Page 32 of Boomer

He wasn’t ready for how much it hit. The taste, the warmth, the presence of her across from him.

His voice came out rough. “This is unbelievable. You need anything done? A door opened, someone warned, someone need killing?”

She laughed softly. “That good?” she said, with a smile. “Stomach is the way to your heart.”

“Not just my stomach, angel.”

The words hung there, unapologetic, vulnerable, true.

She met his gaze. Didn’t flinch, and he felt as if this new reality couldn’t hold true. This woman attracted to him was like a miracle.

He shoveled in more. “I didn’t know you could cook like this,” he murmured.

She glanced at him sidelong, serving him another helping. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”

The only light came from the stovetop and the small lamp over the counter, casting everything in amber gold.

He took more bites and groaned. Honest to God groaned.

She blinked. “Was that a noise?”

“You try it,” he said, pointing with his fork. “See if you don’t moan.”

She did. And, okay, maybe he had a point.

“I haven’t had anything this close to my Oma’s since I was nineteen,” he said softly. “She used to makespätzleevery Sunday. My mom’s German side, real old school. She’d slap your hand if you opened the oven too soon.”

Something shifted. Not in the air but in him.

After a few minutes, he stood. She looked up, startled.

He didn’t say anything. Just rummaged through a supply bin at the back of the kitchen. Pulled out a foil-wrapped bundle, hesitated, then brought it back to the table.

Set it in front of her like it cost him something.

“It’s not much,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “Irish soda bread. My sister-in-law mailed it to me last week. Still good. Probably.” She stared. He shrugged, rough and almost boyish. “You cooked for me. I feed you. Seems fair.”

She unwrapped it slowly. The smell hit her first, dense and rich, flour and buttermilk and something darker. Something like home.

She tore off a piece and took a bite.

“I’m keeping the rest,” she said, after a reverent chew. “Don’t argue.”

He laughed softly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Their plates emptied. Time stretched.

She leaned back against her chair, letting herself breathe. Her shoulder brushed his, barely.

“You know,” she said lightly, “Irish coffee is one of my favorite things.”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something playful. “Yeah, right,” he said, nudging her gently. “It’s all about the coffee.”

That broke her.

The laugh came from somewhere deep, belly-warm and unguarded. She covered her mouth too late, eyes crinkling.

He laughed too, low and quiet, like the sound startled him. Like he hadn’t remembered how, and just like that, the edges softened.