“You’re ridiculous,” she mumbled, but she didn’t break eye contact.
“Ridiculously good at making grits,” he countered, measuring the grits with precision. “The secret is the ratio: four parts liquid to one part grits.”
“Wow, you can count too,” she said, pretending to be impressed. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
Jack cleared his throat and turned back to the stove. She was the one who’d worried about burning down the kitchen, but he was the one playing with fire. Flirting with her was a bad idea. She was leaving, and he had no business getting attached.
But he’d always been the first to line up for bad ideas.
He turned down the burner and reached for the whisk, trying to focus on something other than the way she was still watching him. But as he whisked the grits into the simmering liquid, Cora leaned in, curiosity lighting up her face.
“What’s with all the stirring?”
“It keeps them smooth,” he said. “You want them creamy, not lumpy. If you don’t stir them well, you’re asking for trouble.” He shot her a look. “And you seem to know all about trouble.”
“I am not a troublemaker.”
“Says the woman who nearly glued herself to the counter with microwave grits.”
She nudged his shoulder. “Please. If anyone’s the poster child for trouble, it’s you.”
He raised a brow, but she was already grinning.
“Didn’t you get suspended once for turning the cafeteria into a slip-and-slide?”
Jack smirked. “Allegedly.”
“Oh, come on. There were photos.”
He shrugged, lips twitching. “Still not the worst idea I’ve ever had.”
She rolled her eyes, but the smile stayed.
Jack tilted his head. “It’s not like you never got in trouble.”
“I didn’t,” she said, almost apologetically. “I was too busy copying over my homework in different-colored pens and alphabetizing my planner. I even organized my Halloween candy by color, sugar content, and barter value. Lolly said it was endearing. The school counselor used the word ‘concerning.’”
He stared at her. Not in judgment, and not even in disbelief. Just like he was seeing her for the first time.
And maybe he was. Because for all the mayhem she caused in the kitchen, there was something almost fragile in the way she’d spoken. As if the rules had always been her armor, and keeping things predictable was the only way she knew how to survive.
As much as he wanted to ask more, he let it slide. For now. But he tucked every color-coded, candy-sorting detail away, because he knew that beneath all that order was the key to getting her to stick around long enough to save The Spoon.
The steam curled around him as he stirred the pot, his chest aching in a way he hadn’t expected, as if he was brushing up against something he’d almost convinced himself he didn’t want.
But he did. He wanted this. Not just the kitchen or the food or even the girl beside him— though all of that seemedto be tangling together in a way he didn’t want to examine—he wanted to stay in Sunrise. To prove he could build something that lasted.
He turned his mind back to the pot. “Now, we let them do their thing, but we don’t ignore them. Grits, like women, don’t appreciate being ignored.”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” Cora teased.
He clutched his chest. “I am a joy to be around, thank you.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Harlow.”
Every few minutes, he stirred the pot, adding butter and a pinch of salt. Cora watched him closely, her earlier vulnerability replaced by genuine interest.
“It smells amazing,” she said, fanning her hand in front of her face to catch a whiff.
