extra?”
“The boss sold it at a discount to other crews. Mixie got assigned to design work after that, away from the numbers.” I grab a pot from the cabinet, setting it on the stove with a metallic clang. “Oil the pan first, then we’ll start the sauce.”
He steps around me to reach the olive oil, his height forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. The narrow kitchen shrinks with his presence, and my breath catches when his arm brushes mine.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, stepping back to give me space.
“It’s fine.” I slide the bowl of onions and mushrooms toward him. “Add these once the oil heats.”
Our fingers connect again in the handoff, and this time I don’t pull away. His skin burns fever-warm, his pulse visible at his wrist. The moment stretches until Mixie’s insistent meow breaks it.
“She needs fresh water.” I step back to put distance between us. “The pasta’s in the cabinet by the back door if you want to get it ready. Directions are on the package. Once the water’s boiling, add lots of salt.”
As I fill Mixie’s bowl, my back to Jared, I hear him opening cabinets, then the rustle of the pasta box and the soft clatter as he sets it on the counter. Domestic sounds my kitchen has never known. My chest tightens with a mix of panic and yearning, which is far more complicated.
“Is this the right kind?” he asks.
I turn to find him holding the box of lasagna noodles, shifting from one foot to the other with a need for approval that resonates with a part of me I’ve tried to silence.
“That’s perfect.” The words sound steadier than I feel as I move back to his side.
The sauce comes together while the noodles boil, and when the timer goes off, Jared drains the pasta, steam curling up around his face and adding more moisture to his already damp hair.
He checks with me for confirmation before shaking the colander a little too vigorously, water spraying across the counter.
I hand him a towel to clean it up. “Gentler next time.”
He grins, unrepentant, and wipes up the droplets before setting the noodles aside.
On the stove, the sauce simmers, filling the kitchen with the scent of garlic, tomatoes, and oregano. Jared leans in to stir, his movements tentative until I show him how to scrape the bottom so nothing sticks.
He listens closely, his arm brushing mine each time he circles the spoon through the bubbling mixture, and my stomach tightens at the warmth of his nearness and how intently he waits for cues.
When the sauce thickens, I slide the baking dish toward him and guide him through the next step. “First, a thin layer of sauce at the bottom, to keep the noodles from sticking.”
Jared uses the spatula to cover every corner.
I lay the first noodle across the sauce-covered bottom of the dish, the edges curling up the sides of the glass. Jared reaches for one, too, his long fingers pinching the slippery pasta only to have it fold in on itself, sticking to itself.
He mumbles under his breath, a flush creeping up his neck as he tries to straighten it without tearing the delicate sheet.
“Here.” The word slips out softer than I mean it to as I reach across him. “Hold it at both ends, then lower it.”
I demonstrate with another noodle, laying it alongside his mangled attempt.
“I’m a failure as a construction worker, defeated by pasta.” His self-deprecating laugh cuts too close to home.
I wipe my hands on a clean towel and touch his cheek where a smear of sauce has left a red streak. “You’ve got—”
The words die as his skin warms beneath my fingers, and his pulse quickens at his throat.
I brush the sauce away. “There.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Thanks.”
We return to the lasagna, moving in a rhythm that comes almost as if we’ve done this a hundred times, even though we haven’t. He passes me the ricotta mixture, our fingers brushing with each handoff. I spread it over the noodles while he prepares the next layer of sauce.
“I wanted to thank you.” Jared keeps his focus on the sauce as he stirs. “For stepping in at the site today.”
I pause with the spoon of the cheese mixture in my hand. “You don’t need to thank me. They shouldn’t have let you wrestle a full sheet of plywood by yourself, much less laugh when it went sideways.”
His ears flush red, and he sets the spoon down. “Still. You didn’t have to help me. You could’ve let Clint handle it, or let me take the heat. Instead, you treated me as if I belonged there.”
The heat that rises in my cheeks isn’t from the warmth of the stove. “You didn’t make trouble. You tried too hard to prove yourself. That’s different.”
His scent intensifies with his distress, salt and driftwood becoming electric. I breathe through my mouth to clear my head.
“That’s not what I’m—”
“It is.” I cut him off, knowing the pattern too well. “You’re an Alpha without a pack, working twice as hard to show you belong. I get it. I’ve been there.”
His silence draws my head around, and the vulnerability in his sea-glass eyes nearly stops my breath.
“On my first crew, I carried loads meant for two, stayed late, and took the worst assignments. I even worked three days with a broken wrist before the superintendent caught on.”
“Why?” The question hangs between us, simple but complex.
I finish with the cheese layer, smoothing the creamy mixture over the noodles. “Same reason you did. To prove I deserved my place.”
Jared resumes his stirring, thoughtful. “Did it work?”