Chapter Eight #2
“My partner Mitch happened,” Jack said, bitterness creeping into his voice. “Turns out he was better at cooking books than actual food. By the time I figured it out, he was long gone, and I was left holding the bag. I lost everything. My savings, my reputation, my dream.”
So they had that in common. “I’m so sorry,” Cora said.
He shrugged, and the gesture was almost convincing in its attempt at indifference. “It’s behind me now. But I was . . . drifting. I came back to Sunrise, and Gramps told me about this woman who might help.” He paused, swallowing hard.
“Lolly,” she finished. Of course it was her grandmother. She had a way of finding people who needed saving and making them whole again, whether they liked it or not.
Jack nodded. “I must’ve sat outside The Spoon for hours, working up the nerve to go in.
I guess I fell asleep, and then there was Lolly, tapping on my car window with a smile like she’d known me all my life.
She handed me a sandwich—turkey, cranberry, and the perfect amount of mustard—and invited me inside.
We ended up talking until the sun went down.
By the end of the night, she’d offered me a job in the kitchen.
I knew she didn’t really need the help. It was the off-season, and the place was quiet.
But she insisted. Said she needed someone who knew their way around a kitchen and wouldn’t let her get away with putting pickle juice in the pie crust.”
“I’d forgotten about her pickle juice phase. Dark times.” Cora laughed, then let the quiet settle between them. Her gaze drifted around the tidy waterfront cottage tucked beneath the live oaks. “She must have paid you pretty well if you ended up in a place like this.”
“If sandwiches and unsolicited life advice could pay the bills, she’d have made me a millionaire. Also, she’s the one who found me this place. She probably blackmailed someone, knowing her, because the rent is pretty cheap.”
That sounded about right. There wasn’t much Lolly wouldn’t do for a friend. “So how can you afford to stay here, now that she’s gone?”
“I do a little of everything to keep afloat.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Fixing engines, painting shutters, working swing shifts at the bar over in Southport. I even played guitar at a wedding once. Whatever keeps the lights on and the fridge stocked.”
“Which fridge? The one here or the one at The Spoon?”
“Both. Lolly’s kitchen is where I go when I need inspiration. She was the only one around here who gave me a chance. Made me believe I had something to offer. And when I need to remember, that’s where I go.”
“So that’s why you care so much about it,” she said.
Jack nodded, staring out over the water.
“I want to reopen it, to cook Lolly’s recipes.
Keep her legacy alive. Somebody should fight for people like her.
” He paused, then added softly, “She thought it was a great idea. We had this whole plan to write down her recipes and give them all facelifts. She said Sunrise needed more second chances.”
His confession was interrupted by the unmistakable growl of Cora’s stomach.
She flushed, mortified. “Sorry. I got so caught up in paperwork today I forgot to eat.”
He stood and offered her a hand. “Come on. I can’t let you starve out here on my dock. It’d be terrible for my reputation.”
She let him help her up and then followed him into the cottage.
It was small but cozy, with a kind of lived-in charm that screamed “bachelor pad” in the most endearing way possible.
A well-worn couch was draped with a knitted throw that looked like it had seen more than a few movie marathons.
Bookshelves were crammed with an assortment of cookbooks and novels, some neatly lined up, others stacked haphazardly on their sides.
It was rugged, but comfortable. Like the man himself.
But the kitchen stole the show—gleaming countertops, polished wood, well-used pots and pans hanging within easy reach. It was a space that begged to be cooked in, and watching Jack move through it was like watching an artist in his element.
He pulled out ingredients like it was second nature, spreading them on the counter. “How do you feel about frittatas?” he asked, glancing at her over his shoulder like he hadn’t just caught her staring at the flex of his bicep.
“I love them,” she replied. “I once built a whole pitch around the rise of fancy brunch bowls. Frittatas are like the gateway drugs to bougie Sunday mornings.”
Jack paused, clearly impressed. “Lolly said you worked at a food magazine.”
“I’m a food trend forecaster,” she explained, leaning against the counter.
“Or was. I helped restaurants predict what people would be craving next season. Matcha everything, sweet-potato cocktails. That kind of thing. You name it, I pitched it.” Her smile faltered.
“But, uh, then I lost my job. Long story. Messy ending.” She reached for a cherry tomato and popped it in her mouth before he could ask more.
“Anyway. Carry on, Chef. I’m just here to critique your food. ”
“Challenge accepted.”
Jack’s grin was infectious and, for a moment, everything else melted away. She was just a girl, watching a boy cook, wondering how someone could make the simple act of whisking eggs look so attractive.
The next hour passed in a blur of chopping, stirring, and banter that danced on the edge of flirtation.
Jack moved with casual confidence through the kitchen, tossing out instructions like he was narrating a cooking show just for her.
The smell alone was enough to weaken her resolve.
Cora hadn’t thought bacon and sauteed onions were an aphrodisiac, but they were tempting enough to have her making a mental note to add them to her next Valentine’s Day forecast. By the time Jack slid a plate in front of her, her sides ached from laughter and her stomach growled in anticipation.
She didn’t even pretend to wait. The frittata was golden on top, the edges were crisp, and the inside was flecked with green herbs and pockets of melted cheese. He’d added a handful of arugula tossed in lemon, and a thick piece of toast he’d griddled in the same pan he used for the bacon.
She took a bite, then stilled, a moan of appreciation slipping out. “Okay,” she said after a beat. “That’s annoyingly good.”
Jack grinned, settling onto the chair next to her with his plate. “Annoyingly?”
“Because now I have to admit you’ve got skills. Part of me was hoping you’d be bad at this.”
“I’m bad at a lot of things,” he said. “Breakfast isn’t one of them.”
“You should put that on your résumé.”
He took a bite, then nodded toward her plate. “Lolly used to make something like this, didn’t she?”
Cora nodded. “Hers had sweet potatoes and thyme. She called it her ‘clean out the fridge’ special.”
“I found the recipe scrawled on the back of a grocery list. There weren’t any measurements, of course. Just reminders to use the good cheese and add a handful of whatever herbs were on hand.”
“Sounds about right. Except with biscuits. Those she treated like gospel.”
“Rightfully so,” Jack said. “She kept that recipe locked up tight.”
They ate for a moment in comfortable silence.
“I’ve been digging through some of her old notebooks,” he said quietly. “There’s real magic in them. Recipes. Notes. Memories. The Spoon meant so much to all of us.”
“Maybe the new owners will use some of the recipes.”
His grin faded. “Right. Because you’re still planning to sell.”
“I still need the money,” she said, setting her fork down a little harder than necessary. “And you still want to play chef in a place I’m trying to unload as quickly as possible.”
Jack tilted his head, voice cooling. “Funny. For someone so eager to leave, you’re awfully involved all of a sudden.”
“Well,” she said carefully, “I actually came here to ask for your help.”
He blinked, then laughed. “That’s rich. You want me to help you sell the café?”
She crossed her arms. “Yes, I thought—”
“Not a chance. I’m not helping you kill the one good thing this town has left.”
They stared at each other, the warmth between them gone in an instant.
She picked up her plate and walked toward the kitchen. “Thanks for dinner. The food was great,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s a shame I can’t say the same about the company.”