He gasped, clutching the chicken he’d pulled from the grocery bag to his chest like she’d personally insulted its ancestors. “Sacrilege.”
“But it’s what Lolly used to make me whenever I needed a pick-me-up. It’s my favorite comfort food.”
“Mine too,” he said, giving her a knowing smile. “So let’sget to it.” He handed her an apron, his fingers brushing against hers. “Fair warning, though. If you burn down the kitchen, I’m out the door before the fire department gets here. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”
Before she knew it, Cora was elbow-deep in flour, awkwardly rolling out dough under Jack’s watchful eye.
“Is this right?” she asked, smearing the rolling pin across the dough in what she hoped was the right direction.
“Not quite.” Jack chuckled and stepped behind her. “Here, let me show you.”
His hands covered hers on the rolling pin, guiding her movements with a steadiness she clearly lacked. The warmth of his chest brushed against her back, and she could feel every shift of his muscles as he moved, each one setting off tiny fireworks in her brain.
“You’re pretty good at this,” she managed, her voice embarrassingly breathy. “The cooking thing, I mean.”
“Well, I did go to culinary school,” he replied, his breath teasing the edge of her ear, making it impossible to focus on anything but the feel of him so close.
As they settled into a rhythm, she realized that cooking wasn’t all that different from analyzing trends. The ingredients were like data, and her job was to measure, mix, and tweak them until she got the right balance. The only difference was, back in her world, she didn’t have a handsome man’s arms around her, guiding her through each step.
Maybe that was something she’d need to add to her job contracts from now on.Handsome sous chef required for optimal performance.
Jack stepped back, giving her some space, and bent over to glance at the laptop, which contained a spreadsheet of everyone she’d ever met who might have money. She’d called her high school gym teacher, her dry cleaner, and even that one influencer who’d tagged her once in a butternut squash meme. So far, none of them had handedover enough cash to save The Spoon, but she wasn’t giving up.
Jack angled the screen toward him.
“If you touch my spreadsheet, I will stab you with a paring knife.”
“Hot. But noted.” He chuckled. “What’s the deal with your spreadsheets, anyway?”
She stiffened. “What do you mean? They’re how I make sense of everything.” She crossed her arms, unsure why she felt the need to justify herself.
Jack straightened up and turned to face her, his expression soft but serious. “No judgment. I’m only curious. You talk about them like they’re more than numbers on a screen.”
She hesitated, feeling exposed. But there was something about the way he was looking at her that made her want to explain. “They’re not just numbers, Jack. They’re control. Clarity. When everything starts spiraling, I can look at a spreadsheet and see order. A path forward.”
Jack tilted his head. “Is that how you forecast food trends? With spreadsheets?”
“That’s how I do everything.” She grinned. “I track market patterns, social behavior, even weather. Anything that might influence what people eat and why. Then I use that data to help brands spot trends before their competitors do.”
“So, what would trend-spotting Cora do to make The Spoon go viral?”
She glanced around the kitchen, taking in the cracked mugs, the faded linoleum, the kitschy blue-and-white gingham curtains. “People don’t just want food. They want a story. A reason to care.”
Jack grunted. “That’s a lot to ask from a biscuit.”
“No,” she said, eyes narrowing with purpose. “It’s exactly what a biscuit gives them. Comfort. Nostalgia. A little Southern magic. I’d lean into that. Hard.”
“You get all that with a spreadsheet?”
Cora laughed softly. “Spreadsheets are predictable and safe. They don’t throw you curveballs. They don’t lie to you, or steal the last piece of pizza, or get you fired from your job.”
Jack’s eyes went wide and, for a second, he looked like a man who’d just wandered into a conversation with more emotional landmines than he’d prepped for. He rubbed his hand along his jawline and took a breath, as if he was choosing his next words carefully.
“Want to know a secret?” He took a step closer. “Sometimes, curveballs aren’t so bad.”
His words hung between them, charged with more meaning than she wanted to acknowledge. There was something in his eyes, almost a dare, to let go of the rigid lines and columns she’d been clinging to. Her breath hitched as he closed the gap between them, his nearness stirring something inside her. For a second, she considered what it would be like to let go, to see where winging it would take her. But just as quickly, reality set in. She wasn’t a person who took dares.
Jack reached past her and closed the laptop lid with a softclick. “I get that you think you need the spreadsheet, Cora. But sometimes you’ve got to put the data aside and feel your way through things. Not everything can be calculated.”
