“Zara,” he said carefully, “who was that?”
Chapter Nineteen
Cormac
Jacksonwasanevenbigger piece of shit than I’d previously believed. Since I’d considered him the lowest of the low, that was saying something.
Zara talked and talked, spilling everything that had gone on with his company. Reading between the lines, he’d brought her on to provide cover for the underhanded practices he and his brothers were getting up to. It didn’t surprise me she’d left both him and the company as soon as she discovered what they were doing. If nothing else, Zara had always been honest.
But it killed me the man who’d been supposed to love and honor her had put her in this position. She’d done nothing wrong, was trying to move on and start fresh, and had a PI wanting to come here andmeetwith her.
That wasn’t going to happen.
By the time she finished telling me everything, she was more incensed than freaked out, which was something, I guessed.
We were face to face. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were shining—not with tears but deep wells of anger. And she had every right to be pissed off. Hell, I was angry for herand hated that Jackson was still rearing his ugly head from a thousand miles away.
My fingers twitched from the desire to reach out and gather her in my arms. I held on to the edge of the counter instead, though it did nothing to abate the desire to comfort her. It seemed that was something that was never going to go away.
“You want to sit down? Take a break for a minute?”
“No.” She flipped her hair away from her face and took a deep, steadying breath. “No, I’m fine, Maccie. I promised you dinner, so that’s what we’re going to do.”
Then she gave me a light shove. “Get out of here. You’re distracting me.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’mdistracting you—not the phone call from the PI?”
She waved me off. “That was ten minutes ago. You’re my current obstacle.”
I held up both hands. “I’m only standing here, being handsome.”
That got me another shove. A laugh too. I liked both. For a moment, it felt like old times, when things were easy and uncomplicated.
“And it’s distracting,” she said. “Go away.”
I went, but the house was so small I couldn’t go far. I took a seat at the table right outside the open kitchen and watched Zara plate up our dinner. It took everything in me not to jump up and help her bring the plates to the table, but the razor-sharp look she shot me helped keep me in my seat.
She carried the plates over a minute later, chin tipped high, like she was waiting for me to comment.
I didn’t dare.
She set the plate in front of me, and steam swirled up, catching in the soft overhead light. Pasta twisted with ribbons of zucchiniand yellow squash, bright pops of cherry tomatoes, flecks of parsley. It smelled like garlic and butter and something citrusy.
It smelled like summer. The best memories of my life—and they all featured her.
Zara slid into the chair across from mine. “If it doesn’t taste as good as it should, please keep it to yourself.”
“I’m sure it’s great, and I’m hungry enough it doesn’t matter.”
We both took our first bite at the same time. I didn’t mean to close my eyes, but I did.
“Why are you making that face?”
I swallowed and looked at her. “Because it tastes exactly like your mom’s.”
Her expression changed instantly, the sharp edges dulling. “It does not.” But her mouth rose in victory.
“It does.” I twirled another bite, studying it like it held proof. “There’s lemon in here, right?”