We return to the lasagna, moving in a rhythm that comes almost as if we’ve done this a hundred times, even though we haven’t. He passes me the ricotta mixture, our fingers brushing with each handoff. I spread it over the noodles while he prepares the next layer of sauce.
“I wanted to thank you.” Jared keeps his focus on the sauce as he stirs. “For stepping in at the site today.”
I pause with the spoon of the cheese mixture in my hand. “You don’t need to thank me. They shouldn’t have let you wrestle a full sheet of plywood by yourself, much less laugh when it went sideways.”
His ears flush red, and he sets the spoon down. “Still. You didn’t have to help me. You could’ve let Clint handle it, or let me take the heat. Instead, you treated me as if I belonged there.”
The heat that rises in my cheeks isn’t from the warmth of the stove. “You didn’t make trouble. You tried too hard to prove yourself. That’s different.”
His scent intensifies with his distress, salt and driftwood becoming electric. I breathe through my mouth to clear my head.
“That’s not what I’m?—”
“It is.” I cut him off, knowing the pattern too well. “You’re an Alpha without a pack, working twice as hard to show you belong. I get it. I’ve been there.”
His silence draws my head around, and the vulnerability in his sea-glass eyes nearly stops my breath.
“On my first crew, I carried loads meant fortwo, stayed late, and took the worst assignments. I even worked three days with a broken wrist before the superintendent caught on.”
“Why?” The question hangs between us, simple but complex.
I finish with the cheese layer, smoothing the creamy mixture over the noodles. “Same reason you did. To prove I deserved my place.”
Jared resumes his stirring, thoughtful. “Did it work?”
“For a while.” The memory of those years sits heavy inside. “Until I realized no matter how much I gave, it would never be enough for some people.”
Understanding dawns. “Because of who you are, not what you do.”
“Yes. For some, a woman on a construction site will never be acceptable.” The word comes out rough, scraping at old wounds. I clear my throat. “The lasagna needs another layer of sauce.”
We work in silence for a moment, the air between us charged with unspoken recognition. When he sets the spoon aside and reaches for the noodles, his movements are more confident.
“The resort owners,” he says finally, “don’t seem to care that I’m scent-blind.”
“Of course not. They hired you for your skills in the upkeep of boats, not for your nose.” I spreadmore cheese over the pasta, steam rising to dampen my cheeks. “There are people who see beyond designations. You found some.”
“And you?” His question hangs between us. “Did you find your people?”
The spoon in my hand stills. “I thought I did. Once.”
He doesn’t demand more answers, and gratitude warms me. As he hands me the bowl of mozzarella, our fingers connecting in a brief, electric touch that sends a current up my arm.
His chest lifts with a slow inhale before he releases it. “When did you learn to cook?”
“My grandmother taught me. She said food builds bonds stronger than blood.”
“Smart woman.” He lays down another noodle. “What else did she teach you?”
The question opens a door I rarely allow anyone through, with memories of flour-dusted afternoons and family secrets whispered over rising dough.
“How to bake bread. Crochet sweaters. Fix a leaky pipe.” I pause, surprising myself with my willingness to share. “How to build a home that stands no matter what storms come.”
“You’ve done that here,” he says, leaning a little closer without seeming to realize he’s doing it. “Built something strong.”
The assessment catches me off guard, warmth spreading through me at his recognition of what this cottage means to me. Not ready to open up more, I focus on our dinner.
“Final layer.” I sprinkle mozzarella, and he helps push it into the corners I missed, our hands brushing.