Page 115 of Chasing the Sun

My breath caught.

Elodie’s small desk had become a war room composed of stationery and shattered hopes—and still, she was there. Still showing up. Still fighting.

“El . . .” I murmured.

She glanced over her shoulder, eyes flicking toward the desk, and shrugged like the sight hadn’t just rearranged my entire chest.

She blinked and forced a smile. “Just a visual reminder that I haven’t run out of ideas yet.”

I didn’t have words, only the heavy thud of admiration and guilt settling deeper into my ribs.

She gently cleared her throat and took one of the grocery bags from my arms. “So, are you gonna tell me what dinner is?” she asked, trailing after me as I moved into the kitchen.

“Chicken pot pie,” I said, setting a paper bag on the counter. “Comfort food. Seemed appropriate.”

She raised a brow, mouth twitching. “You’re aware that’s like ... a whole thing to make, right? Not just throwing ingredients into a pan and hoping for the best?”

I pulled out the precooked chicken and homemade puff pastry like a man with a plan. “Don’t underestimate me. I have layers of flakiness prepared.”

That got a genuine laugh out of her. Elodie leaned back against the counter, watching me with her arms crossed over her chest and her hip cocked in that way that always made me lose my place mid-thought.

As I chopped onions and peeled carrots, her silence grew more weighted—not cold or distant, just thoughtful. I caught her watching me more than once, eyes drifting to my tattooed hands, the scars trailing up my arm, my back, when I moved around the stove.

“You really like cooking, huh?” she asked softly.

I nodded, focusing on not slicing my fingers. “It’s quiet. Ordered. You follow the steps, and most of the time you get something good at the end. It doesn’t always work that way with people.”

“Or farms,” she said with a dry laugh, and I glanced at her.

She wasn’t smiling anymore. “No,” I said. “Or farms.”

I stirred the filling and added a splash of cream that instantly looked like a mistake. Too much. It thinned out the sauce more than I meant to.

I grumbled and focused on salvaging the mess I’d made.

“Are you good over there?” Elodie asked, clearly biting back a grin.

I stared down at the pan like it had betrayed me. “It’s fine. This is totally intentional.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, sauntering closer to peek over my shoulder. “Is this your famous ‘chicken pot soup’?”

I gave her a sharp look as I attempted to fix the situation, throwing in a few spoonfuls of flour to thicken it up.

“This’ll bake fine,” I mumbled, feeling off my game. “Trust me.”

She didn’t answer, just stepped beside me and reached up to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. Her shoulder brushed mine, and it was like getting shocked—small, electric, and enough to make me yearn for more.

While the pot pie baked, we moved around each other like we’d been doing so for years. She poured drinks. I burned the garlic bread. She laughed. I threw a dish towel over my shoulder like I was ready to throw it in entirely. Somehow we set the table, even if the whole place smelled vaguely of scorched toast and onion.

“Moment of truth,” I said, sliding a scoop of the pot pie onto her plate. One look at it and I knew I’d fucked it up.

Elodie took a bite, chewed, and paused before swallowing.

My heart sank as she made a face.

“Okay,” she said. “It’s ... different.”

“Wow.” I dropped my fork with a laugh. I rested my forearms on the table and gestured with my hands. “Come on, give it to me. Brutal honesty.”