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I told myself that, but I didn’t believe it.
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“Come get some sunshine with us.” Ace winked at me as he put on his jacket, getting ready for a courtyard stroll. Jax stood by his side, hands in his pockets, watching me intently.
“I should probably go check on Sandi,” I said, reluctantly.
“What, Sandi down the hall? You like her better than me?”
“You know I don’t like anyone better than you, Ace.” I handed him his cane with a smile.
“Look at this girl.” He motioned to Jax. “Such a charmer.” Jax just nodded, but I blushed under the weight of his stare. Ace pulled on his cap, setting it at a rakish tilt.
“I love that cap,” I complimented him. The man had style.
“See?” He directed his comment at his grandson again. “If you wore more caps like me you’d do better with the ladies.”
“Oh, I’m sure Jax does just fine with the ladies.” The words were out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying.
“Are you now?” Ace chuckled.
“What makes you say that?” The big man himself crossed the room slowly toward me.
I cleared my throat, wondering why in the hell I’d blurted out such a thing. I might as well have told them both that I thought Jax was gorgeous. But the man was, and he had to know it. In my experience, men who looked like him attracted women like flies to honey. And the women who got stuck on them fared about as well as the dead flies. That was why they called men like him lady-killers.
Only Jax didn’t set off my alarm bells the way those types of guys usually did. He had none of that off-putting brash cockiness, that “aren’t you lucky to be talking to me” full-of-himself vibe. Instead, it seemed like Jax paid attention to me. A lot of attention. I shivered as he stood next to me, all too aware of his body heat, his sheer size.
“Jax didn’t even go to prom!” Ace called out as he pushed open the sliding glass door onto his patio.
“Making me look so good.” Jax rolled his eyes as he escorted me out, following Ace. He rested his hand lightly on my lower back, polite, even chivalrous, but the contact made my heart leap. “What’s next, Ace, are you going to pull out a few photos from when I was thirteen?”
“He was a gawky kid, this guy,” Ace told me, conspiratorially, linking his arm through mine. I guessed I was accompanying him on his stroll. “He’s filled out now, but first he got all that height and weighed about 120 pounds.”
“That is not true.” Jax shook his head. I couldn’t stifle a raucous laugh at the image. He was so big and burly now, but I guessed that hadn’t always been the case. “Sure, laugh it up,” he teased me. “I bet you never went through an awkward phase. You were always gorgeous.”
That made me burst out laughing all over again. Plus feel all warm inside. Had he just told me he thought I was gorgeous? “In middle school, I cut my own bangs. That did not go so well.”
“Never a good idea,” Jax agreed.
“And then there was the time I decided to bleach some streaks in my hair.”
“Why the streaks? I see it on you young girls all the time,” Ace mused, ambling by my side at a slow, strolling pace.
“Some people can pull it off. But skunk stripes were not a good look for me.” At least that one had been easy to fix with some hair dye. The bangs had taken months to look normal again.
Ace paused to greet some of his neighbors, engaging them in the friendly banter that came to him so naturally. Jax and I stood around, looking at our shoes, the plants in the courtyard, anything but each other.
“You been doing any baking lately?” he finally asked.
That was a subject I could talk about all day. As long as I didn’t look directly at him. That was like staring right at the sun. I knew I’d get burned. Speaking to his forearm—and what a forearm it was, all corded with muscle with a light dusting of hair—I told him about my experimentations with crusts, how I was thinking about adding more cinnamon into my apple pies, and how excited I was now that it was mid-March and we were starting to get fresh, ripe, locally-grown strawberries.
“Have you ever been to the farmer’s market downtown?” He shook his head “no.” As I glanced up to catch his reaction, I nearly lost my train of thought. His eyes were so dark, but in the bright mid-day sunlight I could see some flecks of caramel. He had a bit of stubble on his strong jaw. I bet it would feel good against my skin, all scratchy in exactly the right way.
“Anyway—” I pulled my gaze away, reining in my thoughts. “There’s a great farmer’s market downtown Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings. This week I’m going to try to find strawberries and rhubarb.”
“Strawberry-rhubarb pie.” Jax made an appreciative sound deep in his throat. It didn’t make me think about baking.
“Do you like that?” My voice sounded a little too dazed, too husky. I cleared my throat. “That kind of pie? The flavor?” I rushed to clarify.
“Mmm-hmm.” The man made the sexiest sounds I’d ever heard, standing in broad daylight going for an exercise walk with his grandpa. I made a mental note to never let myself be alone with Jax. It would mean all kinds of trouble.
“How did you learn to bake?” Such a simple question, but I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had asked me, or if anyone ever had.
“I sort-of taught myself,” I reflected. “You can learn a lot on YouTube.” Back in my eighth and ninth grade years, I hadn’t had a whole lot going on after school. I’d been too young to do much more than babysit to earn a living, and I’d never been all that athletic so I wasn’t on any teams. It was just my mom and me in our little apartment, and she’d worked every day until six and then stayed out after, so I’d come home and baked.
“Your mom didn’t teach you?”
“No, she’s not really a baker.” Or much of a cook. Or one to spend much time in the kitchen or around home at all. “We’re pretty different, my mom and I.”
He nodded, seeming to understand. I’d always admired my mother’s naturally extroverted personality and her flair for fashion and style. And I’d always suspected she found me somewhat boring, her quiet daughter who preferred baking at home instead of going out to parties. When I’d told her I was marrying Mike, she’d been dumbfounded. “Don’t you want to go out and experience more of life?” she’d asked. My answer: not really. I’d never felt much desire to bust out wild and crazy. Only maybe now I was starting to think my mother had had a point.
Ace started making his way down the courtyard again, and Jax and I fell into step. “Watch out.” Jax said it to both of us, pointing out a branch that had fallen across the path. He brought his hand to my elbow, guiding me to the side. I had to fight my impulse to lean into him, taking the excuse to brush against his wall of muscles, maybe even fake losing my balance so I could press my palm to his rock-hard chest.
“There you go.” He gave my arm a light caress with his thumb as he let go. The touch went straight to my head like fizzy, bubbly champagne. That wasn’t good. People got reckless when they drank. The last thing I needed was to lose my inhibitions around that man.
“I’m going to go check in on Sandi.” I hung a left, walking over toward a side entrance. “You two enjoy the rest of your walk!”
“Come back!” Ace called after me.
I smiled, giving him a wave. “See you later.”
“See you later, Sky.” That rumbling voice, so deep and warm. I replayed it over and over throughout the rest of my afternoon and evening, cherishing it like a favorite and well-kept secret.
§
Wednesday night I made strawberry rhubarb pie. First, I scoured the Internet for as many recipes as I could find. Then, I dove into my baking books, circling and dog-earring, stickie notes all over the place. I was going to make the best strawberry rhubarb pies the world had ever seen. Because maybe, just maybe, Jax would get a taste.
I still hadn’t hit on exactly the right flavor combination for strawberry rhubarb pie, so I’d nev
er brought one to Romi’s. If I figured one out, though, I was sure they’d be interested. Every morning I took over pies, they claimed they sold out by lunchtime.
Apron on, poofs of flour and dashes of sugar flying around me, I set to work. Mike was out, who knew where, and frankly I hoped it stayed that way. I could turn up the radio, sing along to the kind of upbeat syrupy pop songs I loved, and lose myself in creating the taste of home. Because to me, that was what the best pies tasted like. Not any home I’d ever experienced, mind you, but an idealized version, the home we all dreamed about with unconditional love, comfort and support. Sitting down at your kitchen table, even after a long, tough day, you could tuck into a slice and feel relaxed, satisfied and at peace.
