Page 26 of The Rebel with Broken Strings
He shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. He had a lot to make up for, and a home-cooked meal was just the beginning.
“So,” Aubrey began, “where’d you learn to cook like this? Didn’t peg you for a culinary expert.”
Gunner glanced over his shoulder, a slow smile spreading across his face. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
Aubrey snorted, but Gunner spotted the slight upturn of her lips.
“Enlighten me then,” she said. “What’s the secret to your kitchen prowess?”
“My grandmother, actually. Spent a lot of time with her growing up. That woman could make a feast out of thin air.”
Aubrey took a seat on the stool. “Yeah? What was she like?”
“Picture a five-foot-nothing spitfire with a wooden spoon in one hand and sheet music in the other.” He chuckled. “She’d have me up at dawn, picking fresh tomatoes from her garden. Said a man who couldn’t feed himself wasn’t worth his salt.”
“Sounds like quite a woman,” she murmured.
He nodded, his eyes meeting hers. “She was. Taught me more than just cooking. Said music and food both came from the soul. If you didn’t put your whole heart into it, folks could taste the difference.”
Aubrey’s eyes softened. “Well,” she said, her voice light, “let’s hope you were paying attention. I’ve got high standards for my jambalaya.”
Gunner’s lips quirked. “Trust me, darlin’. I aim to exceed ’em.” His hands moved deftly as he diced tomatoes, his knife a blur against the cutting board. Desperate for her to know him better, he said, “She passed away after I’d just left for Nashville, and that’s when my folks began traveling. They actually split their time between here and Costa Rica these days.”
Aubrey’s eyebrows shot up. “Costa Rica? That’s quite a change from Montana.”
He chuckled. “My dad always said he’d retire somewhere without snow. Turns out, he meant it.” He gave her a quick smile. “They come back every summer, though. Stay in our old family home on the east side of town.”
“Must be nice,” she murmured, “having roots like that.”
Gunner glanced up. “It is,” he said softly. “Especially after… Well, the road can get mighty lonely.”
Aubrey cocked her head, and Gunner swore she looked at him like she wanted to reach out, to offer some kind of comfort. Instead, she busied her hands, pulling at the lint on her pants.
“What about you?” Gunner asked, his tone deliberately light. “Got family back in Atlanta?”
Aubrey tensed, her chest tightening. “No, my mom is in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where I grew up with Charly and Willow,” she said after a moment. “She’s a teacher. Third grade.”
“Bet she’s proud as punch of her chef daughter,” Gunner said with a grin.
Aubrey’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “She is. We talk every Sunday evening.” She paused, her voice growing thick with emotion. “I miss her lasagna nights. The way the whole house would smell like garlic and oregano.”
Gunner watched her for a moment, then asked gently, “And your dad? Is he back in Ann Arbor too?”
She shifted on the stool. When she spoke, her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “No. He’s…not in the picture. Hasn’t been since I was eight.”
The kitchen fell silent, save for the bubbling of the jambalaya. Gunner was swallowed up by a mix of empathy and something deeper—a flash of guilt that Aubrey didn’t quite catch. He set down his knife, wiping his hands on a nearby towel.
“Aubrey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried,” he said, taking a step toward her.
She shook her head, still not meeting his eyes. “It’s fine. Ancient history.”
But Gunner wasn’t letting it go. He moved closer, until he was standing just a few feet away from her. “No, it’s not fine.” He reached out on instinct to touch her arm, then thought better of it. “I’m sorry, Aubrey,” he continued. “Not just for bringing up painful memories, but for…for leaving you that night in Atlanta. I was a coward, and I hurt you. I’ve regretted it every day since.”
Aubrey’s arms crossed over her chest. But this time, she didn’t deny their night together, didn’t brush him off. “I don’t know what you want from me, Gunner,” she said.
“I want a chance,” he told her. “A chance to make things right, to show you who I really am. If you’ll let me.”
She huffed. “Friends?”
