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I follow my nose and walk through the door. I find myself in the spacious kitchen – spacious, but also rustic and cozy. The gleam of the polished wood, bathed in the sunlight drifting through the large windows, outshines the metal surfaces of the various equipment scattered throughout. Black pots and pans hang from sections of the ceiling like chandeliers. Jars filled with grains and powders of all colors line a shelf that wraps around the whole room.
In the middle of the room, a man towers above one of the stoves. His back is turned to me so I can’t see exactly what he’s doing, but I can tell he’s the one responsible for the heavenly aroma that’s whetting my appetite so intensely. I lick my lips.
Darn. That smells so good.
As the man turns, though, my senses are overwhelmed by something else.
His burnt brown hair is cut close to his scalp, just a tad thicker than the beard which fringes his chiseled jaw. His sleeves are rolled up above his elbows, revealing the ink on his left arm. Both arms boast massive, defined muscles which look like they could easily lift the stove. If not for his apron, a gray one with black stripes, I would have thought he was a soldier.
Something tells me he’d look absolutely yummy in just that apron.
As he lifts his head, our gazes meet. My breath catches. My cheeks burn. His eyes, dark like lumps of coal, widen with surprise.
“Oh, hello there.”
Even his voice sounds intensely masculine, deep and strong and sending ripples of excitement down my spine. His smile makes my pulse flicker.
“Hello,” I manage to squeak.
His eyebrows crease. “Are you lost?”
I swallow. “N-no.”
Am I?
“I’m here for the internship,” I proceed in a steadier voice as I regain my composure. “I was told…”
“Wait a second.” He touches his chin as he takes a step forward. “I’ve seen you before.”
He has?
“You’re Cathy, aren’t you?”
My eyebrows arch. How does he know? I’m pretty sure we’ve never met before. Yes, I know my memory isn’t that great, but I have a feeling I’d remember perfectly if I ever met someone so… hot. Is he psychic or something? I glance at my blouse. I’m not wearing a name tag, am I?
“Cathy Jeffries,” he says my full name.
Now I’m really freaking out.
I frown. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I know…”
“Jackson,” he says as he takes another step forward.
I’m still confused. My thoughts flutter like rattled birds in a cage. Is that his last name or the city where we’re supposed to have met?
“Jackson Holloway.”
My heart stops.
Trisha’s brother?
Chapter 2
Jackson
It is Cathy.
I didn’t recognize her at once because… well, the last time I saw her, she was… what? Thirteen? She was just a girl back then. A girl with braids and braces who liked to wear long T-shirts and skinny jeans. A girl who liked to eat candy while reading inch-thick books. A girl who hated peanuts and cringed at the sight of blood. A girl who laughed at the corniest jokes and cried over the deaths of fictional characters.
She’s a woman now. Her hair is swept back, tucked into a bun just above her nape, though some wisps have managed to escape and cascade over her ears. The fat in her cheeks which she used to hate is gone. Her braces are gone now, too. Instead, I catch a glimpse of perfect teeth between thin lips coated in pink gloss.
The midnight blouse she’s wearing looks good on her. The color makes her hazel eyes seem a radiant gold, just like the deep blue of the Mediterranean makes the sun more dazzling as it rises above the horizon. A thin gold belt cinches it around her slim waist while the sleeves puff out gracefully around her elbows. The V-neck doesn’t dip low enough to reveal any cleavage, and yet I can’t help but notice those firm breasts pressing against the cotton.
I bring my gaze back to hers as I give her a smile. “It’s nice to see you again, Cathy.”
“Yeah.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “Same here.”
She doesn’t look happy to see me, though. Surprised? Yes, though that’s fading now. Happy? No.
“How are you?” I ask her.
“Good.”
Another automatic response that comes with a forced smile. Then again, I can imagine her life hasn’t been easy, not after what happened to her and Trisha. Maybe just as hard as mine. She was just as much a sister to Trisha as Trisha was to me, after all. Thick as thieves, they were. Two peas in a pod. Looking back now, maybe I should have reached out to her right after the tragedy. We could have helped each other move on. But I was too… busy. At any rate, I’m glad to see her standing in front of me now. She may not be “good”, but the fact that she’s here means she’s at least trying to get by. That’s commendable enough.
