We work in parallel. The silence between us is charged, but not uncomfortable. I definitely don’t notice the way his hands move, confident and sure. The concentration on his face. The way his shirt pulls across his shoulders when he reaches for a spice.
I need to stop.
"So," I say, sliding my buns into the oven. "Real estate, right?"
"What about it?"
"That's what you do, right? Buy and sell properties?"
"Yes, but development, mostly. I buy old buildings, renovate them, find the right tenants." He stirs the sauce, not looking at me. "This town has a lot of history. I like preserving it."
"Noble."
"Profitable," he corrects. "But yeah. I care about this place."
"Born and raised?"
"Third generation. My grandfather built the first sawmill. My father ran it until he retired. Now Dean runs it, and I handle the property side."
"Family business. That's nice."
"It has its moments." He tastes the sauce, adds a pinch of salt. "What about you? Where's home?"
"Right now? Wherever I park."
He glances at me. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got." I check on the buns, not meeting his eyes. "I grew up in Phoenix. Left after college. Haven't really been back."
"Family there?"
"Just my mom." I keep my voice light. "We're not close."
He doesn't push. I'm grateful for that.
The timer dings, and I pull the buns from the oven, golden and perfect, filling the kitchen with the smell of butter and cinnamon and brown sugar.
I turn to find Jake staring at the baking sheet like it holds the secrets of the universe.
I grab a spatula and slide one onto a plate. "Here. Prepare yourself."
He takes a bite, and his eyes close. A sound escapes him. It’s low, almost involuntary, and heat floods my cheeks.
"Well?" I ask.
"I think I understand religion now."
I burst out laughing. "That's a new one."
"I'm serious. This is—" He takes another bite, shaking his head. "This is obscene."
"Wait until you try them with the maple bourbon glaze."
"There's a glaze?"
"There's always a glaze."
We pile plates with pasta and cinnamon buns, a combination that shouldn't work but somehow does, and migrate to the living room. Jake stokes the fire while I curl up on the couch, tucking my feet beneath me.
