CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Gizmo
M y daily check-in with Sammy told me she was going to be exhausted when she finally got home.
An endless line of customers. Some media trying to sneak its way in the bakery and score an interview with her. Fangirls hanging out in the alley hoping for who knows what with her.
I swear she’d rather walk barefoot over broken glass than ask for help. That’s going to change, starting with tonight.
With me doing this for her. Because my world she’s stepped into is a lot for anyone to handle, especially for someone not used to this life like I am. So when she walks in the door in a bit—her shoulders tight with tension, her usual fire dulled by the weight and stress of the day—I know tonight’ll be just what the doctor ordered.
Relaxation without any strings attached.
And yeah, maybethat comes in the form ofme ordering her favorite takeout, but still, the effort is there.
As are the ideas I have in mind to keep this growth sustainable for her once I’m out of the picture. The uptick in customers is great for her now, but how does she sustain this when all is said and done? What will make her stand out from the other cookie bakeries in town?
I’m working on it. I have thoughts about it. I just need to figure out how to put them in motion.
Her headlights hitting the windows tells me she’s home and draws me away from my wandering thoughts and back into the conversation happening against my ear.
“Hey, I have to go, Hendrix is home.”
“Okay.” Nathaniel draws the word out, curiosity tingeing its edges, but doesn’t ask anything more. “Like I said, things are looking good. Judge Watkins likes what he’s seeing and is buying the ruse. Keep it up and he’ll feel more comfortable lifting the travel restriction.”
“’Kay. Thanks for the update. Good to hear it.” I say the words, absorb the good news, but am distracted.
“Love you, brother,” Nathaniel says.
I pause. Hear the words, feel their sincerity, but don’t necessarily feel comfortable saying them back. “Talk to you soon.”
I hear the door open, followed by the shuffle of her bag hitting the floor.
“In here,” I say as if she doesn’t know where the kitchen is.
She enters within seconds, her tired hazel eyes darting between me and the takeout containers spread across the table. Then, slowly, they drag over my bare chest.
That slight hitch of her shoulders is all I need to see to know that shirtless was a good choice. For me. For my chances at something later. And to give her a little something to focus on other than her long day.
Mission accomplished.
“Hi.”
“Long day?” I ask.
“The longest.” She steps toward the island and smiles. “You cooked. How sweet.”
“I’m sensing your sarcasm,” I tease and gesture toward the food, “but I assure you this is way better than any attempt at cooking I could have made.” I shrug. “Besides, Sammy said it was a rough day and so I wanted to make sure I had your favorite.”
She steps toward the table, eyeing the food. “What did you get?”
“Thai. Extra spicy, the way you like it.” I grab a container, lifting it with a smirk. “And dumplings, because those were starred twice.”
Her eyes narrow. “Starred twice?”
“Yeah. On the menu you have sitting on your desk at the bakery. You told me in Vegas you love Thai. I noticed the menu last time I was in the bakery and snapped a photo of it—just in case. This is just in case . So I bought one of everything you had circled on it and two of the dumplings since those were starred twice.”
She stares at me dumbfounded.
“What is it, Cookie?”
“You noticed that?”
“I notice a lot of things. I just thought after a hard day’s work, you might want food that reminds you of home. Of... before all this. Of before me.”
Something flickers across her face, something I can’t quite name, but it makes me grip the container a little tighter.
She blinks, lips parting slightly.
I expect her usual sarcastic retort, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she justlooksat me, like she’s trying to figure something out. Like maybe she wasn’t expecting me to notice.
“You—” She clears her throat, shaking her head. “Since when do you take care of people?”
I shrug, keeping it casual, even though the way she’s looking at me makes my chest feel tight. “Since you, apparently.”
Her lips press together, and I can tell she’s trying not to react. But shedoes. It’s subtle, but it’s there—in the way she shifts her weight, in the way she suddenly won’t meet my eyes. And I can see the minute she brushes it all off. The second she tries to play whatever this is going on between us as nothing more, nothing less than her fake husband trying to be nice.
Much the same way I’ve been.
This is dinner. It’s supposed to be light. To be easy. To not leave these unanswered questions lingering above us so that it’s anything but that.
“Let’s eat,” I say to try and will that into existence.
“Please. I’m starving.” Her smile widens.
But when she reaches for the container in my hand, I pull it out of reach.
“Not so fast, Cookie,” I say. “First, you have to do something for me.”
Hendrix crosses her arms, already exasperated. “Iliterallyjust worked ten hours. If this is some kind of weird drummer initiation, I swear—”
“Nothing weird. Just say:Thank you, Jase. You’re the best husband I’ve ever had, and I don’t deserve you.”
She stares at me. “You’re the only husband I’ve ever had so that doesn’t work.” Then, without warning, she lunges.
I laugh, easily dodging her attempt to grab the food, holding it higher. “That’s not the magic phrase, Hendrix.”
She huffs. “I am not saying that.”
“Then no dumplings for you.”
Her jaw clenches. “You’re such an ass.”
“An ass who ordered you dinner,” I remind her, taking a dramatic bite of a dumpling. “Mmm. So good.”
Her glare could probably set me on fire.
I grin wider. “I can’t believe howdeliciousthese are.” I make an exaggerated moaning sound just to mess with her.
“Okay, fine!” She huffs. “Thank you, Jase. You’re theworstfirst husband I’ve ever had, and Idefinitelydon’t deserve the emotional abuse of watching you eat my favorite food.”
I chuckle. “Not what I had in mind, but you’re not exactly one who conforms.” At least not anymore and that’s fucking awesome in my eyes.
I offer her the container and our fingers brush. Linger. “Thank you for this. For dinner. For noticing. For the laughter.”
“You deserve it and then some,” I murmur.
Moments pass in silence as we fill our plates with Thai goodness. I take a seat at one end of the counter as she starts to sit on the far end.
“Nope. Get your fine ass over here.” Her eyes whip up to meet mine. “Don’t you dare sit all the way over there. I don’t bite.” I quirk my brows and challenge her.
“Lies,” she teases but takes the bait and moves her plate next to mine.
I smirk. “Well, not unless you want me to.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the way her breath hitches. Love that it does.
And just like that, the air between us changes.
It’s always been there—that thing neither of us wants to name. The push and pull, the tension that crackles every time we’re near each other. But now, sitting here, eating takeout, our knees touching, her lips slightly parted as she stares at the food like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
I feel it more than ever.
I don’t know what to do with it.
But for the first time, I’m not entirely sure I want to fight it anymore.