She takes it—but he carries it downstairs himself.
“Thanks,” she says, watching him.
“No problem. Are y’all heading out?”
“Yeah. We’ve been here long enough.”
“You don’t have to rush. You’re always welcome.”
“It’s okay. We haven’t been back to the house in days.” She pauses. “Thank you for everything.”
He hugs her. She lingers for just a second too long.
“You coming tomorrow?” he asks.
“We’ll be here. I’m cooking.”
Claire hands over the house key, barely looking at her. As the girls step out onto the porch, Sara turns with a smile.
“See you tomorrow.”
The door shuts.
Claire watches it like it just said something she couldn’t.
“She only did that to get under my skin,” she mutters, but even she doesn’t sound convinced.
39
Unraveling
Jaxonwasexhausted.Thekind of tired that settles deep in your bones and makes even the idea of lifting a pan feel like too much. The last forty-eight hours had taken their toll—travel, airports, people, nonstop energy. All he wanted was to throw together something simple and sit in the silence of his home. Alone.
But he wasn’t alone.
Claire was in the living room, curled up under a throw blanket, scrolling through a list of movies they’d probably seen before. She said she didn’t care what they ate, “as long as it was something,” and the way she said it? It didn’t feel like compromise—it felt like a test.
So Jaxon did what he always did when life felt heavy: he made a sandwich. Or rather—he would’ve. But a sad bachelor dinner didn’t feel right with someone else in the house. So instead, he grabbed what the girls had stocked in the fridge, threw a drizzle of oil in a pan, and decided on the easiest meal that still felt like effort.
Chicken Cordon Bleu quesadillas.
Quick. Simple. Familiar.
“Dinner’s done,” he called, plating the food.
Claire came around the corner, wrinkling her brow. “It’s only been ten minutes. What did you make?”
“Cordon Bleu quesadillas.”
“I know what Cordon Bleu is... but how is that a quesadilla?”
He explained—chicken, ham, cheese, tortilla. “Same ingredients. Just no French name.”
She blinked. “Huh. I mean... makes sense, I guess.”
He handed her a plate and nodded toward the back door. “C’mon. Let’s eat outside.”
The air was thick, warm, but not stifling. The kind of weather that whispered storm. They sat on the porch swing, plates balanced in their laps, the sea just beyond the tree line. Claire asked about the plans for the night.
