She took a deep breath, which did nothing to calm her nerves, pushed through the door...and found herself face toface with a stranger. A tall, broad-shouldered stranger with tousled dark hair and enough stubble to sandpaper a small boat. His tattooed forearms flexed as he stirred a pot of something that looked like Lolly’s famous strawberry preserves. The sweet, tangy smell filled the air, mingling with the earthy smell of something unmistakably masculine.
The man turned, eyeing her and her jar of okra. “You planning to pickle me to death?”
Cora jumped back, yelped, and crashed into the counter, sending a bunch of measuring spoons clattering to the floor.
“Who are you?” she tried to sound tough, but it came out as a weird combination of squeak and demand. She set down the jar with a thud, trying to ignore the way the man’s brown eyes followed her every move.
But Mr. Tall, Dark, and Breaking-and-Baking didn’t flinch. Wiping his hands on the apron slung low around his hips, he turned down the burner and raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge. “You must be Cora.”
The scentof cinnamon and strawberries hung in the air, bringing back memories of all the early mornings Cora had spent in this kitchen. But the guy in front of her? He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him.
“You seem to know who I am, but ...”
“Jack.” He swiped a dish towel across his hands, drawing her eyes to his rough, callused fingers. “Jack Harlow. I’m?—”
“Breaking and entering?” Her heart still raced, but the initial shock was quickly giving way to a slow-burning anger. The audacity of this man, strolling into Lolly’s kitchen as if he owned it, filling the room with an ease that set her nerves on edge.
Jack’s mouth curved into a smirk. “Cooking. Well, baking, if you want to be specific.”
“Wait. Did you say JackHarlow?”
He raised an eyebrow. “That a problem?”
Lolly had mentioned someone named Jack hanging around in the kitchen. She’d said he was handy in a pinch, good with a spatula, and quiet, reliable company. Cora had pictured a gap-toothed teenager home from college, maybe a neighborhood kid helping out for a little cash. Not this. Not him.
“I mean ...” She took a step back. Sunrise was a small town, and the Harlows were infamous. Not criminal, exactly, but messy enough that everyone had a story about them. She didn’t know Jack personally because he’d graduated a few years before her, but she definitely knewofhim. Everybody did.
Cora let out a sharp breath. “You were urban legend material when I was in high school. I heard you gave yourself a tattoo in the tenth grade.” She narrowed her gaze as she glanced at his forearms, then did a quick sweep of his biceps, neck, even the bit of collarbone visible above his shirt.
Jack caught it immediately. “Looking for evidence?”
“Just seeing if the legend holds up.”
“Want me to take my shirt off so you can see for sure?”
“Of course not,” Cora said, a little too quickly. “That would be unsanitary.”
He smirked.
Her face was on fire. She wasn’t sure how she’d gone from afraid he was a burglar to afraid hewasn’tone in under sixty seconds.
“How do you know who I am?” Cora asked. They hadn’t run in the same circles. He was the guy girls whispered about like a myth. She was the girl organizing blood drives and color-coding her science notes.
Jack shrugged. “Lolly talked about you. A lot. Figured it was only a matter of time until you showed up back here.”
Cora studied him, this broad-shouldered stranger in a T-shirt covered with flour who somehow looked both exactly like and nothing like the stories she’d heard in school. She crossed her arms, her pulse ticking faster than she liked. “I’m here because I own the building,” she said. “But why, exactly, did you break into my grandmother’s kitchen? To bake? Or just to case the joint for old time’s sake?”
His jaw tightened. “I didn’t break in. I have a key.”
“Why?”
“Lolly gave it to me. She said her kitchen would always be available to me.”
Cora’s gaze shifted to the marble slab where Lolly used to roll out her legendary biscuits. It was dusted with flour, like she might walk in any second and start baking. Cast-iron skillets hung from hooks above the stove, their surfaces seasoned with stories. Every inch of this kitchen held a memory, from math homework spread across the island to sneaking midnight cookies with her friends and setting her first kitchen fire.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t been her last.
“But it’s not Lolly’s kitchen anymore,” Cora said, her voice steady despite the storm churning inside her. “It’s mine.”
