Page 50 of Freedom's Kiss
Chapter 21
Present Day, Florida
Olivia was used to the atmosphere of a kitchen, but being in the middle of it was all kinds of new exhilaration. Instead of standing on the sidelines, she was in the game. The knife felt familiar in her hands, the sizzle of the blackened fish cooking on the flattop behind her and the smells permeating the air and soaking into her body and igniting her senses. Cooking in a professional kitchen, even of the food-truck variety, was thrilling. Exciting. Comfortable—like she’d found her place and belonged right there.
“One fish and grits, one salad!” Adam called as he slid an order into the bar above the grill. He’d relinquished his cooking utensils for a pad of paper and a pencil an hour ago, effectively handing over the reins of dinner service to her.
She scooped a portion of cheese grits into a serving boat, then used a spatula to lift the tilapia fillets off the grill and over the grits. “Order up!” She smiled at him as she set the boat on the counter, where he’d finish it off with fresh salsa and assemble the salad.
She’d arrived straight from her shift at Seasideto find him prepping in the ridiculous apron Trent had bought, all five layers of pink ruffles. Even she wouldn’t wear something like that. But he was actually going to follow through with the bet. Somehow, she’d known he would, even after she’d reassured him she wouldn’t hold him to it. That was just how he was. A man of his word. Which was why she’d taken the liberty of ordering a few T-shirts made with Southern Charm’s logo on it.
He’d turned to her when she’d entered through the back of the truck, the corners of his mouth pulled down as if distressed. “I know you’re going to be disappointed that you don’t get to wear this awesomeness today”—he swept a hand down his front—“but I couldn’t find another one for you at the store. We’ll have to keep looking or put in a special order so you can get outfitted in the new uniform.”
She stabbed a finger at him. “Thatis not going to be the new uniform.” The plastic bag in her hand landed next to an onion he’d been chopping. “This is.”
He wiped his hands on the most hideous of the ruffle materials and used a finger to peel back the bag’s mouth. “What’s this?”
Olivia stepped forward and pulled out a black shirt, holding it up at her shoulders so it cascaded down her front. “The new uniform.”
Adam looked it over before raising his gaze to meet hers. His eyes twinkled. “Getting a mite handsy with my business, don’t ya think?”
She stepped around him and untied the apron strings at his lower back. “You can thank me later.”
He removed his hat, then lifted the apron over his head. Turning his back to her, he reached behind him and tugged off his shirt. Corded muscles ran along the sides of his spine, his shoulders bunching as he wadded up the cotton material and threw it into the passenger’s seat of the truck.
Olivia told herself to avert her eyes, but the sight held her hypnotized. She blinked slowly as the new shirt lowered to cover his bare skin, and he turned to face her again.
In one smooth step he’d enfolded her in his arms and gave her a tight, quick squeeze. “I’ll thank you now.” He moved back and peered down at her. “Thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me.”
It doesn’t mean anything. Not the shirt and definitely not the hug. She needed to keep reminding herself that.
Except she was finding that she reallyreallywanted it to.
Licking her lips, she shrugged. “No biggie. It’s just a shirt, right?”
He leaned his hip against the counter and studied her the same way he had the first time they’d had a conversation in this space—with patience and sincerity and a desire to really understand her. “No, it isn’t just a shirt. You actually believe I can do this.” He waved a hand in front of him to indicate their surroundings. “That all of this isn’t some big mistake. You’re the only one who understands my passion for food and thinks I can make it and that I’m not just running away from my ‘higher calling.’” He used air quotes.
She winced inwardly, his admission and gratitude more a slap than anything. Because while yes, she did understand his love of food, she also agreed with his family and thought he was running away from, well, dare she say his destiny? But she couldn’t voice that without admitting she’d let curiosity get the better of her and Googled him. Hundreds of pages of hits, some solely about him and his extensive résumé, but loads more about his specific cases. The stories behind the men and women he’d defended and why he’d felt it his duty and honor to fight for them.
There were pictures of him in the courtroom, where he looked like a bear protecting his young, his eyes shining with justice yet softened by compassion. Those pictures and stories were but a glimpse, and some not altogether objective, but even to her she could see that he was overcome by a sense a purpose, that he had been walking a path set before him. A path greater than himself.
Then she’d clicked on a case involving a young woman named Brittany Foresythe. Sixteen and brutally raped. It had been a high-profile case, and Olivia was surprised she hadn’t heard about it before. Too busy working extra shifts to pick up some of the bills pouring in for her parents, she guessed. But that case…
She’d watched the videos. Read the articles. Scrolled through the pictures. The fighter in a tailored suit shriveled to a shell of a man throughout the proceedings. He’d ended up winning the case for his client, but he’d lost so much in the process.
No wonder he’d reacted the way he had when his old partner had shown up on television defending another accused rapist. She’d learned that through her search too—that Hudson Burke, the hotshot defending the lacrosse captain in the Stephanie Singh case, was Adam’s old partner.
But she couldn’t reconcile the conviction of the man he’d been before all that to the man who hid in shadows and behind smiles and laughter. She’d felt like, looking at him in the courtroom, hearing videos of his closing arguments in cases, she’d been witnessing a small glimpse of what Jesus was doing on her behalf in heaven—the mediator pleading her case and cryingmy blood, my blood. I have taken her sin and washed it clean. I have paid the price.And because of that she was acquitted of all her sins. Because Jesus represented her case and threwhimselfon the mercy of the court. She’d felt that while watching Adam defend his clients.
But could she say that to him? Should she?
“Adam…”
He chucked her chin, all seriousness dropping from his face and voice. “Enough of this sap. Get back to work, or I’ll dock your pay.”
She let it drop, grateful for the out, and hip-checked him, pushing him a step to the side. Picking up the knife and positioning it over the onion, she said, “That would only work if you were paying me.”
He winked. “Touché.”
