Chapter Nineteen #2
“And I couldn’t take it. He didn’t own her, despite what he seemed to think. So I stepped in,” Lincoln continued, his voice sharp with anger. “Told Tobias to back off. He didn’t like that. We fought, and . . .” He trailed off, lost in the memory.
Cora’s voice was barely a whisper. “He died.”
Lincoln nodded, his eyes still fixed on something outside. “And because he was a Worthington, nobody wanted to hear my side of it. Lolly . . . well, her parents made sure she stayed quiet. Told her it was her fault.”
Cora looked sick. The weight of it, of what she’d found out about Lolly, the town, and the Worthingtons, settled heavily in the room.
“So you went to prison,” Jack said, piecing it all together. “You took the fall.”
Lincoln turned back to them, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
“Yeah. I did my time and came back to a town that wanted nothing to do with me.” He paused, then gave a crooked smile.
“Guess it’s a Harlow rite of passage. Some people get diplomas.
We get mug shots.” His voice thickened with emotion.
“But I’d do it all again. To keep Lolly safe? There was no price too high.”
Jack stared at him, his mind racing to keep up with everything his grandfather had just revealed. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” he asked, the question sharp with confusion and something that felt uncomfortably close to hurt. “All these years, you kept it a secret. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Gramps turned back toward them, his eyes weary.
“Because Lolly asked me not to. She was embarrassed. Her parents didn’t approve of me, and she knew the Worthingtons would never let anyone forget what happened.
She didn’t want to live in the shadow of that shame.
So, when I went to jail, she made me promise I wouldn’t say a word about us. ”
Jack shook his head, struggling to understand. “But you loved her. How could you let her go like that?”
A sad smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Loving someone doesn’t always mean holding on.
Sometimes, the best thing you can do is let them go.
And Lolly . . . she deserved to be free from all that.
” He waved a hand, as if the town and its ghosts were something he’d be able to brush away. “She deserved better than me.”
Lincoln’s jaw clenched. “It wasn’t just Tobias, though. If Lolly married him, he would’ve gotten his hands on the land where The Salty Spoon sits. That’s what they were really after. Her parents would’ve handed it over as part of the deal.”
Jack’s chest constricted as the pieces clicked together. “They’ve been after the land this whole time,” he muttered. “Waiting for Lolly to be gone so they could take it from her.”
Lincoln nodded, his face hardening with resolve. “They never stopped. Tobias was their way in, and when that didn’t work, they waited. Now that Lolly’s gone . . .” He trailed off, the weight of it hanging heavy in the room.
Jack dropped his head into his hands. “The Worthingtons are going to get what they’ve always wanted.”
After leaving Lincoln’s, Cora and Jack had ended up back at The Spoon, talking late into the night about her grandmother, the café, and the land Worthington was after.
When she’d finally dragged herself upstairs to bed, he’d promised to lock up.
But once the place was quiet, he couldn’t shake the restless energy gnawing at him.
So he’d stayed. Partly to keep an eye on Cora, and partly because cooking in Lolly’s kitchen was the only thing that kept his brain from spiraling.
The kitchen was cloaked in pre-dawn darkness, the only light spilling from the oven and the soft glow of the streetlamp outside.
It was the kind of quiet that made him feel like the last person on Earth.
Jack stood over the flour-dusted counter, glaring at the notes scattered in front of him.
Lolly’s handwriting was neat and precise, except for one line: “Add secret ingredient.”
Great, Lolly. Really helpful.
The clock ticked away the early morning hours, reminding him he’d been at this far too long. Cora was probably fast asleep upstairs, oblivious to the fact that he was down here slowly losing his mind over Lolly’s biscuit recipe.
“Okay, Harlow,” he muttered, grabbing another random ingredient. “Biscuit attempt number . . . who even knows anymore?”
He’d tried everything. Honey? Too sweet. Vinegar? That batch was so bad, it was a crime against biscuits. Nutmeg? Cinnamon? Cardamom? All delicious, but none of them were the secret.
As he mixed the dough, his mind wandered back to Cora.
The way her nose scrunched when she studied her ever-present spreadsheet, how she bit her lip when she was concentrating, the way she’d looked at that garden party, glowing even when she was trying to blend in.
And then there was the feel of her pressed against him in that closet, her breath warm on his neck . . .
An acrid smell snapped him back to reality. Smoke was curling from the oven. His most recent batch of biscuits had gone up in flames.
“No!” He yanked open the oven door, unleashing a thick cloud of smoke that quickly filled the kitchen. As if on cue, the smoke detector began shrieking from the ceiling.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
“Seriously?” he yelled up at it, like the thing might actually take pity on him and shut up.
No such luck.
He threw open the back door, frantically waving a dish towel to clear the smoke. In the chaos, he knocked over the flour bowl, which exploded into a white mushroom cloud, covering both the kitchen and him.
Perfect.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and before he could clean up either the mess or his dignity, Cora appeared in the doorway, wild-eyed and clutching a rolling pin, ready for a fight.
Her hair was a mess, her pajamas had little cupcakes all over them, and she was gripping that rolling pin like it was a weapon from a medieval battlefield.
And she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
“Jack? What’s going on?”
He held up the smoking tray of biscuits, completely deadpan. “Biscuits?”
Cora blinked, taking in the flour-covered counters, the charred remains in his hands, and then him.
She lost it.
Her giggles started softly, but they quickly escalated into full-blown, doubled-over laughter. He should’ve been offended, but between her laughter and the wailing smoke detector, the whole situation was so ridiculous he couldn’t help but join her.
That’s exactly how the fire department found them a few minutes later, both covered in flour, laughing uncontrollably, with the smoke detector still screaming overhead.
“Everything okay here?” Bob, the fire chief, stood in the doorway. He glanced at Cora, and his eyebrows shot up. “Cora? Didn’t know you were back in town.” He turned to his team with a knowing smile. “False alarm, boys. Cora’s home.”
Cora’s laughter died in an instant. “Excuse me?”
Jack stepped forward, trying not to chuckle at how fast her mood had flipped. “Bob, this was all me. Cora was an innocent bystander.”
Bob looked skeptical. “You sure about that? Because this”—he gestured to the chaotic kitchen—“has Lolly’s granddaughter written all over it. No offense.”
Cora shot daggers at Bob, gripping the rolling pin tighter. “I was asleep, Bob.”
Once the fire department was satisfied they weren’t about to burn down the place, Bob left with a wink and a promise to share the story with half the town by morning.
“So, Chef Chaos.” Cora turned to Jack, twirling the rolling pin between her hands and throwing out the same nickname he’d used with her.
“Care to explain why you’re redecorating my kitchen with flour at four-thirty in the morning and not at home in your cute little cottage where you have your very own kitchen? ”
Jack ran a hand through his hair, sending more flour into the air. “I needed inspiration. I was trying to recreate Lolly’s special biscuit recipe. Not her regular ones. The ones she made for special occasions.”
Cora’s face softened. “I know the ones. She sent me a batch the week before she died. Said they were to remind me she loved me.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “She had this secret ingredient, but she never told me what it was. I thought . . . I don’t know, that figuring it out would help save the café.”
Cora stepped closer and brushed flour off his cheek. “That’s really sweet. Misguided and arson-adjacent, but sweet.”
Jack laughed, though it came out rougher than he intended. “Yeah, didn’t do much good, though. I’m no closer to figuring it out, and now I owe you a new kitchen towel. And probably a new kitchen.”
Her lips curved into a smile, and it did dangerous things to his pulse.
“All you had to do was ask.”
He blinked. “Wait . . . what?”
She leaned in, her voice low and teasing. “The secret ingredient. All you had to do was ask.”
His heart did a little tap dance in his chest as he leaned in, close enough that their noses nearly brushed. “All right, Cora Lockwood, I’m asking. What’s Lolly’s secret ingredient?”
Her eyes sparkled with amusement and something else he couldn’t put his finger on.
“You know,” she said with a shy smile. “I’ve always believed it’s better to show than tell.”
His mouth went dry. “Show, huh?”
Cora’s gaze dropped to his flour-covered boots, then slowly traveled back up, and he struggled not to squirm as her grin went from shy to saucy.
“Why don’t you make us some coffee? I’ll meet you back down here in half an hour.”
“Half an hour?” he blurted out, maybe a little too eagerly.
She was already halfway up the stairs, but she paused long enough to throw a playful glance over her shoulder. “Better make it an hour. You’ve got some cleaning up to do.”
As she disappeared, he stood there in the middle of the flour-dusted kitchen, covered in smoke and biscuit dough, grinning like an absolute idiot.