Page 33 of Crazy Little Thing Called Love
“Starving,” she admitted. “But I’m soaking wet and freezing.”
“Ah.” His grin widened. “That brings me to surprise number two. Your master suite awaits.”
“You’re kidding.” The excitement in her eyes was worth the blisters and aching back all the trim work took.
“Fifteen minutes,” he said, gesturing toward the hallway. “You can goggle over the rest of it later. Warm shower, dry clothes, then dinner. I promise not to eat everything while you’re gone.”
Faith hesitated only a moment before heading toward the promise of warmth and dry clothes. At the doorway, she paused and looked back.
“How did you remember all these little details? Things I barely remember mentioning?”
Jake’s expression shifted, the cockiness giving way to something more genuine. “I told you. I listen when you talk, Faith. I always have.”
CHAPTERELEVEN
The dinner had been perfect—tooperfect, Faith realized as she set down her wine glass and studied Jake’s face across the candlelit table. He’d remembered every detail she’d ever mentioned, from her grandmother’s china pattern to her favorite flowers. The man had literally rebuilt her kitchen around her dreams.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” Jake said, his voice warm with affection as he reached across to trace her knuckles with his thumb. “I can practically hear the gears turning.”
“I’m just…overwhelmed,” she admitted, gesturing at the transformed space around them. “This is beyond anything I imagined. You’ve given me back my home.”
“You deserve it,” he said simply, then stood and began clearing their plates. “The house has good bones. It just needed someone who could see its potential.”
Faith watched him move around the kitchen with easy confidence, noting how he seemed to know instinctively where everything belonged. “You’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this space.”
“I wanted to get it right,” he admitted, loading dishes into the dishwasher. “I just want you to be happy here. Whether that’s with me or…” He shrugged, but she caught the flash of vulnerability in his eyes. “Whether that’s with me or not.”
Faith’s breath caught at his quiet honesty. Her hand moved unconsciously to her chest, as if she could hold together something that was already coming undone. Here was a man who had spent weeks rebuilding her home, asking for nothing in return except the chance to make her smile.
Jake returned to the table with two mugs of coffee, setting one in front of her. “I have something for you,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket.
He pulled out a heavy package, setting it gently beside her coffee cup. “It’s not much. Just something I thought you might like.”
Faith unwrapped it carefully, revealing a vintage cookbook—The Joy of Cookingfrom 1953, the cover worn soft with age. She opened it to find handwritten notes in the margins, recipes modified and annotated in faded blue ink.
“It was my great-grandmother’s,” Jake said with a grin that was pure mischief. “She taught my grandmother to cook from this book. Ruth insisted you have it, despite the fact that—and I quote—‘that girl wouldn’t know a skillet from a saxophone.’ She also mentioned something about the way to a Murphy man’s heart being through his stomach, so apparently you have some learning to do.”
Faith laughed, a genuine sound that filled the kitchen with warmth. “Your grandmother has quite the confidence in my potential.”
“She’s an optimist,” Jake said, his eyes dancing with humor. “She figures if you can diagnose relationship problems on national radio, you can probably figure out how to boil water without burning down the house.”
“That’s generous of her,” Faith said, tracing the handwritten notes with gentle fingers. “But Jake, this is a family heirloom. I can’t?—”
“You can,” he said, moving around to stand behind her chair. His hands settled lightly on her shoulders. “Look at the inscription.”
Faith flipped to the front page and found elegant script: “To Mary ‘Ruth’ Murphy, may your kitchen always be filled with love and laughter. –Margaret Murphy (Mom), Christmas 1953.”
“Ruth wants you to have it,” Jake said, his voice soft near her ear. “She says maybe you’ll want to try your hand at it someday. And if not, at least the kitchen will remember what it was built for.”
Faith set the book down carefully and turned in her chair to face him. The thoughtfulness behind the gesture, the way he’d shared something so personal and precious, undid every defense she’d carefully constructed.
“Thank you,” she whispered, then rose to her feet. “Jake, I?—”
The words caught in her throat as she found herself standing inches from him, close enough to see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
“Faith,” he said softly, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. “I’ve been wanting to do this all evening.”
When his lips met hers, it was gentle at first, a question rather than a demand. But when she melted into him, her hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, the kiss deepened into something that made her forget every reason she’d built her walls so high.
