Page 19 of Jaxson

“It’s good. You need to bring your appetite, because I’m not a good cook, so I think you’ll need to be hungry in order to enjoy this.”

That made her laugh.

He closed the door and put Belle onto the floor.

“I bought her a bed,” Jaxson said, but in true Belle style, she didn’t go to the dog bed, and instead jumped up on the sofa.

She started to panic as she dragged her paw across the furniture. Tillie rushed toward her dog, but then Belle circled once, then twice, and settled down, with the last rays of sunlight shining through.

“I guess that is her settled for the evening,” he said.

She couldn’t help but laugh, as her dog was so cute. “If there is any damage, I would be happy to pay for it.”

“It’s fine. The sofa’s old, and anyway, that is what a dog does, isn’t it?”

“I know, but it is still your furniture.”

“Tillie, don’t worry about it.” He reached for her hands and then they were moving toward his dining room, and it was so beautiful, as it was right next to the open-plan kitchen.

She couldn’t help but gasp as he’d laid the table so beautifully. There was a single white table cover, with the ends looking pristine. The table had been set with a couple of candles, and they were not lit.

“I didn’t want to create a fire hazard,” he said, and rushed over to light them.

She watched as he lifted a remote and soft music filled the air that wasn’t too loud.

There were little jars with single roses dotted around the room. The ambiance was incredible, then he opened the doors that led into his backyard. It looked amazing.

He pulled out a chair. “Would you care to take a seat?” he asked.

She couldn’t help but smile, then sat down, and he pushed her chair under the table.

“I’ll be right back.”

Tillie didn’t have to wait along. She watched him walk into his kitchen and go to the stove, where he pulled down the oven door and eased out a pot.

“I thought you said you didn’t cook,” she said.

“I don’t cook, but I wanted tonight to be perfect, so I followed a recipe from one of my mom’s cookbooks. I know my dad absolutely loves her version of chicken cacciatore, and she had everything in her pantry and fridge, so I left her some money, took the ingredients, as well as her cookbook, and spent all afternoon making this.”

“Wow,” she said.

“I know, but you haven’t tried it yet, and I’m hoping I haven’t messed this up. My mom’s an amazing cook.”

She watched as he served it with some pasta, which he loosened up with the sauce.

“Shit, I don’t think I should have cooked the pasta in advance.”

“Sometimes it’s best if you don’t. When did you cook it?”

“Before I came and got you, I put it in the oven to keep warm. Uh, you know what, we’ll just give it a go.” He shrugged.

She found it adorable as he served both of them, and then carried over the dishes. He wasn’t done, though, as he went back to the fridge.

“Mom always served this with white wine,” he said. “And yes, I took her white wine as well.”

He came to the table, opening up the bottle of wine and filling their glasses. She didn’t have the heart to tell him she wasn’t a drinker, and what she tended to do was buy a quality wine, measure it, and freeze it in quantities she needed to make a dish. Instead, she offered him a smile and thanked him.

It never harmed to have a sip, which she did. It was nice—subtle—but still had that wine taste, which she wasn’t a big fan of.