Finlay Donovan Jumps the Gun (Finlay Donovan, #3)(36)

“It’s not exactly chili and biscuits at my place, but for tonight, spaghetti will have to do.”

“Sounds perfect. How can I help?”

He smiled at me over the shoulder of his apron, and the effect was a little staggering. “You can relax and keep me company.” He gestured to a makeshift table he’d set with two stools, a tablecloth, napkins, and utensils. A pitcher of grape juice rested in the middle, a portion already poured into two clear plastic cups. I pulled one of the stools up to the counter, resting my head on my hand as I watched Nick slather slices of bread in garlic and butter. My eyelids drifted closed, the stress of the day easing as the coffee left a warm trail down to my stomach.

“How was your first day?” he asked, setting the bread in the oven.

“Exhausting,” I confessed. “Lieutenant Hamamoto kicked my ass. I might never recover.”

Nick laughed as he limped to the fridge. “If it’s any consolation, you and Vero did really well today.”

I took a moment to appreciate the view as he dug around inside the vegetable bins. Maybe it was fatigue, or the fact that he was far too easy to talk to, or maybe it was just how good he looked in that apron that made me ask, “Why didn’t you want me to come this week?”

He turned from the refrigerator to frown at me, one arm laden with a head of lettuce, a cucumber, and a tomato. “What do you mean?” he asked, his brow heavy as he limped back to the cutting board beside the stove.

“When Sam and Georgia suggested the idea, you were the only one who tried to talk me out of coming.”

“No.” He set down the produce with a shake of his head. Hooking his cane over the lip of the counter, he leaned back against it to face me. “That had nothing to do with you, Finn. That’s not it at all. It’s just … this whole thing,” he said, gesturing around him, “the desk jockeying and paperwork and publicity junkets … none of this is me.” He braced his arms on the counter and frowned, as if he was trying to figure out how to explain. “I hate watching other detectives take my cases. I hate going to counseling and PT every week, waiting for doctors and shrinks to decide when—or if—I can get back to work. I hate looking at Charlie and thinking one day that could be me.” Guilt flashed across his face as he said it, but I found his honesty endearing, this vulnerable side of him I’d never seen before.

He turned to the cutting board, accidentally knocking his cane to the floor. He bent to retrieve it, suppressing a wince. I rushed off my stool to pick it up for him. His eyes caught mine as I pressed it into his hand.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice gravelly.

“Don’t mention it,” I whispered, forgetting to let go. For a long moment, neither of us moved.

A timer trilled by the stove.

I cleared my throat, releasing his cane as the spell between us broke. “Sounds like the spaghetti’s done. Want me to make the salad?”

“Sit,” he insisted, reaching for the timer. “It’ll only take me a minute.”

I pushed my stool to the table, wishing there was something stronger than grape juice in my cup as I took a long, cool sip of it. I offered again to help, but Nick seemed as confident in the kitchen as he was everywhere else, expertly moving between the counter and the stove as he prepped the salad, drained the pasta, and retrieved the tray of garlic bread from the oven. He refused to let me lift a finger, carrying the salads and plates to the table in small trips he could manage in one hand.

“This looks amazing,” I said as he set a heaping plate of pasta before me. “Where did you learn to cook?” I tore into a bite of garlic bread. It was crispy and warm, the center dripping with butter, and I think I might have moaned in bliss.

“Trial and error, mostly,” he said, easing onto his stool and setting down his plate. At my inquisitive look, he explained, “My mom worked two jobs when I was a kid. I made dinner most nights for me and my little sister.”

“Where was your dad?” I asked around a mouthful of pasta.

“He left when I was eight. We never heard from him much after that.”

I glanced up from my meal, feeling a stab of sympathy for him. Steven had left me, but at least he was committed to raising his children. “That must have been hard.”

“You sound a little like Stu,” he teased me. “If you start billing me by the hour, I might start to worry.”

“Are you kidding? You just cooked me dinner. I should be paying you.”

Our laughter quieted as we took turns stealing glances at each other between bites.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “I’ve been meaning to ask you how your book turned out.”

“My book?”

“The one you were working on in December, about the missing attorney. Did you finish it?”

I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. “Not exactly,” I said into my pasta. “Sylvia thinks I still have a few things to work on. She wants me to revise the ending.” I tried not to think about her (or her taxi driver’s) suggestions. After watching Nick prep dinner in that apron, it was far too easy to envision the scenes my agent was expecting me to write.

Nick’s frown was thoughtful. “Last time we talked, you said the end of the story didn’t come together the way you’d hoped. You think the attorney’s going to show up in the new one?” I raised an eyebrow. We both knew which attorney he was curious about, and it wasn’t the one in my book. “Not that I’m looking for a spoiler,” he rushed to add. “I was just curious if the guy was still around.”