Tessa’s jaw dropped. Dusty sucked in a breath.
Daddy, notDustyorDustingorthe manor anything. Just…Daddy.
“Worth it,” Dusty whispered in a delighted voice.
Tessa just reached over and put her hand over his. “I love you,” she sighed, utterly satisfied in the knowledge that she’d chosen a perfect father, partner, and husband.
And fourteen minutes later, with a police escort in front of them and Norman bearing down, they were the last car to cross one extremely shaky and windblown Mid-Bay Bridge, headed for family and safety.
Tessa leaned back and watched the whitecaps and dark clouds and the beaches of Destin disappear in the sideview mirror.
She had no idea what she might come home to, but for now, she was with the two people who mattered most to her.
There were, Jonah had decided, way worse ways to ride out the end of the world than alone in a snug brick house with Pepper Broussard and two enormous dogs named Roux and Gumbo—apparently, her father could not be stopped when it came to naming things after food.
Jonah’s favorite creature named for food, however, was Pepper…who’d welcomed him in from the rain, scooped Atlas into loving arms, and helped him set up the portable playpen that would do double duty as a crib.
The rambling ranch sat on a huge piece of land about a half an hour north of Northwest Florida State College, low and solid and a long way from anything a hurricane could pick up and throw. With the rightful owner off at the campus shelter, they had the whole stormy night ahead and Jonah was not mad about that.
After they were set up, she showed him a small guest room where he’d stay, taking him through the comfortable 1970s-built house, pointing out the flaws like endearing character quirks—the last owner had put pink tile in the guest bathroom and Pepper refused to let her father change it.
The tour complete, his bag stored on the twin bed in a distant room, she announced it was time to clean out the fridge because the power would go off.
“No generator?” he asked, accepting a can of soda from her.
“Two in the garage. Do you have any idea how to make one run? Dad filled them up with gas and said it was easy.” She made a face. “Actually, he said a child could do it. Think Atlas knows?”
He laughed. “I’m still a kid at heart. I’ll figure it out. Now?”
“Not in this rain.” She opened the fridge and started pulling out veggies, eggs, milk, and butter. “If it goes out, it’ll be overnight. Wait until the storm passes and it’s daylight. We have candles. Games. A little bourbon if we get bored.”
“A candlelit night of shots and games with you?” He scoffed. “Soundsawful.”
She smiled at him, with warmth in her brown eyes and a slight blush under those reckless lashes. “Atlas is in the house.”
He glanced at the baby sleeping in the den, with two big dogs snoozing just inches from the playpen, like a couple of palace guards. “So are Roux and Gumbo. Do they bite?”
She choked. “They will lick you to death if you lay a hand on me.”
“Heard,” he said, ignoring the zing the comment sent through him. “Can I make you an omelet? Frittata? Breakfast for dinner is my specialty.”
She looked at him, the ingredients, then back. “I’d like to cook for you.”
The announcement surprised and delighted him, so he gave a little bow and settled in on a stool at the Formica-covered peninsula where he could admire the cook and still see Atlas.
She cracked eggs in a bowl with the brisk one-handed snap of a person raised in kitchens, while the Weather Channel murmured at them from the den and the wind howled, making the ancient roof creak enough to cause low-key concern.
“Are you sure we’re safe?” he asked, looking around at the house.
“If things get precarious, we’ll move into my room,” she said. “It only has one window, and faces north, so it’s not vulnerable. Norman is still a cat three, which—at least to a woman born and raised in New Orleans—isn’t that bad. Plus, the track is sending it east. Poor Panama City.”
He watched her dice some peppers, which she did well, but not like her father. “You sure you don’t want me to help?” he asked.
“Do my knife skills hurt you?” she asked. “Because I’ve been slicing veggies since before you could spell omelet.”
“I still can’t spell omelet,” he confessed. “I mean, look at it. Two T’s? One? An extra E or not? Nobody knows. It’s a lawless word.”
She chuckled. “You can grate the cheese. Grater is in that drawer. Here’s the cheddar and Jack. We’re using both.”
