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A plate of beautifully crispy, golden-fried onion cakes are slid into the middle of the table.
"Agh. Those smell so good," Abby says, reaching for one. She tosses it from one hand to the next, and with a grin and a roll of his eyes, John slides a plate in front of her. She smiles at him, and drops it. “Thanks, dude."
"Welcome," he says in his low rumble. Then he drops into the chair across the table from us, as Jonas passes out the rest of the plates, and runs back to the kitchen for some sort of sauce.
"This looks really good," I say to John.
His lip twitches, and he leans in. "We planned on a whole Chinese spread tonight, but we ran out of time."
"What happened?" I ask, holding up my plate for him to serve me one perfect cake.
"I ruined the batter," Jonas says cheerfully.
John snorts. "Ruined. Dropped a whole box of salt."
"Yes, well, I got distracted."
"Lego, a puzzle, or a math problem?" I ask, taking a bite, moaning at the contrasting crisp outside, and light onion flavor inside.
Jonas side-eyes me but owns up to it. "Math problem. I was running calculations on the cost of starting a restaurant."
I pause and carefully lower the cake back onto my place. "Restaurant?" I ask quietly, looking between the two men. Jonas looks at John expectantly.
"Fine," John says, dropping his elbows onto the table, and linking his fingers. "I'm thinking about opening a restaurant. Or maybe a food truck. It's just an idea right now."
"The guys would be heartbroken," I remind him with a smile.
He snorts, and eyes crinkling with a smile. Those laughs are coming more easily. The last couple of months have worked wonders. Since Christmas dinner, John's been doing a lot of cooking. It started with a few of the guys standing outside John's door at mealtime, looking pathetic, and morphed into family dinners several times a week. The men all look at John with a sort of awe every time he produces something edible.
John seems to have blossomed under their praise. I'm not sure if he saw his skill in the kitchen as being that special, but when nine grown men fight over who gets to be your taste tester, resorting to shoving and hair-pulling, you have to think maybe you might be a little special.
"Yeah, maybe." He frowns, the dark red scar pulling with the movement. "It's probably a stupid idea. But I have to do something, you know? I can't just sit around cooking for everyone, can I?"
"Can't you?" I ask. "You don't need the money. So what do you want to do? How do you want to spend your time? I know that question's been looming over you since you got out. And it's okay if you don't have an answer yet."
He absentmindedly taps his knuckles on the table and shakes his head. "I dunno. I guess it can't hurt to explore it. Your man doesn't seem to mind running the numbers."
No, he wouldn't. It's effortless for Jonas, but even if it weren't he'd still do it. John's proven himself. He's family now, so anything he needs, Jonas is there to help. I'm not sure if he realizes that all nine of them will be ready to back him up, whatever he chooses to do.
But he will when every seat in his restaurant is taken up by family.
"Whatever you decide to do, we'll all be there," I tell him. Jonas turns to him and nods, then shoves another bite in his mouth. I think he's on number five...maybe six. All I know is that the towering pile is not so towering anymore.
"I saw my brother today," I say casually, watching my husband carefully. He freezes, which I expected. I didn't expect him to trade a knowing glance with John. "Dad and I ran into him in the neighborhood."
"The brother that hurt you? I hope you gave him a piece of your mind," Abby says fiercely.
"I didn't get a chance. He saw me. Screamed, 'it's not my fault. Tell them I didn't come find you. Promise me Janey!' then turned and ran away."
"Huh," she says, frowning. "That's weird right?"
I look at the guys and raise an eyebrow. John's lips twitch, fighting a smile. Jonas just stares at me and very carefully, swallows his food. He clears his throat and stares at my nose as he answers.
"Yes. Very strange behavior, indeed."
I slap my hand on the table, but neither man startles. "Don't give me that. What did you do?" He opens his mouth, and I hold up a hand to stop him. "I want the truth. Don't dance around it."
His eyes go fuzzy for a minute, then he shakes his head and meets my eyes. "He was a danger, Janey. He needed to be dealt with. So I had a conversation with him."
