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“Trust in the Lord and do good. Seven words to live by. Sometimes they’re easy. Sometimes they’re really hard. Either way—good times or hard times—let us determine to say with the writer of Psalm 119, ‘You are good, and what you do is good; teach me your decrees.’”
Hunter’s mind had moved fully to the sermon, and as Pastor closed, he flipped the Bible that John had sent as a gift to the front and pulled a pen from the slot in the pew in front of him. On the first blank page, next to the one where John had writtenFor my son in faith. May God bless you and keep you. May He make his face shine upon you and give you peace,Hunter wrotePsalm 37and thenPsalm 119, thenTeach me to trust You.
The closing prayer had been spoken by the time Hunter was done writing. He closed his Bible, stood when the rest of the people did so, and slipped out the back door. As he moved, his passing glance grazed over Janie. His chest squeezed with pain, but even as his heart clenched, Hunter lifted those words he’d penned up to God.
Teach me to trust You.
Even if that meant letting her go?
Yes. Even then.
Janie took down the trio of large mixing bowls from her open shelf and lined them up next to her deep sink, where steaming water splashed from the faucet. Technically the bowls didn’t need cleaned—the stainless steel gleamed with spotless cleanliness already. But she needed something to do with her hands while she waited for Hunter to arrive for their scheduled meeting.
It should be quick, this little get-together she’d arranged, because she had a plan all written out and ready to go, and that was thanks to back-to-back nights of little rest. First, the night Gemma stayed with her, and Janie couldn’t sleep until she’d heard that Bennett, Hazel, and Nathan were safely back in Luna. Then last night. Every time Janie had willed herself to sleep, a new round of nagging questions had taken another lap through her mind.
What had Hunter thought of church service? What had made him decide to go yesterday? Had he noticed that Grady had landed himself next to her—and did he assume that she’d asked him to?
After the fifth series of those disquieting queries had made it clear that she would not sleep last night, she’d taken up her legal notepad and recorded her ideas and set her mind on the planning for Hunter’s groundbreaking.
Sloppy joes. Hunter loved the homemade sauce Mama B had taught her how to make. And he’d suggested Janie start making buns at the café . . .
It was a perfectly normal thing to want to make what would most please a client. Nothing questionable in her motives there at all.
Watermelon. She’d written that on Saturday night, then penciled a line through it last evening.Hunter didn’t love watermelon.Plus, it was out of season. She’d replaced watermelon with fried apples.Use brown sugar—he loves it that way.Everyone who tasted her fried apples complimented the extra caramel-y flavor, which was a result of brown sugar. So it wasn’t just Hunter.
Oven-fried potato wedges. Would he remember that she’d come up with her own seasoning combination? The secret was chipotle powder instead of paprika, a touch of brown sugar, and lightly spraying the wedges with apple cider vinegar before she baked them.
And caramel apple cheesecake bars. Hunter would love them. The thought had made her grin as she thought of how many times she’d tried different variations of the recipe until she hit perfection. He’d not had them yet, but she knew him well enough to be certain the shortbread crust, thick layer of rich cheesecake balanced with tart cinnamon apples, brown-sugar streusel topping, and gooey sauce would make him groan with appreciation.
Not that that had been what she’d been aiming for when she’d worked out the dish several years back. In fact, every time she’d imagine his reaction, she had scowled, named his memory a curse, and reminded herself there was a whole town of people to feed that did not include Hunter Wallace.
But he would like it. No, he would love it, and this was his party.
Janie’s hands were buried in suds and hot water, working over the second of her large mixing bowls, when the back door to her kitchen creaked open. She glanced over her shoulder, banishing the heat that ruefully threatened her cheeks—certainly from the steamy dishwater and not at the thought of having been caught thinking of him before he walked in the door.
“Morning, Janie.” His voice had that rough, hasn’t-been-warmed-up-yet morning quality.
A tickle rushed down her spine. “Morning.” She winced at the squeak that hung on her greeting. Rather than let her eyes drink in the sight of this full-grown, bearded, and oh-so manly version of the boy she once knew, Janie zeroed in on the work in her hands.
Hunter hung up his jacket, rolled his sleeves, and filled the spot beside her. “Here.”
Her chin jerked upward as his body pressed to her side. “What are you doing?”
“Washing was always my job.” He took the bowl from her dripping hands. “You dry.”
He didn’t allow his gaze to linger on her the way she stared at him. In fact, it seemed he worked hard not to meet her gaze as he cleared his throat. “Better yet, I’ll wash and dry, and you tell me what you think should happen at this party Gemma has me doing.”
Was he . . . pushing her away? That wasn’t fair. After all, he’d been the one to move into her space. Literally. If he’d wanted to keep his distance, there was a whole twenty-by-twenty-foot kitchen. He hadn’t needed to sidle uprightnext to her at the sink.
Janie crossed her arms. Hunter stayed focused on the sink.
After an extended moment, she sighed, let her arms fall, and went to the desk beside her pantry to retrieve her notes. “I worked on a plan.”
“Good.”
“Do you have anything specific you want, before I—”
“Nope. Hit me with the plan, and I’ll let you get on with the day. I know you’re busy.”
