12. The Grocery Store #3
He hesitates for a brief microsecond; the uncertainty looks entirely foreign on a man built like a brick wall. His heavy jaw flexes. Then, he reaches down to the porch railing and lifts a large, brown paper grocery bag.
He extends it toward me. "Brought this for you."
I step to the edge of the porch, looking down into the open top of the bag. My breath hitches. Inside, perfectly stacked, are the exact items I abandoned in the aisle. The yellow onions. The chicory coffee. The unbleached flour.
I am immediately touched. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind, so quietly observant, that it threatens to crack my armor wide open. But I am unwilling to show him any soft side. Not after what he accused me of. Not after he saw me break down.
I raise my chin higher. "Thank you. Wait here, please. I will get my purse so I can repay you."
Jax's heavy brow arches slowly, and he reaches his other hand behind the railing and lifts a second, smaller package. It's wrapped in thick butcher paper and tied with a rough string.
He holds it out. "You gonna repay me for this, too?"
I peek over the edge of the brown paper. Heat radiates from the bundle, carrying the rich, mouth-watering scent of toasted corn husks, cumin, and slow-cooked meat.
"Tamales?" I ask, staring at him blankly.
Jax shifts his weight, looking suddenly uneasy. He rubs the back of his neck with his large hand, his eyes dropping to the porch boards before meeting mine again.
"Elena baked 'em," he grunts out.
I just stare at him, completely lost. "Who?"
"You met Rafe Dalton," Jax explains, his voice a low, rough rumble. "At my shop. Elena is his wife. She baked them." He pauses, his jaw tightening. "She used my mother's recipe."
The words hang in the air between us, and at that exact moment, the subtext clicks into place. I understand what he is doing. I understand what he is offering.
A truce.
No. Not just a truce.
A man who lost his mother brought me food made from her recipe. That isn't strategy. That isn't leverage. That is the most expensive thing Jackson Rowe owns, and he just handed it to me in butcher paper.
My eyes smart with a fresh, sudden wave of tears at his thoughtfulness. If he had come here shouting, I could have handled him. If he had come here demanding answers, I could have fought back. I know how to handle aggression.
But I am completely at a loss when it comes to this rough, clumsy softness.
I swallow hard, forcing the lump in my throat down.
"Thank you," I say again, my voice softer this time, but I hold my ground. "But I still insist on paying you for the groceries, Jax."
I move to step back inside, turning my shoulder to him.
Before I can complete the motion, Jax steps up. He clears the bottom stairs in a single, fluid movement, his massive body suddenly blocking my path.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
My throat tightens. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Jax just stares at me, his eyes refusing to let me hide. "Do you need help, Nora?"
I freeze, completely unsure of how to reply. My fingers grip the edge of the grocery bag so tightly the paper crinkles loudly between us.
"Look," Jax continues. "We got off on the wrong foot. The porch... that was a mess. But if you need help, you can talk to me."
I can feel my resolve weakening. The urge to spill everything — Stanley, the text, Clara, the developers — is a pressure building behind my eyes. But the pride is still there, a stubborn shield. I try to put on a brave face, fixing him with a hard glare.
"I don't need help," I say, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts. "Besides, why would I ask for help from a man who thinks so lowly of me? You stood on my porch and told me I was trying to flip this land for a payout. You believe I'm a thief."
Jax flinches. It's a minute movement, but I catch it.
He looks away, staring out into the dark tree line for a long, heavy moment. The crickets chirp in the dense silence between us.
When he finally turns his head back to look at me, there is a completely unguarded expression in his eyes. It's a look I can't place.
"I apologize," he says.
"What?" I whisper, genuinely shocked.
"I said, I apologize," Jax repeats. He takes a half-step closer, the heat of his body radiating against the cool night air. "I was just trying to figure things out. I put the pieces together wrong, and now I figured I had misunderstood something."
He holds my gaze, his blue eyes burning with an intense, quiet sincerity.
"Will you accept my apology?" Jax asks, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble. "By telling me exactly what's going on?"
I stare up at him, unable to think clearly.
After several seconds, I realize, with crystal clarity, that he is offering his hand. He is giving me a chance.
I know the reputation of the men in this town. A man like Jackson Rowe minds his own business. He doesn't involve himself in outside drama. For him to make an exception, for him to stand on my porch and offer an apology to a city girl he barely knows, is monumental.
And I have a terrible, sinking feeling that if I turn him down now, he won't give me a second chance.