Page 90 of The Auction
Outage.
Failover.
He’s got a black sharpie marker and he’s busy writing things that could as well be ancient Greek for all I know. It looks stressful but he looks like he’s in his element, so I don’t bother him.
The fridge is a sad graveyard of takeout boxes.
I don’t know how he lives like this, especially when his mom is such a great cook. Not “fancy restaurant” great—just food that’s made with love. Steam that curls around you when you lean in to smell it and makes all your problems go away.
Yup. That’s what I need. Something hot. Delicious. Something made with love.
One memory slips in.“I’ll tell you the secret ingredient.”
Sandy whispered while I rolled another meatball in my hand. I could barely see over the counter, so I was standing on a step stool next to her.
It makes me smile and I know exactly what will cheer me up.
I also know Jaxon will enjoy something not in a takeout container for a change.
I check the fridge and pantry, half-expecting to be disappointed, but you’d think this bitch is in this kitchen whipping up three meals a day with how much food is in here.
All the labels tell me someone stocks this for him. Probably cooks with it too so I suppose it’s okay.
Inspiration hits and I start grabbing ingredients.
I roll up my sleeves, turn on the recessed speakers, and scroll until I land on something upbeat. Before long, a tiramisu trifle is in the fridge setting for dessert later. The kitchen smells like browning meat and simmering sauce. I set a big pot of pasta water on to boil, toss a salad together, and slice bread for garlic toast.
From down the hall, Jaxon’s voice carries—low, clipped, and all business. “No, I don’t care what the vendor says. If the loadbalancer’s not up in the next five minutes, you tell them I’ll be on the next flight and it won’t be a friendly visit.”
He strides in a moment later, phone still pressed to his ear, sleeves pushed to his forearms. He’s the picture of controlled fury, rattling off instructions about data centers and backup servers, barely even looking my way—until the smell hits him.
Mid-sentence, he stops walking. His eyes lock on the stove. His brow furrows. And then, without a word, he ends the call with a sharp, “Handle it.”
The phone hits the counter. “What is that?”
“Dinner,” I say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re leaving?” I try to hide the disappointment.
“No. I already fixed the problem I just like making him sweat. My script will run in…” He looks at his watch. “Four minutes and thirty seconds and the data center will be back online.” He comes closer, gaze fixed on the simmering pot. “Youcooked?”
“Yes, Jaxon. I’m capable of boiling water.”
“This smells like my mom’s sauce. Which I know to be impossible because?—”
He picks up the spoon, dips it into the sauce, and takes a taste. The second it hits his tongue, something in his expression changes. His eyes narrow, slow and calculating, like he’s just caught me committing some kind of culinary crime.
“Shegaveyouthe secret ingredient.”
I pretend not to know what he’s talking about. “What ingredient?”
He points the spoon at me like it’s evidence. “Don’t play dumb, Cricket. My mother swore she’d take that to her grave.”
I shrug. “Maybe I figured it out on my own.”
“Bullshit.” He sets the spoon down, stalking toward me. “Tell me.”
“Not a chance.”
Before I can retreat, he’s closing the distance, herding me backward until my lower back hits the counter. He braces one palm beside my hip, leaning in just enough that I have to tip my chin up to keep his gaze.
