Page 32 of Finding Yesterday
“Yeah, I am,” he mumbles without breaking our gaze. “One mistake…everything can change in an instant.”
“I understand.” I flash him a pained smile, reminded that there’s this indescribable closeness between people that share a tragedy. This bond of heartbreak, loss, and grief is, for better and for worse, binding and overpowering.
Jack is so close, I have this overwhelming urge to pull him into a hug. Again.
It’s inappropriate on the job, but somehow, it doesn’t feel that way right now. It seems so natural, to want to hold someone to ease the pain we share.
It appears he feels the same because he’s studying me, his dark eyes pooling. “I know you do,” he utters.
I nod, leaning in closer.
The oven timer goes off, cleaving the moment in two.
Jack’s voice is hoarse when he says, “I’ll get that.” He turns and leaves the closet.
I enter the code and open the box several times to commit the number to memory before returning to the kitchen.
Seeing Jack again makes everything still seem murky, so I straighten my apron and wash my hands.
I make my way over to the oven where he’s put out the steak, perfectly done. The smell makes my stomach growl as if I haven’t eaten in days. I suddenly feel like a savage, the hints of rosemary and garlic rub with the seared meat an intoxicating combination. “That looks pretty good,” I say, trying to sound breezy. I don’t want him to know that it’s taking everything in me not to devour that steak.
“Coming from you, that’s the highest compliment.” The uptick in the corners of his mouth turns into a full-blown smile, and I think he might be enjoying teaching me as much as I am learning from him.
“It really is,” I lie. With meat, I impress easily.
“And now, thegarnish.” He winks as he emphasizes the word.
I laugh, and it’s a genuine laugh.
He holds up the plated steak. “Voilà.”
“Very nice, but it really needs some cornbread.”
He puts the plate down. “You might be right about that. Okay, Cole, show me what you’ve got.” He takes off his chef’s coat, and he’s wearing a T-shirt. I realize this is the first time I’ve seen him in a tee at work, because this is only the second glimpse I’ve had of his tattoo, the knife that barely pokes out from under the sleeve.
Hudson hates tattoos.
But clearly, I don’t. As Jack moves his arm, the tattoo slides up and down and his bicep flexes, and I fight off the urge to walk over and trace my finger up the ink, inching up the sleeve so I can see the rest.
Stop it, Claire.
Except I don’t stop it. “What’s your tattoo?”
He hesitates before lifting his sleeve. “It’s a knife. Piercing some flowers.”
I’m not sure what kind of flowers they are, but they’re blue and crafted with the finest details, down to the texture of the stems. “It’s beautiful. What does it mean?”
“Nothing. I just thought it was cool.” He smiles, but it’s forced, and I’m not sure I believe him. It probably means something, but he just doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Do you have any tattoos?” he continues.
“No.” I bite my lip, putting flour, butter, salt, and eggs into a mixing bowl. “It would be too hard for me to choose something I’d want to wear forever.” That’s not really true. I could have a tattoo for my mother and her memory.
“I get that.” He walks to the oven. “You want this at three-seventy-five?”
“Yes.” I add flour to the dough to make the right consistency. When Jack returns and peers over my shoulder, I say, “It has to be firm but still lumpy. That’s why I’m going to use my hands to mix it.”
“So, do you want to talk about it?”
