Harrison didn’t, either. He sniffed, nostrils flaring. “What is that smell?” The words came out like he was accusing someone of arson.
I snorted. “Farm food. Real food. You want some?”
Barrett, ever the diplomat, tried to soften it. “It’s… wow. Smells incredible.”
Harrison made a face, but his voice wavered with something almost like hunger. “We ate on the road.”
A thump and a clatter from the kitchen—Jojo, in full battle-cook mode, probably wielding a Dutch oven like a medieval weapon. I remembered the first time I’d seen him go at it, his face smeared with flour, his hands a blur of motion and nerves. He cooked like a man building a shelter in a hurricane—frantic, hopeful, and desperate to prove the elements wrong.
I left the family staring daggers at each other and went to the kitchen.
Jojo was there, framed in light, stirring a pot with the focus of a surgeon and the anxiety of a hostage. The counter was a war zone: every spice jar uncapped, flour dusting the old Formica, a slab of butter already reduced by half and melting in its paper wrapper.
He looked up, hair stuck to his forehead, cheeks flushed. “Are they… are they fighting?”
“Not anymore,” I said, leaning in the doorway. “I won.”
He snorted, a little too sharp, and went back to whisking. “That’s not what winning looks like. Rawley, you’re bleeding.”
I looked down. A thin red line ran across the back of my knuckles. I hadn’t even noticed.
“It’s nothing. You’re making pot roast?”
He nodded, not looking at me. “There’s biscuits, too. If I can finish before the power goes out.” He jerked his head toward the window, where lightning flickered in the distance.
I watched him move—quick, efficient, every motion calculated. There was a tension to it, a brittleness. I hated that my father did that to people. I hated more that I couldn’t shield Jojo from it.
“You need help?”
He shook his head. “Just… tell them dinner is ready in ten.” He said it like it hurt.
I lingered. “You okay?”
He stopped, spatula hovering over the skillet, and looked at me full on. “No,” he said, voice tight. “But I will be.”
He’d never looked more grown-up. Or more beautiful.
I squeezed his arm and went back to the living room.
They were where I left them, the two men who made my life hell, both pretending not to listen for the kitchen sounds.
“Dinner’s in ten. You can wash up if you want.” I paused, savoring the discomfort. “Bathroom’s down the hall.”
Harrison grunted, then looked at me. “We’re not here to make nice. You understand that.”
I matched his stare. “We’re not here to make you comfortable.”
He stood, straightening his jacket. “You’re throwing everything away for a man who’ll never be your equal.”
The anger came back, sharp and bright. “He’s already more of a man than you ever were.”
Barrett rose too, hands up, peacemaker to the end. “Maybe we could just…try? One meal, like a family.”
Harrison scoffed. “This isn’t a family. It’s a farce.”
Burke, perched on the edge of the armchair like a loaded spring, chimed in. “No offense, Mr. Steele, but your attitude might be the reason your son prefers it out here.”
Harrison looked at him, really looked, and for a second I thought he was going to say something genuinely lethal. But he just rolled his eyes, muttered something about “damn mercenaries,” and stalked off to the bathroom.
