Page 21 of A Tempting Seduction (Protectors of Jasper Creek #5)

“Because I've seen the way he looks at you. Like you hung the moon and stars just for him.” Zoe stood up and grabbed her leather jacket.

“Now stop worrying and go do something normal with your Sunday. The underwear will be here in three days, and by then Ford will be ready to propose just to get his hands on you again.”

After Zoe left, the apartment felt too quiet. I needed to get out, to do something productive that didn't involve analyzing every moment of last night.

I gathered my mother's journals and the old recipe box I'd promised to share with Miss Gladiola and Little Grandma, then drove across town to their yellow house with its explosion of flowers.

Little Grandma opened the door before I could knock, her blue eyes bright with curiosity.

“Ruby, dear! Perfect timing. We just put the kettle on.”

Miss Gladiola appeared behind her sister, practically vibrating with excitement. “Did you bring Edith's journals?”

I held up the box and small stack of leather-bound books. “Everything I have.”

They ushered me into the living room with the efficiency of women who'd been entertaining guests for nearly a century. Within minutes, I had a cup of tea in my hands and Miss Gladiola was already reaching for the journals.

“How was your dinner with Ford?” Little Grandma asked, settling into her chair with obvious anticipation.

I felt heat creep up my neck. “It went well.”

“That's it?” Miss Gladiola looked up from the journal she'd been examining. “Just, it went well ? We want details, Ruby. Did he like the food? Did he like your dress? Did he kiss you goodnight?”

“He said he liked my dress,” I said, unable to suppress my smile at the memory. “And yes, he loved the food. Especially the tres leches cake.”

“And?” Little Grandma prompted.

“And we talked. Really talked. I told him some things about my past that I've never told anyone here.”

Both women's expressions grew serious, understanding the weight of that admission.

“That's a big step, dear,” Miss Gladiola said gently. “Trusting someone with your truth.”

“It felt good,” I admitted. “Scary, but good. Like maybe I don't have to carry everything alone anymore.”

“That's what love is supposed to feel like,” Little Grandma said. “Sharing the weight instead of doubling it.”

I nearly choked on my tea. “It's not love. We've only been on a few dates.”

“Time doesn't matter when it's real,” Miss Gladiola said with the certainty of someone who'd watched love bloom for over eighty years. “Sometimes you just know.”

Before I could protest further, Miss Gladiola gasped as she opened the old recipe box I'd brought. The wooden box was held together with rubber bands that had probably been used for decades. The top was carved with delicate flowers, and despite its age, the craftsmanship was beautiful.

“I remember these boxes,” Miss Gladiola breathed. “My mother had one just like it. Where did Edith get it?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I found it with her journals after she died.”

“Maybe it’s the same one,” Miss Gladiola said, as she lifted the lid, one of the rubber bands snapped with a sharp ping. Recipe cards scattered across the coffee table like oversized confetti, some typed on index cards, others handwritten on scraps of paper, still others cut out from magazines.

“Oh no,” I said, reaching for the scattered recipes. “I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be,” Little Grandma said, gathering up cards and paper with obvious delight. “Look at all these treasures.”

Miss Gladiola picked up a yellowed card covered in faded blue ink. “Gladiola's Pound Cake,” she read aloud. “Oh, my goodness, this is my mother's recipe. I haven't made this in sixty years.”

“DuBois Family Cornbread,” Little Grandma read from another card. “Ruby, these are family recipes going back generations.”

I picked up a card written in my mother's handwriting. “Sunday Chicken with herbs and lemon,” I read. “She made this every week when I was little.”

For the next hour, we sorted through dozens of recipes, reading ingredients aloud and sharing memories they triggered. Miss Gladiola found her grandmother's Christmas cookie recipe. Little Grandma discovered a cake that had been served at her own wedding reception over seventy-five years ago.

“We should cook together,” Miss Gladiola said suddenly, holding up a card for something called Miller Family Jambalaya. “Make some of these old recipes and see how they turn out.”

“That's a wonderful idea,” I said, already imagining the three of us in their sunny kitchen, recreating dishes that connected us to women we'd loved and lost.

“Next Sunday,” Little Grandma decided. “We'll have a proper cooking day. Make enough food to feed an army and share stories about the women who created these recipes. We’ll invite over a crowd.”

“I'd love that,” I said, meaning every word.

As I helped them carefully return the recipe cards to the box, Miss Gladiola paused with one card in her hand.

“Ruby,” she said quietly, “some of these measurements look unusual. This pound cake calls for baking at 194 degrees, which seems far too low.”

I glanced at the card she was holding. The numbers did look strange, written in what appeared to be my dad's handwriting rather than my mother's.

“That’s weird,” I said.

“Well,” Little Grandma said, wrapping new rubber bands along with the old, around the recipe box, “we'll figure it out when we cook together. Sometimes the best way to understand a recipe is to try it.”

As I drove home with the promise of next Sunday's cooking adventure warming my chest, I felt something I hadn't experienced in a long time.

Peace.

For the first time since arriving in Jasper Creek, I'd shared pieces of my real past with people who cared about me. Both Ford and Zoe knew about Lance and Carla and both of them were on my side. Miss Gladiola and Little Grandma were helping me connect with my mother's memory through her recipes.

I wasn't Ruby Banks anymore, hiding behind carefully constructed lies. But I wasn't entirely Ruby Miller either, the woman who'd appeared in Jasper Creek with no history and no connections.

I was becoming something new. Someone who could be honest about some of her past while still protecting her future. Someone who could trust the people who'd earned it while being smart about the secrets that still needed keeping.

My phone buzzed with a text message as I pulled into my driveway.

Good morning, beautiful. I hope you slept well. Dinner was incredible, and you are even more so. Can I take you to lunch today?

My heart did a little flip as I read Ford's message. He wasn't running away. He wasn't treating last night like something to forget or move past quickly.

I typed back before I could second-guess myself.

I'd love lunch.

His response came back almost immediately.

When can I pick you up?

I looked down at what I was wearing and grinned. No flannel.

Anytime you want, I’ll be waiting for you.