Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
POWELL
I’d cleaned the place twice before she showed up, which was ridiculous because nothing about my apartment was ever dirty.
Functional, maybe a little bare, but clean.
Still, I’d found myself rearranging things that didn’t need rearranging—aligning the spice jars, wiping down the counters until they squeaked, standing in front of the sink debating whether a man ironing a hand towel constituted some kind of personal crisis. Probably.
The second I heard her car door outside, every bit of that pointless busywork seemed suddenly, painfully obvious. I dropped the towel like it was evidence of a felony and answered the door before she knocked.
She was standing there with her knuckles half-raised, her expression already halfway to a frown, like she wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find but it probably wasn’t me opening the door early. Her gaze flicked down to the welcome mat—the corner chewed to hell. “What happened to your mat?”
I followed her line of sight and swallowed a groan. “Esmerelda. She briefly lived here.”
She stared at me before glancing pointedly down at the mat, her expression shifting through disbelief, amusement, and something dangerously close to fondness. “You brought a donkey home with you.”
“For a couple days,” I said. “Temporary housing situation.”
“You fostered a donkey.”
“She’s very expressive.”
Jess opened her mouth like she had a dozen follow-up questions, then seemed to think better of it.
Her lips pressed together on whatever comment she was about to make.
She brushed past me into the apartment, the faint scent of coffee and something sweet trailing behind her, and for one disorienting second all the air in the house was too warm.
“Nice place.” From her, that was practically a five-star rave.
“Functional.” I tried not to look like a man noticing the way sunlight hit the strands of her hair or how her sweater slouched at one shoulder in a way that made my pulse jump.
She wandered toward the kitchen, drawn by the scents, and when she leaned in over the island, inhaling deeply, something in my chest loosened.
“Is that food?” she asked, like if I said no she might commit a crime.
“Last time I checked.”
“It smells… really good.” Her tone was almost offended by that fact.
“Sheet-pan chicken, plus sliders,” I said, pulling the pan from the oven and setting it on a trivet. “Roasted potatoes, some veggies. I figured if we’re testing cocoa and cookies, you might want something that isn’t ninety percent sugar.”
“Good call. Not gonna lie. I could eat the whole cutting board.”
She sat on one of the stools but didn’t settle.
Jess never simply sat—she perched like a bird ready to launch, her hands wrapped around the insulated mug she’d carried in from the car—her emotional support coffee—her legs tucked neatly under the edge of the counter, her whole posture hovering between polite composure and nervous energy.
Not one to keep a lady waiting, I assembled our plates. I slid one in front of her, watching for her reaction more closely than I wanted to admit. She took the first bite like she was expecting disappointment.
Instead, she closed her eyes.
The sound she made was quiet—barely more than a breath—but it curled through me like a hand around my nape. Every coherent thought I had dissolved.
She opened her eyes slowly. “That is… Powell, that’s absurdly good. Why do you know how to cook like this?”
“Firefighters cook,” I said, aware of the heat creeping up my neck.
“Not like this.”
I shrugged, trying to pretend I wasn’t ten seconds from preening. “Glad you like it.”
But she held my gaze for a beat too long—curious, uncertain, something unguarded flickering there—and it made my pulse thrum harder in my ears. She looked away first, stabbing at a potato like it had insulted her mama.
For a few minutes, the only sounds were forks on plates and the faint hum of the fridge. It wasn’t awkward, though. Just… full. Comfortable in a way I hadn’t expected with her. I’d imagined sharp edges and tense silence. Instead, she relaxed by degrees with every bite.
“This herb thing—” She pointed her fork at the pan. “—is that rosemary?”
“And thyme. Garlic. Lemon zest.”
She chewed thoughtfully and gave a little nod, like she’d decided to allow it. “Okay, Donkey, I’ll give it to you. You are unreasonably competent in the kitchen.”
“Should I get that on a plaque?” I asked. “Hang it over the stove?”
“You could embroider it on the hand towel you definitely ironed.”
I choked. “I did not—”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “You totally did.”
“I did not iron a towel,” I lied. “It came that way.”
“Uh-huh.”
We slid into easy banter, and it felt… good. I hadn’t realized how much I missed this version of her, the one I’d only really gotten brief glimpses of in high school before everything had gone sideways. The Jess who joked, who teased, who wasn’t all defensive spikes and distance.
She reached for the salt at the same time I did. Our fingertips brushed—warm, electric—and we both stilled for half a beat longer than the moment warranted.
She cleared her throat, taking the shaker and sprinkling salt with a laser focus that said she absolutely felt it too and was choosing to ignore it. I let her.
We finished the food at a reasonable human pace, not the shove-it-down-between-calls speed I was used to at the station. She cleaned her plate, sat back, and pressed a hand to her stomach with a small groan.
“If we do cookies now, they’re going to taste like chicken,” she said.
“Could start a trend,” I said. “Savory gingerbread.”
“Don’t say that where any of the food bloggers can hear you. They’ll do it.”
I stood, collected our plates, and moved to the sink. She hopped off the stool almost immediately.
“I can help.” She was already reaching for the cutting board.
“You’re a guest.”
“I’m also from the South. I know better than to sit on my butt while someone else does dishes.”
“Hard to argue with that,” I admitted, handing her a dish towel.
We fell into a rhythm at the sink—me washing, her drying. Every time our hands brushed in the handoff, a little jolt skated up my arm. The third time in a row, she looked up with a quick, helpless half-smile before schooling her face neutral again.
“Stop acting surprised,” she muttered. “I do know how to be in a kitchen.”
“I’ve seen you work in a kitchen,” I said. “Usually it’s more… high-velocity.”
“Controlled chaos,” she corrected. “You, of all people, should appreciate emergency coffee deployment.”
“I do,” I said quietly. “More than you know.”
She stilled for a second, fingers resting on the rim of the pan, then deliberately put it on the rack. “Okay. That’s as tidy as it’s gonna get. Activities?”
“Activities.” I dried my hands and grabbed the tray I’d prepped.
I brought out the cookie-decorating setup, the frosting bags, the thirty-second timer. She eyed the materials like she was preparing to perform delicate surgery.
“Rules?” she asked.
“No cursing,” I said.
She gave me a flat look. “Be serious.”
“This is a family event.”
“There are no children here.”
“Professional integrity.”
She muttered something under her breath that was absolutely not approved for a church bulletin, but she held out her hand anyway. “Timer.”
I hit start. “Three… two… one!”
She was chaos and determination compressed into human form.
Frosting smeared across her knuckles, sprinkles ricocheted off the counter, her hair slipped forward and she kept flicking it away with increasingly irritable huffs.
I leaned against the island, half watching the cookie and half pretending not to admire the way she moved—precise and frantic all at once, like she was trying to outperform the universe at its own game.
“Ten seconds,” I called.
“Don’t you dare countdown me,” she snapped.
The timer beeped, and she dropped the frosting bag with triumphant exhaustion. “Done.”
I looked at the cookie. It had one eye, a frown, and what I prayed was supposed to be a scarf but looked more like a crime scene.
“Wow,” I said softly. “He’s… festive.”
She bristled. “He has character.”
“He has unresolved trauma.”
“Give him a break; he was decorated under extreme duress.”
I would’ve kept teasing her, but something on her hand caught my attention—a smear of red frosting across her knuckle. Before I could think better of it, I reached out and brushed my thumb across the streak, wiping it gently away.
She froze.
Her breath hitched—just a fraction, just enough for the air around us to change. Her skin warmed instantly under my touch.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Neither of us looked away.
Up close, I could see tiny flecks of gold in the green of her eyes, the faint dusting of flour on her cheekbone, the way her pupils had blown a little wider. My heart was hammering, but I kept still, waiting to see which way she’d go.
She exhaled roughly and stepped aside, breaking the contact like it physically cost her. “Okay. Cocoa.”
But the shift had already happened. It hummed under everything we did next.
We tasted flights of cocoa, each tiny mug passed between us, each sip an excuse to stand closer. Her shoulder brushed mine. Her hand grazed the back of my knuckles when we swapped cups. Once, when she reached for a tasting card at the same time I did, our fingers fully laced for a half-second.
She didn’t pull away.
I didn’t either.
Her throat bobbed on a swallow that had nothing to do with hot chocolate. She focused on the card like it contained national secrets.
“This one’s too sweet,” she said.
“Noted.”
“This one’s good, but it’s going to clog a line if we’re not careful.”
“Add that to the list.”
She scribbled in her notebook with unnecessary vigor, the tip of her tongue caught in her teeth. My gaze tracked the movement, and I had to lock my knees not to lean in.