Page 73 of Major Love

“It’s probably best if we have the fries,” I rasp, and Jason glances up at me from under his dark lashes, chuckling quietly when he sees my expression.

I shift my butt on the stool, beginning to feel that same flush of warmth that I did this morning.

To distract myself from the heat tingling in the pool of my stomach, I gesture toward the ‘salad’ and offer, “Is there anything that I can do to help? I can, like, wash the salad or something?”

Jason’s cheeks dimple with amusement. “Not on your life.”

I give him a playful eye-roll and his dimples deepen as he sets down the knife. He moves the fries to the side and gets to work on oiling up a pan.

“You’re my guest, Sunday,” he rumbles. “And, besides, I thought you were on vacation.”

I haven’t corrected that assumption because I don’t exactly want Jason to know about everything that happened in Nashville – about Riley, and the articles, and the ridiculous idea that I would do anything to try and be famous, when that’s actually the one thing that I liked the least about Nashville. It’spart of the reason why I finally decided to sell the bar in the first place – because it was garnering so much attention that I knew that, soon enough, that attention would drift tome.

And then when I sold the bar, my fear came to fruition anyway, for an even worsereason than I could have predicted – a reason that isn’t true, and that has nothing to do with my decade of devoted work. And it’s things like that which make me think I shouldn’t go back.

I worked in Nashville for a long time, doing something out of respect to Cash’s legacy… but now maybe it’s time to move on.

I don’t think that it’s healthy to live in the past forever. When you lose someone that you love it can be really hard to let go. But I’ve spent years honouring the past, so maybe now it’s time to fall in love with my future.

And with that in mind I decide that my future’s going to be a good one, filled with light and love and lots of laughter.

Which is why I lean down to open one of Jason’s cupboards and I pull out the apron that he showed me earlier.

Jason watches me with amusement sparkling in his eyes and he laughs loudly when I ball it up and toss it right at him.

He catches it with one hand and drops it to the counter, smirking at me as he sets the gas on for the pan.

“Hey, if you’re the one and only chef in this kitchen then you may as well look the part,” I say lightly, but then I’m screaming with laughter as he charges around the counter, shooting off my stool until we’ve completely swapped sides.

I glance at the pan now heating up in front of me and lift a teasing eyebrow. “Look who’s the chef now.”

His broad chest shakes as he laughs and I try not to melt into a puddle as he swipes his large hand over those gorgeous smile creases. Then he amuses me even further by lifting the barstool I’d been sitting on with one hand, and easily carrying it with him as he rounds to my side of the counter.

He sets it down between us and looks down at me expectantly.

I make him sweat it for a couple of seconds before finally settling my butt back down on the stool.

His chest swells on a satisfied inhale and, with one hand still under the stool, he casually pulls me a little closer.

Then he preps our salads, sets up two plates, and seasons the steaks before glancing down at me.

I’m currently fanning myself with the offending apron because I’m justso freaking warm.I don’t know what it is, but I can’t cool down for some reason.

A frown touches his brow as he takes in my red cheeks and thermal clothing.

“Too warm near the gas?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder toward the back porch.

“I’ll be fine,” I start, but he’s already dropping his hand-towel and heading through the open-plan living area toward the back of the house.

The whole downstairs is gorgeous, and warm and cosy despite the open-plan layout, due to the rich shade of the wood, the dark couches, and the stone fireplace.

Jason pulls open the back door and I laugh, “What are you doing?”

“One second,” he says gruffly, and then he jogs easily through the snow so that he can grab something from his workshop that’s situated beyond the porch.

“Did you just run barefoot?” I call out to him, laughing when he comes jogging back.

He flashes me a grin and then gets to work on setting up a barbecue grill, only it’s not an electric one – it’s the kind that you have to set a little fire inside.

---