Page 29 of Golden Ruin

Jax leans back, scanning my face like I’m a stranger.

“You look different,” he says, and it only takes a moment to realize he’s noticed my hair.

I run a hand through it, feeling like my fingers reach the ends far too quickly. Or at least far more quickly than I’m used to.

I thought Sterling cut it pretty evenly, but maybe I was wrong.

“Like, different bad?” I ask, and it’s not exactly reassuring when he shrugs.

“Just… different.”

Well, shit, does it look weird?

I’m not really sure what to say, but I don’t have to say anything, because Sterling cuts in before I get the chance.

“You mean Mommy’s hair?” He snags a piece of bacon while he whisks, briefly lifting his eyes to mine. “I think it looks good.”

My throat feels tight when I swallow, unsure how to respond to the compliment. But somehow, I manage a quiet, “Thanks.”

“Sure thing. I do solid work,” Sterling adds, and when he smiles, he’s earned the eye roll I shoot back.

“Anyway… something smells good.” I walk across the tile with Jax just about hanging from my neck.

“Daddy’s teaching me to make pancakes,” Jax gushes, then slithers down my hip to rejoin Sterling near the griddle.

“Ah,” I smile. “Did Daddy tell you that’s the only thing he can make that doesn’t make people regurgitate?”

Jax peers up, confused. “Re… Re… What?”

“It means throw up, baby.”

A small giggle is his only response.

“Funny,” Sterling says with a grin. “I recall someone also complimenting my French fry-making skills back in the day.”

I roll my eyes. “You mean the fries you removed from a bag, then dropped into hot oil, Emeril?”

As I grin at him, I know what’s hiding behind his smile. He’d give me the finger if it was just us. Instead, he mouths a silent, “Fuck you,” that gets the same point across.

I drop down onto a stool across the island from where he and Jax are working. As I think about the trouble he went through for me this morning, it feels awkward to put off mentioning it.

“Listen, all that stuff you got for me… I just… I appreciate it. Thank you.”

He scoops batter onto the griddle, then shifts his gaze to me. We lock eyes and a breath shudders in my throat. I’m grateful I’m seated, because I feel unsteady.

Vulnerable.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Everything fit?”

I laugh a little. “Well, I would’ve been up there until dinner trying everything on, but I peeked at the sizes. They’re all perfect.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything or make eye contact this time. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned that part, shouldn’t have called attention to the fact that he still remembers.

“Oh, I, um… I know your car was in the garage when the fire broke out, so I sent the Range Rover to get detailed this morning,” he says. “It’s yours for as long as you need it.”

He moves a pancake from the griddle to the done pile, then keeps a close eye on Jax as he brushes a stick of butter across it.

Again, I’m not sure what else to say other than, “Thank you.”