Page 52 of When the Smoke Clears

“A few colorful pillows, a throw blanket, and some decorative candles.”

“Sounds harmless, I guess.” I hold out the bags. “Got actual food. No more jokes about my empty fridge.”

She peeks into one of the bags. “What’s on the menu?”

I hesitate and swallow past the lump in my throat. “Remember that little Italian place on Mooncrest Drive?”

She screeches. “Their chicken alfredo?”

“I thought I’d try making it tonight. I’m not as helpless in the kitchen as everyone thinks I am.”

“I can’t wait,” she says, lips curving into a smile that reaches her eyes. “Would you mind coming with me tomorrow to sign the realtor paperwork at my mom’s house?”

I give her the slightest incline of my head—barely a yes. I’m already in too deep, and I know it. Ten years of bitterness crumble under one smile. Pathetic doesn’t even begin to cover it.

We hoist our bags into the truck bed. The engine rumbles to life, and gravel crunches beneath the tires as we pull away.

Isla glances out the window. “Is it weird to be shopping when someone might be hunting me?”

“You’re safe with me. Better to live normally. It shows whoever it is, they don’t control you.” Her profile catches the light, fierce and fragile all at once, and I wonder if she knows how much I need that to be true.

She straightens, shoulders firming. “I like that. Instead of being scared and running, I’m taking control of my life. I’m like the Cowardly Lion, finding my courage.”

And that’s what terrifies me. Because taking control always draws attention. And the wrong people in Wildhaven may already be watching.

CHAPTER 13

LUKE

I toss the pasta into the salted boiling water and watch the rigid strands soften and curl. Behind me, Isla hums under her breath while she sets the table with the mismatched plates I’ve had since college.

Her cardigan hangs over the back of my chair. Her shoes sit neatly by my door. Two weeks ago, I would’ve laughed if someone said she’d be here, in my kitchen, tucked into all the empty spaces I’ve been pretending I don’t notice.

Now my stomach knots at how right it looks. How wrong it feels to want it.

“Luke.”

Her voice pulls me back. She plucks a mushroom off the cutting board, pops it into her mouth, and chews thoughtfully. “When did you learn to cook?”

I slice thin wedges from a bulb of garlic, the blade ticking against the wood. “I’ve picked things up over the last few years.”

She leans her elbows on the counter, watching me. “I don’t remember you ever being into cooking.”

“When I was eighteen…” I meet her eyes for a second too long. “All I was interested in was you.”

The words hang there between us, thick as steam, curling into the corners we’ve both been pretending don’t exist.

Isla swallows. Clears her throat. “So. How was work today?”

I lift the pot off the burner and drain the pasta. Steam climbs my neck, damp and hot. “Long. Mind-numbing paperwork. I’m drowning in administrative bullshit.”

She hops down from the stool and twists the oven knob to preheat it for the bread. “I feel the same. Nursing documentation is the worst. I’d trade half my charting just to sit and hold someone’s hand.”

“Why nursing?”

Her reflection blurs in the oven door. “I wanted to make a difference,” she says. “Do something that matters. Why?”

“You never told me that when we were kids.”