Page 68 of My Fixation

Jaxon looks up. “What?”

I point my fork at him. “This is really good.” Another bite disappears. “Feel free to cook for me anytime.”

The faint pink already lingering on his cheeks immediately deepens. By the time it reaches his ears, I’m fighting back a smile. I swear the man blushes easier every day.

“Do you not cook?” he asks.

“I do.” I shrug. “Just nothing like this.”

“That’s a very diplomatic way of saying your cooking isn’t great.”

“My cooking is perfectly edible.”

Jaxon laughs. The sound does something pleasant to my brain.

“Mom had Franklin teach all of us,” I continue. “I just don’t enjoy it.”

“So you learned under protest?”

“Absolutely.”

“That explains a lot.”

I narrow my eyes at him. He just smiles and takes another bite. The conversation flows easily after that. Easier than it has any right to. We talk about my work, about the company. About some of the ridiculous situations my brothers have found themselves in over the years.

Jaxon tells me stories from his time in the Marines. Nothing overly detailed. Just enough for me to catch glimpses of the man he was before everything fell apart. Proud of what he accomplished.

I notice something else too. Every time the conversation drifts near Trent, Jaxon redirects it. He’ll talk about the military, foster homes, and his construction jobs. But the second the conversation gets too close to Trent, he pivots. Changes the subject.

As if there’s a wall there he isn’t willing to let me climb over yet. For now, I let it stand. Because, unlike most things in my life, Jaxon isn’t something I can force. And for some reason, I find that I’m willing to wait.

Chapter 35

Jaxon

The joy it brings me to not only cook for Conor but to watch him genuinely enjoy it is impossible to describe. He didn’t force compliments. Didn’t praise it because he thought I needed the encouragement. He actually liked it. The realization settles warmly in my chest.

I’ve spent so much of my life alone. Just surviving and existing. Always wanting things I convinced myself I didn’t need. I wanted a home, a family. Someone to come home to at the end of the day, someone to cook for. To take care of. Someone who wanted to take care of me in return. For the first time in a very long time, I can almost see it. Almost.

Conor insists on cleaning the kitchen. Apparently, cooking and cleaning are separate jobs in his mind. I watch from the island as he loads the dishwasher with an almost concerning level of focus. Every plate has a place. Every glass has an angle. Every utensil is positioned with military precision. It’s like watching an engineer construct a bridge. Or a bomb technician dismantle an explosive.

“You know they’re just dirty dishes, right?”

Conor glances up. “There is an optimal way to load a dishwasher.”

“Of course there is.” He ignores my sarcasm.

The sight makes me smile. What would it be like to have this every day? Lazy mornings in bed, then breakfast together. Easy conversations that drift from one topic to another. The thought is so dangerous that I immediately push it away. Because wanting things has never ended well for me.

Conor finishes wiping down the last counter and turns toward me. The smile slips from my face immediately. His expression is serious. Like he’s been thinking about something for a while.

“I want to talk to you about something.” My stomach drops. “Let’s go sit on the couch.”

Just like that, every good feeling from the morning evaporates. My heart sinks. Henry is gone, but the debt isn’t. Thirty thousand dollars still hangs over my head.

I follow him into the living room, each step feeling heavier than the last. Because experience has taught me that serious conversations rarely end in my favor. Is this it? Is he about to tell me it’s time to go? That he helped me because he’s a good person, but now the problem is too complicated? Too expensive? That I’m too much? The thought twists painfully in my chest. I lower myself onto the couch and brace for the worst.

Conor sits beside me and takes my hands in his. His thumb runs slowly over my scarred knuckles. The gesture should be comforting. Instead, it makes my stomach twist.