Page 53 of Some Kind of Haunted

But my hands don’t cooperate. I’m gripping the latte mug in one and the notebook in the other, which is good because that means I couldn’t get weird with his hand no matter how much it tempts me.

He sighs, but it’s not one of those impatient sighs I’m used to. This one hits me as almost sad. Or maybe wistful.

Maybe I’m delirious from starvation, because I can suddenly feel exactly how hungry I am.

Jack carefully takes the mug from my hand. He puts it on the counter next to me, and he doesn’t make any attempt to reach for my notebook. He just . . . holds my hand.

Like he read my mind.

That big, scarred hand of his is as hot as I hoped. And as strong as I remember from that night at the flood wall when he held my arm.

His hand closes over mine and covers it. Entirely.

I’m not sure what my heart is doing in my chest because it’s something far more violent than beating. And I am not entirely breathing, while Jack’s calloused hand holds mine and his green gaze keeps me locked in place.

“Lexi . . .”

He doesn’t finish.

A slap echoes through the kitchen and I jump. Jack simply looks over at the counter. He does not let go of my hand. Marleen is standing there.

“Order up,” she says, then turns away. She seems neither angry nor interested, but she interrupted, so I don’t know what to think. About any of this.

Jack nods. Gently, he releases my hand, then clears his throat and grabs the order ticket Marleen left. “I’ve got to get through the morning rush,” he mutters, turning away from me.

He starts to move around his kitchen with a towel tossed over his shoulder and a certain intensity that seems out of place in a food establishment until I think about all the chef reality shows I’ve seen.

Which is pretty much every chef reality show.

Suddenly, Jack seems significantly more accessible. This is what chefs do. It’s how they are.

He cooks up a series of breakfasts in what seems like dizzying speed to me, watching all his different pans and machines as if it’s no big deal. Then he plates them all with the kind of easy, assured movements that would have told me he’s done this a million times before if I didn’t already know that. I’m surprisingly content to sit on this stool and watch him move.

I don’t even care if my hair smells like diner food.

I actually think he’s forgotten about me, but then he says, “I’ll take you over to Grandpa in a few.”

This seems like something I can manage on my own. I do know the way through the hall to the antique store. But before I can tell him that, he shoves one of the plates he’s put together at me. “Eat.”

Then he’s gone. Presumably out to take orders or bus tables or whatever it is he usually does for the morning rush.

I look down at the plate. It’s not an egg white omelet this time. It’s a cinnamon roll. It must still be warm because the frosting is dripping off the side. Tentatively, I poke a finger into the frosting and lick it off.

Amazing.

Marleen returns. Again, she doesn’t look at me, though I feel certain she knows I’m here. I can’t decide how to interpret her not looking, so I watch her instead. She plates things. Braxton comes in and asks her a question that she’s clearly answered before, if her exasperation is anything to go by, but she answers him. They go in and out, in and out, over and over.

It’s like watching a dance, I think as I eat my cinnamon roll and drink my coffee. The three of them. Plates go out with food, I can hear them talk with the customers, then the plates come back empty.

They work in a lot of companionable silences, but they talk, too. When Braxton is out of the kitchen, Marleen says something to Jack that’s too quiet for me to hear, but clearly about Braxton, and Jack laughs.

He really, truly laughs. Not that low, short laugh I’ve heard before. The one I was amazed Marleen coaxed out of him. This one is a real laugh. It lasts a while. He tips his head back in the heat of it, then grins at Marleen.

I think it’s a good thing he hasn’t aimed that grin at me, laced through with all that laughter. I’d probably do a few very stupid things in the beam of a grin like that.

It’s all of this—Jack in his comfort zone, clearly, and him so relaxed and open and laughing—that has me relaxing my hold on the notebook.

When he says something to Marleen, then unties the apron around his waist and hangs it up on a peg, I know he’s going to take me over to Harrison. I get to my feet.