Page 21 of Echoes of a Southern Song

Chapter Eight

Jack

––––––––

I’M LOOKING FORWARD to another night with Jinnie. I know things between us are kind of in a holding pattern. I think we’re both worried about what the other is going to do. We need to talk. More like I need to grow a pair and tell her I don’t like this situation with Sam. It bugs me in a way I can’t quite explain. I don’t want her with him. Period. End of story.

But I also don’t want to be a homewrecker. I know couples go through tough times. In the back of my mind, I keep thinking that maybe this is just a tough time for them. Maybe they just need to work through some shit. And me being around complicates things.

That’s me. That’s my hangup. She keeps telling me there’s nothing between them. I just have to trust her and believe it.

Aggie was fine with me taking the night off again. Apparently, there’s some kind of poker tournament tonight at the bar. The live music would just get in the way. It all works perfect for me. I decide to walk over instead of driving.

I knock on the door. I can hear music coming from inside.

The door flies open, revealing Jinnie in a flour-dusted apron, her hair piled into a messy bun, a smudge of something red on her cheek.

“You’re early,” she accuses, but she’s smiling.

“I can come back later,” I offer.

She grabs my wrist and yanks me inside.

The tiny home is a warzone. There’s a pot on the stove bubbling over with what I assume is the same red stuff that’s on her face. A cutting board piled high with half-chopped vegetables teeters on the edge of the counter, and a suspicious black smoke curls from the oven.

I blink. “You, uh need help?”

Jinnie groans, shoving a wooden spoon into my hand. “Stir that before it burns. Again.”

I do as I’m told, dodging her as she spins between the stove and fridge, her movements frantic. Thankfully, given the space, she doesn’t have to actually move to reach the stove from the fridge or even the countertop. The space is way too small for two people to cook, but somehow we make it work—bumping hips, stealing tastes, laughing when I nearly knock over a glass of water.

I catch her by the waist when she nearly trips over Max. “I would have been happy with a frozen pizza.”

She swats my arm. “I wanted to impress you.”

“You do that just by existing.”

The words slip out before I can stop them. Jinnie freezes, her cheeks flushing pink. Then she grins, leaning up to kiss me.

The sauce burns but I don’t care. I push her against the counter and kiss her again. The kiss deepens, her hands tangling in my hair as I pull her closer. I don’t care about the smoke or the chaos around us. All that matters is her.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, she laughs softly, resting her forehead against mine. “The sauce is ruined.”

“Worth it,” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. Instead, she grabs a towel and starts fanning the smoke away from the oven, peeking inside to assess the damage. “Well, dinner might be a disaster, but at least the company’s good.”

I chuckle, leaning against the counter. “I’d eat burnt rice with you any day.”

She gives me a playful shove before turning back to the mess. “You’re such a charmer.”

We work together to salvage what we can—tossing the scorched pasta and starting over with a fresh pot of water. The top layer of the pasta sauce isn’t bad.

“All right,” she says, stepping back and surveying the chaos. “Are you feeling lucky?”

I laugh. “I’ve spent the last eight years eating my brothers’ cooking. I’ve got an iron stomach.”

“I think you’re going to need it,” she murmurs.