This cooking challenge has just gotten a lot more complicated.
Chapter Five
Jordan
After the smoke detector incident, Forge and I work with the careful coordination of bomb disposal experts. He handles all things involving heat and grease, while I focus on the dates and cream cheese with laser-like precision.
“Okay,” I say, surveying our ingredients. “What’s the strategy here? Because I’m getting the distinct impression that bacon-wrapped dates are more complicated than they sound.”
“I’ve never made them before.” He strokes his chin as he stands back, thinking through all the possible negative outcomes. “I’m thinking the trick will be not to overstuff them. Too much cream cheese and they’ll split open. Too little and they’ll be bland.”
I watch him work, noting the way his large fingers handle the delicate dates with surprising finesse. There’s something mesmerizing about his focus, the quiet confidence he brings to this simple task.
“Like this?” I ask, attempting to follow his lead.
He glances over and nods approvingly. “Those look great.”
The quiet comment slips under my skin, warming places I thought were long numb. When was the last time someone praised my ability to learn something new? In my professional life, competence is expected, not celebrated.
“Now comes the tricky part,” he says, moving to wrap bacon around the stuffed dates. “Tight enough to hold everything together, but not so tight it squeezes out the filling.”
“Sounds like… life advice.”
His head lifts, eyes curious, and heat creeps up my neck. “Sorry,” I blurt. “Talking to myself.”
“Maybe,” he says quietly, and something in the way he says it hooks under my skin—steady, intent, unguarded. For a moment, I forget about the food entirely.
“Team O’Brien–Ironwood!” Chief Brokka’s voice booms across the kitchen. “How are you doing over there?”
“No more fires,” I call back. “So far.”
“Progress! Glad I didn’t have to use my fire extinguisher on your dates.” He grins and moves on.
As we work, I keep glancing at Forge—the steady precision in his hands, the faint crease of focus between his brows, the pride that lights his expression when something comes together just right.
“Do you sell your pieces?” I ask.
“No, it’s just something I do in my spare time. I’ve made most of the furniture in my apartment. Sometimes I give things as gifts.”
“That’s incredible. I’ve never made anything more complex than a PowerPoint presentation.”
“I doubt that’s true. Your work requires building cases and constructing arguments. That’s creating something from nothing.”
The observation catches me off guard. Most people see my job as purely destructive—tearing apart marriages, dividing assets. But he’s found the creative element in it.
“No one’s ever put it that way before,” I admit.
“Different materials, same principle. Taking raw components and turning them into something functional.”
Before I can respond, one of our dates splits open, cream cheese launching itself with alarming enthusiasm.
“Structural failure,” I announce like it’s Exhibit A in court.
“We can salvage it,” Forge says, already reaching for paper towels. “Here, hold this together while I—”
Our hands collide as we both reach for the date. His palm is warm and rough. His calluses rasp lightly against my skin, rough in a way that makes me want more contact, not less. This time, instead of jumping apart, we both freeze.
“Sorry,” he says quietly, but he doesn’t move his hand immediately.
