I laugh.
“How old is he?”
“Eight. But he thinks he’s about three.”
As if hearing his name, Houston trots back over and settles beside me, looking up with those same soulful eyes.
“You’re so pretty,” I tell him.
“He knows,” Nathan says dryly. “My wife tells him every day.”
I smile.
“That’s why he loves her more than me.” He grabs another crate and disappears into the garage.
I glance back toward Aiden.
He’s standing by the truck now, typing something into his phone, attention focused. I can’t help noticing the definition in his arms, the line of muscle disappearing into his jeans.
Focus, May. You’re here to help, not stare.
Nathan grabs the last crate, and Aiden jumps down from the truck, finishing whatever he’s typing. He slips the phone into his pocket and looks at me.
“Sorry. Had to do some math. Figuring out how many extra containers we’ll need since we’ve got peaches too. Some of the guys from the station will bring more later.”
“Great. What should I do?”
“We’ll start by cleaning the berries.” He motions toward the garage. “I set everything up in there. Once we finish cleaning, we’ll start the jam inside. It’s easy.”
“I’m good at following recipes.”
He winks. “Yeah. I knew you’d be a great help.”
The garage is set up like a small production line.
Bins, bowls, and towels are spread neatly across the table. Everything has a place, and everything already looks halfway ready before we even start.
I watch Aiden move through it, realizing he clearly has a method. Nothing rushed, nothing messy—just steady, organized motion.
“First, we wash the blueberries,” he says, sliding a large bowl toward me. “I’ll show you.”
He fills it with water, adds a splash of white vinegar, a little baking soda, and gently lowers the berries in.
“Let them soak for 10 minutes,” he explains. “Then rinse well and transfer to clean bowls.”
I follow along, copying his movements. He works carefully without being fussy, and I find myself watching the way he handles everything with so much care.
Once the berries are clean and set aside, we move inside.
The kitchen feels warmer than before, sunlight spilling through the windows. Aiden opens the back door, and the dogs settle outside, stretched out side by side, while Uncle Mike disappears upstairs for a nap.
Aiden pulls out a notebook from a drawer and opens it carefully. Handwritten recipes fill the pages — neat, perfect cursive.
He turns the book toward me, tapping one line.
“Follow this one,” he says. “While you get started, I’m gonna begin the bread dough. Biggest trick is stirring continuously so it doesn’t burn. Other than that, it’s pretty simple.”
“Got it,” I say.
