Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)(22)

I laughed. “Blunt? Try tactless! Try rude! And by the way, other people have bad days all the time and don’t turn into high-and-mighty mood monsters and start insulting everyone in sight. It’s called common courtesy.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t so much as bat a lash. He simply said, “If you were mine, I’d take you over my knee for that little speech.”

I nearly fell off the stool.

Before I could recover my wits, a towheaded child about three or four years old burst into the kitchen, singing “Jingle Bells” at the top of his lungs.

And then a miracle occurred. Jackson “the Beast” Boudreaux’s face split into a huge, genuine smile.

“Cody!” He leapt from the stool and picked up the child in a bear hug.

I watched in six different kinds of shock as the child put his little arms around Jackson’s neck and screamed in glee while Jackson spun him around and around, that happy grin still plastered on his face.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Boudreaux, he just got away from me!”

A harried, fiftyish blonde woman ran into the kitchen, panting. She had food stains on her blouse, hair escaping in every direction from her ponytail, and looked as if she hadn’t slept in about a year. Immediately I felt sorry for her.

“It’s all right, Charlie. Have a seat. I’ll take him.”

Jackson kissed Cody on the cheek and then lifted him straight up in the air, making the boy scream in delight again.

Not that I was about to ask, but the boy’s fair coloring indicated Jackson was most likely not his father. And his distinctive facial features indicated he had Down syndrome.

Charlie, who I guessed was Cody’s nanny, glanced at me. “Oh, no, sir, I can see you’re busy.”

Jackson growled, “I said sit.”

Without further argument, Charlie gratefully collapsed onto the stool next to mine. “Good morning,” she said, brushing a few stray blonde wisps from her face. “I’m Charlotte Harris.”

I shook her extended hand. “Bianca Hardwick. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Charlie’s face brightened. “You’re the new chef! Oh, thank heavens. I’m afraid my repertoire goes about as far as scrambled eggs and toast. Poor Mr. Boudreaux has been surviving on scraps since Gregory quit, and I—”

“She’s only helping with the benefit, Charlie,” said Jackson, casually tossing Cody over his shoulder. He stood holding him with one strong arm wound around the boy’s back and one hand propped on his hip, like a proud lumberjack bringing in his haul of wood.

It was adorable.

A word I never in a million years would’ve thought I’d use to describe Jackson Boudreaux.

For his part, Cody loved it. He hadn’t stopped singing, laughing, or screaming happily since he’d come into the room. He bubbled with energy. I could see why Charlie was so tired.

I said, “Well, since I’m here, would you like me to make something for lunch?”

Charlie looked like I’d just told her she’d won a million dollars. “Oh, no, I couldn’t ask you to do that,” she said, her eyes begging me to contradict her.

I smiled and squeezed her shoulder. “Sure you could. Sit a spell and let me see what’s in that airplane hangar of a refrigerator.”

I stood. Jackson and I locked eyes, and something deep in my belly fluttered. Is he angry? What’s that look he’s giving me?

I froze, uncertain if I’d just crossed a line. “I mean . . . unless you’d rather I didn’t.”

Jackson carefully set Cody on his feet. As soon as his little shoes touched the ground, he launched himself at me, arms held out, fingers grasping.

“Lady!” he shouted. “Hi, lady!”

He slammed into my leg, hooked his chubby arms around it, tilted his head back, and smiled up at me. I smiled back at him.

“Hi, Cody. I’m Bianca.” I reached down and ruffled his hair, fine as chick fluff.

Cody shouted, “Jingle bells!” and laughed.

Jackson said quietly, “Yes, Miss Hardwick. I think we would all like that very much.”

I realized he’d just let Cody decide whether or not I should stay and make them lunch. Whoever this boy was to him, Jackson obviously loved him.

Why that affected me I don’t know, but it did, deeply. I looked up at Jackson and said impulsively, “Please, call me Bianca.”

His lips twitched. His eyes burned. He sent me a small, curt nod. I turned away before he could see how my face flamed with heat.

Then I set about making lunch, trying all the while not to recall the way his eyes had looked when he’d said If you were mine.





BIANCA’S OLD CUBAN

Makes 1 serving