Chapter Thirteen #2
He grabbed a bag of stone-ground grits and gave her a mock glare.
“That’s your first rule. Mine is: Don’t waste good butter.
” As he gathered the rest of the ingredients, he couldn’t resist giving her the play-by-play.
Cooking was his thing, his comfort zone, and it never hurt that the ladies loved a man in chef’s whites.
“We need a heavy-bottomed saucepan. Helps with even heat.”
Cora’s lips twitched. “I didn’t know pans could be bottom-heavy.”
“Oh, it’s important,” he said, leaning back against the counter, giving her a slow, appreciative once-over.
His gaze trailed from the scuffed tips of her sneakers up to the curve of her hips, lingering a second longer than necessary before meeting her eyes again.
“In cooking and in life, a good bottom makes all the difference.”
She snorted, her cheeks blooming a shade of pink that matched the floral print on her apron. “Next you’re going to tell me you’ve got a favorite burner.”
He pointed to the front-left burner on the stove. “Naturally. This one has the best heat distribution.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she mumbled, but she didn’t break eye contact.
“Ridiculously good at making grits,” he countered, measuring the grits with precision. “The secret is the ratio: four parts liquid to one part grits.”
“Wow, you can count too,” she said, pretending to be impressed. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
Jack cleared his throat and turned back to the stove. She was the one who’d worried about burning down the kitchen, but he was the one playing with fire. Flirting with her was a bad idea. She was leaving, and he had no business getting attached.
But he’d always been the first to line up for bad ideas.
He turned down the burner and reached for the whisk, trying to focus on something other than the way she was still watching him. But as he whisked the grits into the simmering liquid, Cora leaned in, curiosity lighting up her face.
“What’s with all the stirring?”
“It keeps them smooth,” he said. “You want them creamy, not lumpy. If you don’t stir them well, you’re asking for trouble.” He shot her a look. “And you seem to know all about trouble.”
“I am not a troublemaker.”
“Says the woman who nearly glued herself to the counter with microwave grits.”
She nudged his shoulder. “Please. If anyone’s the poster child for trouble, it’s you.”
He raised a brow, but she was already grinning.
“Didn’t you get suspended once for turning the cafeteria into a slip-and-slide?”
Jack smirked. “Allegedly.”
“Oh, come on. There were photos.”
He shrugged, lips twitching. “Still not the worst idea I’ve ever had.”
She rolled her eyes, but the smile stayed.
Jack tilted his head. “It’s not like you never got in trouble.”
“I didn’t,” she said, almost apologetically. “I was too busy copying over my homework in different-colored pens and alphabetizing my planner. I even organized my Halloween candy by color, sugar content, and barter value. Lolly said it was endearing. The school counselor used the word ‘concerning.’”
He stared at her. Not in judgment, and not even in disbelief. Just like he was seeing her for the first time.
And maybe he was. Because for all the mayhem she caused in the kitchen, there was something almost fragile in the way she’d spoken. As if the rules had always been her armor, and keeping things predictable was the only way she knew how to survive.
As much as he wanted to ask more, he let it slide. For now. But he tucked every color-coded, candy-sorting detail away, because he knew that beneath all that order was the key to getting her to stick around long enough to save The Spoon.
The steam curled around him as he stirred the pot, his chest aching in a way he hadn’t expected, as if he was brushing up against something he’d almost convinced himself he didn’t want.
But he did. He wanted this. Not just the kitchen or the food or even the girl beside him— though all of that seemed to be tangling together in a way he didn’t want to examine—he wanted to stay in Sunrise. To prove he could build something that lasted.
He turned his mind back to the pot. “Now, we let them do their thing, but we don’t ignore them. Grits, like women, don’t appreciate being ignored.”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” Cora teased.
He clutched his chest. “I am a joy to be around, thank you.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Harlow.”
Every few minutes, he stirred the pot, adding butter and a pinch of salt. Cora watched him closely, her earlier vulnerability replaced by genuine interest.
“It smells amazing,” she said, fanning her hand in front of her face to catch a whiff.
“Just wait,” he said, reaching for a block of extra-sharp cheddar with as much flair as he could muster. “The secret is good cheese. Adds depth and a little bite.”
“Depth and bite, huh?” Cora mused, raising an eyebrow, the teasing tone daring him to slip up. “Is that how you describe yourself on dating apps?”
He almost dropped the cheese grater, which would’ve completely ruined his suave chef routine. “I don’t need dating apps.”
The truth was, he hadn’t touched a dating app in years.
He’d been too busy picking up the pieces of his life to think about swiping on strangers, unless you counted the barista at The Bean who kept spelling his name as “Jake.” Who has time for swiping when you’re trying to scrape together a living and figure out what comes after your dream goes up in flames?
He shrugged casually, keeping his face neutral. “Some of us know how to meet people the old-fashioned way.”
“Right,” she said. “Old-fashioned. Like chloroform?”
He chuckled, pointing at her with the grater. “See? That’s the kind of thing that would make you terrible at dating apps.”
Except, as soon as he said it, the thought popped into his head that Cora would actually be perfect on a dating app.
She’d have a profile he’d pause on, smile at, then swipe right before he even realized what he was doing.
A little sarcastic, a little offbeat, with just the right amount of sass to keep things interesting.
The type who wouldn’t post some cookie-cutter beach selfie or a bland “I love hiking” bio but instead would write that she’s “Fluent in sarcasm, kitchen explosions, and true crime podcasts. Swipe left if you can’t handle me abandoning you for pizza. ”
Yeah, Cora was exactly the person who’d make him second-guess every other profile in the queue. Dangerous. And way too tempting.
Most women in Sunrise looked at him like a fun little detour on their way to finding Mr. Right.
But Cora? She was different. She didn’t seem to want to change him or figure him out.
She was just . . . there. Enjoying the moment.
And him. It was nice, and way more fun than he’d had in a long time. Relaxing, even.
He swallowed, suddenly aware of how close she was standing. To distract himself, he ladled the grits into bowls, topping each with a pat of butter and some slivered chives. “Now, get ready to admit these grits are the best you’ve ever tasted.”
Cora laughed, breaking the tension. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Chef. I’ll be the judge.”
“Prepare to eat your words, Lockwood,” he said, sliding a bowl her way. “And the best grits you’ll ever have.”
She took a bite, and her expression of surprise and pure joy was all the validation he needed.
“Oh, my goodness,” she said, eyes closing as she savored the taste. “These are incredible.”
He leaned against the counter, grinning, feeling both smug and unexpectedly flustered. It had been a long time since he’d cared about impressing someone with his cooking. “Told you. Years of practice.”
Cora took another bite, smiling warmly. “Lolly would have loved these.”
The praise hit him in the chest, a mix of pride and something softer. Something dangerous. Because it wasn’t just about the food. It was about her standing in his kitchen, smiling like she belonged, when she still planned to sell the place out from under him.
For a moment, they looked at each other, the air between them thick with something weightier than just attraction. Something that could wreck him if he wasn’t careful.
He cleared his throat, stepping back. “Right. So about that peach cobbler . . .”
They settled into an impromptu grits-and-cobbler picnic, and Cora started asking about his talk with Gramps.
“So, what did your grandfather say about Lolly?” she asked, frowning.
He let out a long sigh. “Not much. He just clammed up, said it was ancient history, and changed the subject.” He rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the conversation that had felt like spinning his wheels in thick mud.
“I can’t figure it out. What was the deal between the two of them?
It’s clear they knew each other because of that picture, but beyond that .
. .” He shrugged, the frustration clawing at him.
“Do you think it’s connected to the loan from Worthington?”
He shook his head. “I don’t see how it could be.” But the words felt hollow, and he knew Cora saw right through him.
He hesitated, avoiding her gaze as he traced circles on the countertop with his finger. If I tell her, will it change how she looks at me? His mouth went dry. But he’d already come this far, and it would be wrong to hold back now. She deserved to know the truth about who he was.
“But there’s more to it than I let on,” he admitted, the words dragging out of him. He met her eyes, and the concern he saw there made his chest tighten. “There’s . . . well, some history between Gramps and Tobias Worthington.”
Cora hesitated, then said, “I know there’s some bad blood between your families, but I’ve never known the details.” She tilted her head, watching him carefully. “What kind of history are we talking about?”
He shifted uncomfortably on the stool. “The kind of history you don’t put on display at family reunions.
” He rubbed the back of his neck, stalling for a few precious seconds before finally letting the words tumble out.
“About sixty years ago, at the Honeysuckle Festival, Gramps and Tobias got into a fight. Nobody knows exactly what started it, but it ended badly. And by badly, I don’t mean, Oops, I spilled punch on your shirt badly, but more along the lines of Oh, no, there’s so much blood badly. ”
Cora’s fist went in front of her mouth. “Your grandfather . . .”
“Killed Tobias Worthington.” He let out a slow breath. “He went to jail for a spell. And the town, well . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to tell her about the grudges the town held. How just carrying the Harlow name turned him into some sort of villain.
“They never let you forget, do they?” Cora finished quietly.
“So that’s why everyone treats your family like you’re, what, cursed or something?
” Cora asked, unable to keep the indignation out of her voice.
“That’s ridiculous. You can’t blame someone for something their grandfather did before they were even born. ”
Her sudden defense of his family had him slack-jawed. Nobody ever stood up for a Harlow. They just assumed the Harlows were in the wrong.
“And the Worthingtons have never let anyone forget it,” he said.
Cora’s spoon clinked against her bowl as she set it down, eyes narrowing in thought. “So if your grandfather killed Tobias, why would Lolly go to the Worthingtons for a loan when she was friends with your gramps? And why wouldn’t your grandfather say something?”
She was relentless, and he liked that about her. She didn’t let anything go until it made sense.
“That’s the thing,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know if he was even aware of the loan. Maybe whatever happened between him and Tobias is why he never wanted me involved. Or it’s possible he did know and couldn’t bring himself to tell me about it.”
Cora sat quietly for a long moment, the silence stretching between them. He felt the tension building, like a storm on the horizon, and he braced himself for her reaction, for whatever she was going to say next.
“We need answers.”
“It was a long time ago, Cora. How would we even get answers now? We can’t Facebook-stalk them like normal people.”
She licked her spoon in a way that made him lose his train of thought. “Who needs Facebook?” she said with a grin. “We’ve got the best information source around.”
“What’s that?”
“The grapevine,” she said, grinning wider. “Sunrise is a small town, and there’s nothing people here like more than gossip. Someone’s got to have some information. We just have to find the right person to ask.”
He groaned. “You want us to gossip with a bunch of old ladies? That’s your master plan?”
Cora threw a napkin at him. “You make it sound like we’re going to storm a castle. It’s a visit to the bridge club, and maybe the senior center. I’m pretty sure we’ll survive.”
He held up his hands. “Fine. Little-old-lady interrogation it is.”