Page 89 of Heat Lightning

The words wouldn’t come, but I could show him, even in a small way.

Once I found everything I needed for a simple lemon and pan-seared chicken pasta dish—one of my favorite go-tos—he joined me in the kitchen, idly watching and chatting.

“When did you decide you wanted to be a chef?” he asked.

I thought back. “Every once in a while, Mom would make a really special meal. Like, pasta from scratch and homemade rolls and the whole thing. She got me involved when I was old enough, and it just sort of stuck,” I said. “I was saving to start my own private chef business to cook for dinner parties or people on vacation, but when this job came up after everything happened, it was too good to turn down.”

He cocked his head. “Do you prefer the other? Different groups of people instead of the same family?”

I shrugged and pulled the chicken out of the pan to start the sauce. “I like the idea of a bigger rotating menu and making new things. Honestly, I didn’t think someone would want to hire me full-time at the start, and I wasn’t sure I’d enjoy the monotony of cooking the same meals over and over. But now I prefer stability and privacy. And it’s safer.”

“A big dinner party sounds fun,” he said quietly.

“Yeah.” I almost left it there. After his rejection of spending time together after, I probably should’ve, but I just couldn’t help myself.

“I always dreamed about having a family one day and doing big dinner parties,” I said tentatively.

He leaned in, and it made me braver.

“Not every week, and nothing fancy. But every few months, maybe.”

All I was doing now was keeping the sauce moving while it reduced, so I turned to look at him. “I dreamed of a house on the lake and an outdoor kitchen, so during the summers I could cook while the kids played in the yard. And we’d stay until the lightning bugs came out and eat homemade ice cream and then pile everything into the sink to worry about the next day.”

“I like that dream,” he whispered, drifting closer.

I turned back to the stove, afraid of what he’d see in my eyes, but he hooked his chin over my shoulder and wrapped his hands around my waist. I wasn’t sure he was even aware of it, but his palms rested right over where he filled me every time we came together.

What would it be like if that dream were real? What if this was any other night of my waning heat, and Atlas, my mate, held my full and soon-to-be-pregnant belly, while I cooked for us?

Longing so fierce pierced my heart.

I merely placed my hand over his and kept stirring.

TWENTY-FOUR

MAX

We didn’t say much else until the food was ready. Once plated, we sat side by side at the kitchen island and devoured the chicken and pasta.

“This is so fucking good,” he moaned, mask pushed up so he could eat. “Why is this so good?”

I laughed. “The answer is always butter. Fat carries flavor. And fresh lemon zest—you’d be surprised by how much it brightens things up.”

My chest swelled in pride when he went back for more. He was so endearing during these moments, I could hardly reconcile him with the man I first saw break down the door at the warehouse. “Can I ask you something?”

He peered up, twirling more angel hair around his fork. “Of course.”

“Why do you do it? I mean, why are you a…”

Never one to beat around the bush, he smirked. “Vigilante murderer?”

I snorted. “Yeah. That.”

He pushed a piece of chicken around his plate for a few moments—long enough for me to wonder whether or not he’d answer or if that was one of those ‘it’s too dangerous to know’ questions.

But then he spoke, and I understood why he’d needed to collect himself. “My mom was murdered when I was nine years old.”

Oh, shit. My fork clanged against the plate. I sucked in a breath. “I’m so sorry,” I blurted.