Page 12 of Rescue

She beams at me before she goes back to colouring with focused determination.

Just as I’m about to turn back to the pie and start dishing up—because let’s face it, he’s probably not coming—the sound of footsteps stops me in my tracks. My heart skips, though I couldn’t tell you why.

And then Jon appears in the doorway, looking slightly out of place but somehow perfectly at home at the same time. He’s changed into a dark jumper and jeans, his hair still damp from what I assume was a recent shower. He looks... well, he looks good. Rugged, maybe, with just the right amount of scruff on his jaw. He even makes glasses look sexy.Stop it, Abby!

He hesitates for half a second, his eyes scanning the room—the table, the cottage pie on the hob, Layla’s crayons scattered like confetti.

“Evening,” he says politely.

“Evening,” I reply, keeping my tone cheerful but not too bright.Don’t overdo it, Abby.

Layla looks up from her colouring, her eyes lighting up when she sees Jon. “Are you having dinner with us?” she asks curiously, the way only a child can.

Jon shifts awkwardly, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. “If that’s still alright,” he mutters,glancing at me like he’s half-expecting me to change my mind.

“Of course it is,” I say quickly, motioning towards the empty chair. “Have a seat. Dinner’s just ready.”

He nods once, stepping further into the kitchen. As he sits, Layla’s eyes stay fixed on him, wide and curious. I can see her little brain whirring, already full of questions.

I grab the serving spoon and start dishing up the cottage pie, feeling Jon’s gaze flick towards me every so often. Layla, of course, breaks the silence first.

“Do you like cats?” she asks, holding up her colouring book to show him the half-finished tabby.

Jon leans slightly closer, studying the picture with a faint smile. “That’s a good cat,” he says. “I had one like that when I was a kid.”

“You did?” Layla’s eyes go wide. “What was its name?”

“Basil,” Jon replies, his tone softening ever so slightly. “He was a bit of a troublemaker.”

Layla giggles, delighted. “I think this one’s called Cheese,” she decides, holding up her masterpiece proudly.

I glance at Jon as I set the plates on the table. His lips quirk into the faintest smile, and for a moment, the grumpiness I’ve come to associate with him fades.

“Cottage pie,” I announce, setting a plate in front of him. “All you can eat, as promised.”

“Thanks,” is all he replies.

Always so polite, Mr Peterson.I have to hold back a giggle at that thought.

As we settle in, the atmosphere shifts—easy, warm, and unexpectedly comfortable. I can’t help but feel a small sense of accomplishment as I watch Jon tuck into his food.Maybe, just maybe, this grumpy guest isn’t as impenetrable as he seems.

The clatter of forks and knives fills the kitchen as the three of us enjoy the cottage pie. Layla, ever the chatterbox, starts off with her usual inquisitiveness, her head tilted slightly as she watches Jon eat.

“Do you like cottage pie?” she asks, her fork hovering over her plate.

Jon glances up, clearly not expecting to be part of an interrogation. “Yeah, it’s good,” he replies curtly, then adds, “Thank you,” almost as an afterthought.

Layla grins, apparently satisfied with his answer. “What’s your favourite food?”

Jon hesitates, his brow furrowing. “I don’t know... steak, maybe.”

Layla gasps, her eyes wide. “Like in the big restaurants on TV? With the green stuff on the side?”

“Exactly like that,” Jon says, a hint of amusement slipping into his voice.

“You must be really rich if you eat steak all the time,” she declares, poking at her mashed potato. That causes Jon to chuckle. He actually chuckled. You can guarantee that my little sunshine can make even the hardest grump smile.

“So, what’s your job?” she pipes up again, leaning forward with her elbows on the table, her dinner forgotten.

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