I made a face. “None of the others did.”
“No, but then again, none of them have worked in the legal system.”
“Yeah.” I sighed. “He’s…what he is, you know? I learned early not to ask questions I didn’t want answers to. Then my mom died and…”
“Yeah.” Hudson cleared his throat. “Couldn’t have been easy.”
“No. It never was.”
After a few seconds of silence, he said, “I need to go, but call me, any time.”
“Will do.” I reached for the phone to end the call and added, “Thank you.”
He up nodded and the call disconnected.
* * * *
I didn’t know where Jack was when I sent him the messages. I certainly didn’t expect him to get to Twin Star as fast as he did.
When he arrived, I was doing dinner prep, because I’d decided we should make a bunch of lasagna and freeze some of it for portions for whenever someone might need a quick meal like that. Because I wanted to punish myself—I guess—I had also decided to make the pasta from scratch.
We’d only done it once before, Jack had taught me how to make the dough and how to use the machine, and I thought it would be simple enough but also provide me with something that needed all my concentration for a couple of hours at least.
The last thing I needed to do right now was to obsess over how and when my dad would make an appearance.
I vaguely heard Lake coming from the office and going outside, but that was it. I had tomato sauce bubbling away and I had just started to make the lasagna sheets when the front door opened.
Maybe I was in tune with him, or some part of my brain recognized the weight of his steps, but I suddenly knew.
I finished turning the handle and made sure the sheet wouldn’t stick to itself, then turned around.
Jack stood there, looking determined but sheepish at the same time.
“Hi,” he said, then rubbed at the back of his neck and averted his gaze.
Behind him, Lake went back into the office, and I realized he’d likely seen Jack through the window and gone to intercept him. I loved my chosen brother very much for that.
I didn’t know what to say. Then somehow, my mouth opened and “You should go get cleaned up; this pasta isn’t going to roll itself” came out, before I turned away to continue my task.
Five minutes later, Jack reappeared, this time in his chef’s jacket. He washed his hands like always, and grabbed one of the kitchen towels to dry them and then folded it to hang on his shoulder.
“Put me to work, chef,” he said, smiling ever so slightly.
“You can start on the béchamel sauce and check if the tomato sauce needs anything extra.”
He moved to the stove to taste it. Before he did, he asked, “Did you use a recipe?”
I continued to roll out the dough, trying to ignore how much my body and heart wanted to be close to Jack. “Nope, that’s why you should taste it.”
“Okay,” he said easily. “If it was my sauce, I’d put in more chili just for a bit of a kick, but I think it’s really good as is.”
I nodded and thought for a moment. “Let’s leave it out so Mona will like it more.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“I like the hair,” I added as an afterthought. I’d liked it before, but the change was more…him, somehow.
He sounded pleased when he answered, “Thank you, Chef.”
