Page 125 of Lucky Shot

“Oh. Okay.” Is that relief I hear? “Whew. I wasn’t ready to let you go just yet.”

My smile is as automatic as the endorphins that race through me. “No.” I swallow. “I’m not going anywhere just yet.”

“Good.” He stares at the counter behind me. “You did all this? For me?”

“Don’t praise me until you try it. It might be horrible.”

He chuckles. “I doubt it.” His feet stop at the end of the island, and he just stares at me. “Your suggestion helped.”

“Suggestion?”

“About the new formation. How I should approach it. It helped. Thank you.”

“Sure.” I don’t think I’ve ever felt prouder. “Anytime.”

He looks around the kitchen again with awe etched in the lines of his face. “No one’s ever done something like this for me before.”

“No?”

He shakes his head and moves toward where I sit on the edge of the counter. “No.” His voice is soft, barely audible. It’s as if there is so much to be said between us but neither of us is speaking.

Nerves suddenly spring to life as he stands before me and leans his ass on the counter so that we face each other—him standing with his arms across his chest and me sitting.

“It’s just a little something to say I truly appreciate everything you’ve done. For me. To help me. To—”

“What did I say about thanking me?” he teases.

“I know. I just . . . I needed to do something that made me feel like me again.”

“You don’t feel like you?”

“I do, it’s just, how do I explain this to you? I feel like I’m in a different world here. It’s gorgeous and lovely, and you’re spoiling me, but I don’t belong here at all.”

“I didn’t realize . . . I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“C’mon, Hardy. You saw where I live. My postage stamp. That’s what I’m used to, where it feels like I can stretch my hands out and touch both walls. Where I know work is only a few minutes away and where sirens go off in the middle of the night. Do you have any idea how quiet it is here?”

“What can I do to help you?”

“Nothing. Everything.” I pout. “Forget I said anything. I’m just feeling sorry for myself. I miss my kids and the chaos of the academy. There are bills to be paid and letters to write and ways I might be able to capitalize on all of this. I miss the stress and the . . . my life. It’s not your fault at all.” I throw my hands up. “The day-to-day shit that’s piling up no doubt. It would be much better if I could handle that now. If I could—”

“First things first, the academy is handled. The kids, the bills, the everything is being handled.”

The bills. My cheeks heat, but the words don’t come out—he’s going to see how broke I am. How in debt the club is. How empty my accounts are. He already asked me what my salary is, I mean . . . ugh.

I swallow my pride. If he already knows all that and is still standing before me, what more could I ask for, right?

But still . . .

Everything is being handled.

“Dramatic that I’m homesick over all that? Yes. But that’s why I wanted to cook. To do something I do at home so that maybe I felt a little more like me instead of eating those incredibly good meals your chef delivers.”

Those words coming out of my mouth sound so ridiculous it’s not even funny.

He chuckles. “Eating good food doesn’t make you feel like you?”

“You know what I mean.” I roll my eyes.