She glanced over her shoulder, the strain of the day easing from her face as her gaze dropped to the packet in my hand. “What’s that?”
“Reaper sent something for your side.”
Her nose wrinkled. “It barely hurts.”
“It will tomorrow.”
“You sound annoyingly certain.”
I winked. “Usually am.”
Her smile grew before she turned back to the skillet, then she paused and twisted back around to look at me with a confused expression. “Reaper?”
“He’s a doctor,” I explained.
Her brows pulled together as she turned from the stove. “You call your doctor Reaper?”
“He earned it,” I assured her, struggling to remain deadpan.
“As in the Grim Reaper?” she asked, looking at the packet with enough suspicion that I couldn’t help the rough laugh that came out of me.
“We call him that because he fights the bastard off, baby. Not because he’s sending you to meet him.”
“Oh.” She turned back to the skillet, flipping the sandwiches with careful concentration. “Dinner isn’t impressive. I only bought enough groceries for a few days.”
I shrugged. “You made food. Good enough for me.”
“That’s your entire standard?” she asked, laughter warming her voice.
“For tonight, yeah.” I set the packet beside the sink and crossed toward her. “Anything you make is gonna be better than what I’d manage.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “You can run a company and a motorcycle club, but not make dinner?”
“I can make dinner.” I tugged gently on the end of her braid. “Didn’t say anyone should eat it.”
Her giggle was bright enough to pull at the corner of my mouth until a real smile appeared. She caught it, and pleasure lit her face before she looked back at the stove, pretending the sandwiches needed more attention than they did.
A glance around had that rare smile flattening. I noticed the faucet dripping first, then the cabinet hanging loose, the dead smoke detector, the old outlets, and the stain near the ceiling. But the repair list stayed in the back of my mind because the woman in front of me mattered more than another faulty hinge.
When she rose onto her toes to reach the bowls on the upper shelf, I stepped behind her before the stretch aggravated her ribs, closing one hand around her hip while I retrieved them with the other. She leaned against me for a moment, and my cock thickened with a hard, punishing throb.
“Thanks,” she whispered, turning her head enough that her cheek nearly brushed my chest.
“Anytime,” I promised, and meant it in more ways than she understood yet.
I plated the sandwiches and cut them diagonally while she ladled soup into bowls. Jacqueline stared at the neat triangles,then looked up at me with surprise softening those blue eyes. “My grandparents always cut them that way.”
“I remember.” The memory filled my voice with warmth. “Lottie knew they were one of my favorites, so they showed up a lot whenever I worked late.”
Her face gentled at her grandmother’s name. “That sounds like her.”
We sat at the scarred oak table while the house settled around us. The meal was simple, but I’d eaten in places with expensive food and no warmth. None of them had given me her bare affection for the people who raised her summers, the way she watched me for traces of the boy Otis had known, the sound of her laughter tucked into old walls.
“This is good,” I told her after the first bite.
She rolled her eyes. “The soup came from a can.”
“You didn’t burn it.”
