A memory of his mawmaw using her iron skillet rose up uninvited, sharp as the crack it had made when she’d swung it.He’d been maybe twelve, all elbows and hunger, half-asleep on the sofa when the screen door rattled and some local drug-addicted idiot tried his luck, thinking her place was an easy mark.Mawmaw hadn’t screamed or hesitated.She’d come out of that kitchen barefoot and fearless, skillet in hand as if it had been forged for war instead of cornbread, and dropped him with one clean, righteous blow.Then she’d stood over the groaning boy, phone already in her other hand, and told him calm as Sunday supper that if he ever came back, she wouldn’t stop at one swing.The cops had taken him away.Mawmaw had wiped the skillet, set it back on the stove, and gone right on cooking as if she hadn’t just defended her home with cast iron and pure will.
Kayne smiled faintly at the burner now.That was the thing about her.She’d taught him early that some tools were for comfort and some for survival, but the smart ones learned how to be both.
Damn, he missed her.
He thawed the shrimp under cold water, dusted them with cayenne, paprika, and thyme.Each steady chop eased the pressure inside him.He wasn’t helpless.He could protect Chloe.Feed her.Keep her safe tonight, even if it meant standing guard at her bedroom door.
Footsteps crept behind him.
Chloe hovered in the doorway with her arms folded, casual only in theory.Her eyes drifted to the skillet.“You’re cooking?”
He shot her a look over his shoulder.“Unless you suddenly developed a secret passion for sautéin’ onions, yeah.”
A flicker of a smile appeared.“I didn’t even know we had food.”
“BeBe stocked it.”He flipped the shrimp into the sizzling vegetables.“Figured you haven’t eaten.”
“I’m fine,” she said automatically, then paused when his eyebrow rose.“Okay, I might be operating at a caloric deficit.”
Kayne snorted softly.“That’s what I thought.”
She drifted closer, drawn by the smell.He noticed her shoulders drop a fraction.Hopefully, her nervous system had finally unclenched one notch.
“What is that?”she asked.
“Shrimp Creole.Simple version.Don’t get excited,cher.We ain’t got the ingredients for the fancy one.”
“I’m already excited.”She lifted onto her toes to peek into the skillet.“This smells incredible.”
A ripple of satisfaction washed over him.It was ridiculous how good it felt to see her light up over something he could give her that didn’t involve danger.
“You gonna sit,” he told her, nodding to the barstool, “or you gonna hover until I burn something?”
She slid onto the stool.“I don’t hover.”
“Chloe,” he said dryly.“You hover as if it’s your side hustle.”
Her laugh slipped out, and it was exactly what he needed to hear.
Once the rice fluffed and the shrimp were perfect, he plated the food and set it in front of her.She stared at it as if he’d placed a miracle on the counter.
“Kayne, this looks amazing.”
“Eat.”His voice came out in a rough rumble.“You’ve had a hell of a day.”
She forked a bite, blew on it, and tasted it.Her eyes went wide.
“Oh, my God.”
He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed.“Good?”
“Good?This is unfair.You can’t be an outstanding bodyguard and a splendid cook.It’s too much competence.It should be illegal.”
He chuckled, a low rumble.“You want me to stop?”
“No.”She shoved in another bite.“I will file a formal complaint if you do.”
As she ate, the tension eased from her shoulders, color crept back into her face, and her breathing slowed.
