Chapter 18
Sunday
“Hmm, shock ,” I say, my tone light and teasing, as Jason drops the grocery bags on the counter and pulls out two large cuts of steak.
He glances down at me with a smirk as he finishes unpacking the groceries and then he’s carrying one hidden bag back over to his freezer.
I crane my neck to try and see what he’s slipping into the frozen drawer and, when I can’t see around his giant biceps, I hop down from my stool and pad over to him.
I’m only two feet away from him when he shuts the freezer door and turns to face me.
The corner of his mouth tugs up in amusement and then he jerks his chin back toward my stool.
“Do we need to go over the ‘no peeking’ rule again? Get your butt back in that chair.”
He starts walking forwards, completely undeterred that I’m in his way, and I have to backstep at a light jog so that he doesn’t plough right through me.
I peek over his shoulder again, wondering what little treat he’s hidden for me in his freezer.
“What am I not peeking at this time?” I ask, my voice slightly breathless.
That gets me a handsome grin and a low, rasping chuckle. “Stop trying to outsmart me,” he murmurs. “You’ll find out later.”
“But–”
He spins me around, making me squeal as his forearm squeezes my clavicle, and I laugh with delight as he chuckles gruffly above my head.
Then he lowers his stubbled jaw to the side of my cheek and murmurs, “You’re not wranglin’ a damn thing out of me, sweetheart.”
I know that he’s just messing with me but my stomach clenches at the roughness of his voice. And I know that he senses my reaction because he holds me tighter for an extra second, the large muscles of his chest heaving firmly against my back.
I shiver with pleasure and he exhales roughly from above.
He releases me and then waits as I climb up onto the barstool, his eyes burning into the side of my face as he absently washes his workingman’s hands.
I get myself comfortable on the stool and then peek up at him as I re-tie my ponytail, and his gaze lingers on mine before slowly roaming down my outfit.
I’m wearing my soft baby blue thermal set and, from the look in his eyes, I think he’s into it.
I pull my ponytail taut and then smooth my hands over my long-sleeved top, crossing one leg over the other as Jason blinks away from the curves of my chest.
I lean my elbows on the counter, smiling up at him as he moves around to the other side of the island.
“So, what are we having with our steaks, mountain man?” I tease, and his broad shoulders relax slightly, laugh lines crinkling around his eyes.
“I was thinking fries and some salad,” he says, gesturing toward the groceries with his giant knife.
And I have to stifle a laugh when I see what he’s pointing at.
The ‘salad’ is a bag of unidentifiable shop-bought leaves.
“I can do mash if you want,” he adds, as he finishes washing up the potatoes, and then he starts cutting them into large neat strips, his knife-handling effortless and efficient.
My eyes wander to his tan biceps no longer hidden by his winter workwear as they strain against the seams of his fitted short-sleeved shirt. It’s grey and stretching taut each time he presses his palm against the top of the blade, his biceps bulging out of the fabric with each loud snap of the knife against the chopping board.
I swallow thickly as I imagine him destroying a bowl of potatoes with a masher.
“It’s probably best if we have the fries,” I rasp, and Jason glances up at me from under his dark lashes, chuckling quietly when he sees my expression.
I shift my butt on the stool, beginning to feel that same flush of warmth that I did this morning.
To distract myself from the heat tingling in the pool of my stomach, I gesture toward the ‘salad’ and offer, “Is there anything that I can do to help? I can, like, wash the salad or something?”
Jason’s cheeks dimple with amusement. “Not on your life.”
I give him a playful eye-roll and his dimples deepen as he sets down the knife. He moves the fries to the side and gets to work on oiling up a pan.
“You’re my guest, Sunday,” he rumbles. “And, besides, I thought you were on vacation.”
I haven’t corrected that assumption because I don’t exactly want Jason to know about everything that happened in Nashville – about Riley, and the articles, and the ridiculous idea that I would do anything to try and be famous, when that’s actually the one thing that I liked the least about Nashville. It’s part of the reason why I finally decided to sell the bar in the first place – because it was garnering so much attention that I knew that, soon enough, that attention would drift to me .
And then when I sold the bar, my fear came to fruition anyway, for an even worse reason than I could have predicted – a reason that isn’t true, and that has nothing to do with my decade of devoted work. And it’s things like that which make me think I shouldn’t go back.
I worked in Nashville for a long time, doing something out of respect to Cash’s legacy… but now maybe it’s time to move on.
I don’t think that it’s healthy to live in the past forever. When you lose someone that you love it can be really hard to let go. But I’ve spent years honouring the past, so maybe now it’s time to fall in love with my future.
And with that in mind I decide that my future’s going to be a good one, filled with light and love and lots of laughter.
Which is why I lean down to open one of Jason’s cupboards and I pull out the apron that he showed me earlier.
Jason watches me with amusement sparkling in his eyes and he laughs loudly when I ball it up and toss it right at him.
He catches it with one hand and drops it to the counter, smirking at me as he sets the gas on for the pan.
“Hey, if you’re the one and only chef in this kitchen then you may as well look the part,” I say lightly, but then I’m screaming with laughter as he charges around the counter, shooting off my stool until we’ve completely swapped sides.
I glance at the pan now heating up in front of me and lift a teasing eyebrow. “Look who’s the chef now.”
His broad chest shakes as he laughs and I try not to melt into a puddle as he swipes his large hand over those gorgeous smile creases. Then he amuses me even further by lifting the barstool I’d been sitting on with one hand, and easily carrying it with him as he rounds to my side of the counter.
He sets it down between us and looks down at me expectantly.
I make him sweat it for a couple of seconds before finally settling my butt back down on the stool.
His chest swells on a satisfied inhale and, with one hand still under the stool, he casually pulls me a little closer.
Then he preps our salads, sets up two plates, and seasons the steaks before glancing down at me.
I’m currently fanning myself with the offending apron because I’m just so freaking warm. I don’t know what it is, but I can’t cool down for some reason.
A frown touches his brow as he takes in my red cheeks and thermal clothing.
“Too warm near the gas?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder toward the back porch.
“I’ll be fine,” I start, but he’s already dropping his hand-towel and heading through the open-plan living area toward the back of the house.
The whole downstairs is gorgeous, and warm and cosy despite the open-plan layout, due to the rich shade of the wood, the dark couches, and the stone fireplace.
Jason pulls open the back door and I laugh, “What are you doing?”
“One second,” he says gruffly, and then he jogs easily through the snow so that he can grab something from his workshop that’s situated beyond the porch.
“Did you just run barefoot?” I call out to him, laughing when he comes jogging back.
He flashes me a grin and then gets to work on setting up a barbecue grill, only it’s not an electric one – it’s the kind that you have to set a little fire inside.
Affection tugs at my heart.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, gently this time.
Just because I’m burning up in his toasty kitchen doesn’t mean that he should have to take the cooking into the snow .
He comes trudging back after he sets it up, picking up way more food and cutlery in his hands than I would have imagined to be possible.
“Jason,” I laugh, but the man is dead-set, placing the rest of our stuff on the outdoor sofa, which sits just before that tarp-covered hot-tub.
He rubs his hands on the sides of his jeans, smirking knowingly as he strides toward me.
“What?” I ask cautiously, bracing my hands on the sides of the stool, and then I’m squealing as he grips the seat beneath my thighs and hauls it upwards.
My arms fly around his broad shoulders as the ground disappears beneath me.
He chuckles as he carries me out to the back porch while I’m still seated on the barstool .
“You’re crazy!” I squeak, clinging tighter as he scopes out where to set me down.
And I let out a breathless oof as he places me to the side of the barbecue, far away enough from the smoke that I shouldn’t burn up again.
“You’re like a little furnace,” he says as he positions me, adjusting the seat so that it’s at a more appropriate height.
I blush and pat my wrist against my scalding cheek.
I’m usually freaking freezing so I don’t know what the hell is going on with me today.
But I don’t want to dwell on that – I want to focus on how sweet it was for Jason to bring us out here, into the early evening air where the snow has provided the perfect amount of chill.
“Thanks for doing this,” I say softly, and he just smiles over at me as if it’s no big deal.
He preps the fire for a couple of minutes and places the steaks on the grill.
Then he glances up at me as the meat begins to sizzle.
“Rare, medium, or well done?” he asks.
“Just straight up raw,” I reply teasingly, and his smile lines deepen as he lets out a rough laugh. His cheeks turn red for some reason, and he averts his gaze as he grips the nape of his neck.
And then I realise what I lowkey just said.
Raw? Straight up raw?
I swallow down my embarrassment and rasp, “Medium will be fine.”
He chuckles quietly and nods, although he’s still avoiding my eyes.
And in less than ten minutes we’re sitting side by side on the porch couch, the fire from the grill simmering gently as we look out at the snow-covered pines beyond his workshop.
“We can go back inside whenever you want,” Jason says, after swallowing a third of his steak in one enormous bite.
I appreciate the gesture, especially seeing as he’d set up the dining table with the beautiful flowers that he brought home this morning. But I’m still kind of boiling so I’d prefer for us to stay out here right now.
“I’m good here,” I admit, biting into a perfectly cooked fry. “This view is unbelievable,” I add with a smile.
He winks at me as he takes another bite of his steak, flashing me one of his enormous biceps. “Not bad, huh?”
I laugh and give him a shove with one of my fluffy-sock covered feet.
“Shut up,” I laugh, even though I can’t help but steal another glance at the huge muscle that he’s jokingly flexing.
I gulp down my bite as I realise that his biceps are thicker than my thighs.
“Where did you go to this morning?” I ask, bringing my attention back to my plate.
After Jason left with his buddy, I had a couple more emails back-and-forth with Riley’s manager, but I felt a little guilty about not asking what it was that he’d wanted to talk about. He’d clearly wanted to ask me something but I’d thought it could wait until later.
But now that I think back on it, I feel as though he wanted me to go somewhere with him.
He spears his fork into his last three fries, chewing them unhurriedly as he rumbles, “Went to church.”
My fork pauses midway to my mouth, my heart halting at that confession.
When he asked me what I was doing this morning… had he wanted to invite me to go with him?
I set my fork down on my plate and rub my fingers over my chest, watching him finish off the rest of his steak.
I can’t deny that Jason Coleson wanting to take me to church is maybe the sweetest thing that’s happened to me in the past five years.
“Why didn’t you say?” I ask, disbelief and awe making my voice sound husky.
He shrugs a big shoulder, looking totally calm as he glances across at me.
That’s what going to church does to him. He has that ‘I went to church this morning’ inner peace and glow.
“You were busy,” he says simply, his voice low as his gaze dips to my outfit. This time, with his plate cleared, he gives himself a few extra moments to look at me, setting his tableware beside his thigh as he subtly checks me out.
“You know I would have made an exception for that,” I tell him quietly, my irises burning as his stunning eyes meet mine.
He swipes his tongue over his lower lip, elbows on his knees as his quad starts bouncing.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “I know that for next time.”
Next time.
It takes me another five minutes to finish eating my food and when I do Jason’s on his feet, giving me an authoritative “stay there” as he picks up our plates so he can take them inside.
I hear him washing them up from the open porch door, and then I hear the freezer open and close which makes me smile because I know what that means.
It’s time for my surprise.
After around five minutes of him quietly moving around in there he calls out, “You wanna stay outside, or do you want to eat in here, sweetheart?”
The nickname makes me smile and my thighs feel shaky as I get to my feet.
I can’t believe that he still has this effect on me.
“Um, I’ll come in,” I call back, feeling nervous for some reason, but the second that I breach the back door I’m instantly grinning.
“Oh my God ,” I laugh, padding quickly to the counter just so that I can give him a playful shove in his abs. “Is that–?”
He places the dessert in front of me and his warmth is at my back as he slips a spoon beside my fist on the counter.
I glance up at him over my shoulder and he towers over me, his expression amused.
“My first time making a sundae,” he admits, and I shake my head at him, smiling like crazy.
He made us a sundae… because my name is Sunday.
And I freaking love it.
“You’re so annoying,” I laugh, but I don’t mean it and he knows it, and a thrill zips through my belly as he settles his big palms on either side of my hips.
“Try it,” he murmurs, and I try not to let my breathing get out of control.
I dip my spoon into the ice cream, totally enamoured about how over the top he went with this. I’m not usually a dessert girl but, seeing as he made it with my name in mind, I already know that this is about to be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
I slip the spoon between my lips, my cheeks lifting as I smile.
It’s unbelievably tasty, super sweet and icy cool – exactly what my ridiculously warm body is craving at this exact moment.
I swallow and one of his hands squeezes tight around my hip.
“How is it, chef ?” he asks tauntingly.
I giggle and give him a playful elbow to the gut.
He laughs and hunches down so that he can press a firm kiss against my cheek, before moving to my side so that we aren’t standing so intimately.
I inhale a shaky breath. “The service is pretty good,” I whisper, and he laughs quietly as he grabs a spoon of his own, his big bicep brushing against my shoulder as we lean over the counter, eating together.
When he’s finished eating his half and starts diligently helping me eat mine, I lift myself up onto the smooth countertop, making him look up at me from under his lashes.
He swallows his mouthful and sets down his spoon, sensing that I’m about to say something.
I take his absence from the bowl as my opportunity to scoop up a big spoonful and his cheekbone twitches with amusement as he pushes his utensil further away. His silent way of telling me, it’s all yours, baby.
I take another scoop of the sundae and then set my own spoon down, placing my palms behind me on the counter.
“I’ve been thinking about Casey’s bar,” I tell him, and his expression instantly becomes a little guarded.
A slight frown touches his brow but he nods anyway, splaying one of his palms beside my thigh on the worktop.
“What about it?” he asks, his voice gruff but still gentle, his eyes searching mine as if he can read my thoughts before I voice them.
I cut right to the chase.
“I was thinking that we could use it for when Casey gets home from deployment.”
Jason’s brow lifts slightly, clearly not expecting that to be what I was going to say.
“Like, for a homecoming thing. If the bar is nearly finished being renovated, and the only things left are the finishing touches… well, I can help with that.” I swish my ponytail and add with a teasing smile, “I don’t know if you knew this, but I owned the most popular bar in Nashville.”
Jason breathes out a laugh, his cheeks heating as he ducks his head.
“Casey might’ve mentioned it once or twice,” he admits.
I beam at that, even more sure of my plan now than I was ten seconds ago.
“So, seeing as it’s a project that he clearly has his heart set on… we could finish it completely, and then surprise him with it when he gets home. I mean, obviously, he’ll then be able to change whatever he wants about it before he leaves again, but it might be a nice surprise for him to get home and have it done.” I think for a beat and then add, “And we’ll host a party, of course.”
He rubs his palm over his stubble, giving me a quick once-over before asking, “We?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Your guys at Coleson Construction, your brother’s team, and me. And Haven.” Then I think for a moment and add, “And Tucker, too.”
“Four-year-olds are pretty good with heavy lifting and construction,” he teases, chuckling when I nudge his pecs with the toe of my bed-sock.
“You know what I mean,” I tell him. “We’ll plan it and invite everyone for when Casey gets back. Actually, let me rephrase,” I say, getting really into the idea now. “ I’ll plan it” – I point to myself – “ you’ll carry in the items that are too heavy for me to lift” – I point at his enormous biceps – “and then everyone else will just get there before Casey does, so that he has a huge welcome home thing to make him know how loved he is.”
And to remind him what will be here for him if and when he decides to leave the Army.
I don’t say that last part but, from the way that Jason’s eyes search mine, I’m one-hundred percent sure that he knows what I’m thinking.
He says nothing for a beat before nodding and standing straighter. He’s so tall it’s crazy, and I tilt my head back so that I can look up at him.
“Alright.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Alright?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He looks me over. “It’s a good idea, if you’ve got the time for it.”
Then his eyes are flashing down to mine, silently asking me the same question he has been for weeks now – if I’m still working on stuff for Nashville and, by extension, if my life is going to stay there.
Maybe it’s my thermals, or maybe it’s the intensity of his irises, but I’m sweating so hard that I have to slip down off the counter, dying for a shower.
“I’ve got time for it,” I say at last, looking up at him from under my lashes.
It’s not a definitive answer but it’s all that I can give him at this second.
And from the satisfied way that his chest swells and his dimples deepen, I think that he’s okay with that for now.
He swipes the bowl from the counter and uses my spoon to steal the last bite of sundae, laughing as I gasp in mock-indignation and then smiling down at me.
“Alright.”