His eyes narrow slightly. “I build custom furniture. Mostly commissions. People pay good money for tables that’ll outlive them.”
I glance at his hands—big, rough, callused—and heat coils in my gut like a slow burn. I remember those hands.
“Well, lucky for you I majored in babysitting emotionally unavailable men with tools.”
He cocks his head. “You always this mouthy?”
“Only when I’m trying to impress my new boss.”
Jack steps closer, slow and deliberate, and my pulse quickens.
“You got a kid.” His gaze flicks toward the hallway where my daughter’s babbling to herself.
I tense, just for a second. “That a problem?”
“No. Just didn’t realize there were two of you.” His eyes flick back to mine. “You didn’t mention it. But then again, you failed to mention the attitude too.”
I flash him a grin I don’t feel. “Guess we’re even.”
He doesn’t smile. Just looks at me like he’s trying to pin me down and figure out what the hell I’m doing here.
Fair question.
Because even I’m not totally sure.
He nods toward the front of the house. “I’m making dinner. You want to stay, you pull your weight. Start with peeling potatoes.”
“Yes, Chef.”
I follow him into the kitchen and watch as he starts pulling ingredients from the fridge. The muscles in his back flex under his skin, and I can’t stop staring. He moves like a man who’s spent his entire life in control. Of wood. Of tools. Of women.
But I remember what it was like to make him lose that control. Just once. When he kissed me like he was starved. When he said my name like it tasted better than anything he'd ever put in his mouth. He called me Kat then–he never knew my real name–Holly. I hated the name I was born with so only went by Kat for the first twenty years of my life. A pang of guilt flashes through me as I think about telling him who I really am–but I need him to think I’m a stranger if I’m going to get a real sense for who he is–if he’s someone I can trust to be in me and Josie’s life.
I grab a peeler and take my place at the counter beside him.
We work in silence for a while, tension pulsing under every breath.
Then he says, “You got a husband?”
“No.”
He grunts. “Boyfriend?”
“Nope.”
Another beat. “Kid’s father around?”
I grip the peeler tighter. “He doesn’t know.”
That makes him pause. Just briefly. “You plan to tell him?”
I keep my gaze on the potato in my hand. “Someday.”
He doesn’t push. Just reaches for the knife and starts chopping onions with methodical precision. My eyes burn from the scent—or maybe from everything else rising in my chest—but I don’t blink.
Because the truth is a ticking bomb, and Jack Rivers is sitting on it.
“Why me?” he asks finally.
