Page 39 of Cryptic Curse (Bellamy Brothers #7)

HAWK

“I ’m no chef,” I say to Daniela. “This will be pretty crude compared to the kind of food you prepare, but it never fails me when I need to feel better.”

I assemble the ingredients for my grandmother’s famous macaroni and cheese. It was the only thing Nana Bellamy made herself. As the Cooper Steel heiress, she had personal chefs to cook for her. But when we came to visit, she made macaroni and cheese.

Nana taught me how to make it. I still know the recipe by heart.

She’s been gone for a while now, but I still have every step memorized. She lives through all of us. Just like what Ted said to me all those years ago.

Don’t ever forget that even after you’re gone, your starlight will shine on the people whose lives you’ve touched.

I squeeze my eyes shut and will the memory of Ted out of my head. He’s the last thing I need to think about right now.

I boil the pasta until it’s al dente and then strain it.

I make a roux with butter and flour, letting it cook until it’s golden brown.

I add warm milk slowly. Then comes the cheese, sharp cheddar and Monterey Jack melted into the sauce.

I mix in the macaroni and transfer all of it into a baking dish.

A quick sprinkle of seasoned breadcrumbs on top for crunch and then into the oven.

The kitchen fills with a comforting aroma that brings back memories of childhood days spent at Nana Bellamy’s grand house. I glance over at Daniela, who is watching me from the kitchen island, her eyes bright with interest.

She smiles at me and I can’t help but smile back. We may be standing on dangerous grounds with threats looming over us, but here in my kitchen, everything feels right.

When the macaroni and cheese is golden brown on top and bubbling at the edges, I take it out of the oven and set it on a trivet. “All right,” I say, turning to Daniela with a proud grin, “it’s not gourmet, but it’s hearty and full of love. Just like my Nana Bellamy used to make.”

Daniela smiles back at me, her eyes sparkling. “I can’t remember the last time I had homemade mac and cheese.”

I dish up two hefty portions onto plates. We sit down at the kitchen island and dig in. The cheese is gooey and creamy, the pasta cooked to perfection, and the breadcrumb topping adds just the right amount of crunch.

“Wow,” Daniela says after taking her first bite. “This is incredible.”

I grin. It’s one thing to have an ordinary person compliment your food, but to receive praise from someone like Daniela who’s studying to become a professional chef? That means a lot.

I rise. “I almost forgot.” I grab a bottle of Prosecco—which actually goes really well with mac and cheese—and open it. I pour two flutes and hand one to Daniela.

“To the end of your marriage,” I say.

She laughs. “That marriage saved me.”

“I know. But Vinnie is now free to marry his true love, my sister, and you…”

I stop. I’m not sure what to say.

I’m not going to ask her to marry me. At least not yet.

Fuck.

I can’t believe I’m even thinking in terms of “not yet.”

“But now you’re free to find your own true love,” I finish, raising my glass.

She mirrors my move and we clink our glasses together, sipping the bubbly liquid. Her eyes are shining with unshed tears, but she’s smiling too. It’s a beautiful sight.

“Thank you, Hawk,” she whispers after a while. “For everything.”

I reach across the table and gently sweep a lock of hair off her face. “I’d do anything for you, Daniela.”

She blushes but doesn’t look away. I hold her gaze for a moment longer before pulling away.

“Eat up,” I say, gesturing toward her plate, “before it gets cold.”

We continue eating in comfortable silence. The outside world with all its worries and dangers seems far away in this moment.

When we’re done, Daniela helps me clear the table and load the dishwasher.

“Don’t you have anyone to cook for you?” she asks.

I shrug. “I have a fulltime housekeeper who sometimes cooks. Sometimes I cook myself. It’s easy to throw a juicy cut of Bellamy beef on the grill, and we’re in Texas, so it’s always grilling weather.”

“But your mac and cheese,” she says. “You really take pride in making this.”

I chuckle. “Yes, it’s a guilty pleasure of mine.”

We tidy up the kitchen in silence, but it’s not an awkward silence. It’s peaceful, one of two people whose souls have connected, who don’t need to speak to enjoy each other’s company.

“Come on,” I say after we’ve finished cleaning up. “Let me show you the house.”

We walk through the spacious living area and I point out my favorite pieces of art. Daniela seems genuinely interested, her eyes wide and impressed as she takes in everything.

“The artwork is stunning,” she says. “Where did you find all of it?”

“These are all works by local painters. Whenever there’s an art fair in town, I go to it, try to buy a few originals. Do what I can to support the artists directly.”

She looks over three of the pieces in my living room. She points at the largest. “What’s this one called?”

“That one is Nebula in Bloom . Artist’s name is Lyla Tran.”

I watch her from across the room as she steps up to it—close, but not too close, like she’s approaching something alive.

Her fingers hover just shy of the resin-sealed surface, where tiny wildflowers are trapped inside the swirling acrylic.

The artist herself told me she pressed them fresh—local Texas bluebonnets.

They’re embedded right into the paint. She then added gold leaf and layered it with resin until the whole thing looked like a dream drifting through space.

“This looks”—Daniela tilts her head, lips barely parted,—“ alive .”

I nod. “That’s what she was going for. A nebula that feels more like a memory than a photograph.”

She doesn’t say anything right away. Just stares at it, the faint shape of a woman curled in the center catching her eye. Most people miss that. But of course Daniela doesn’t.

Then she moves on to an old-school woodcut, black ink on cream paper, mounted in a simple walnut frame. It’s an alternate version of our own night sky. The constellations are all invented. Wolves, stags, owls. Strange little creatures strung across an unfamiliar sky.

“That one is called Stellar Cartography Number Five. The artist, Ezra Lomax, has a whole series, each one based on constellations he’s made up. This one is animals, as you can see. He has one with ships, one with trees. You get the vibe.”

“So the artist just…invented these constellations?” She traces them with her finger.

I nod. “He said he wanted a star map that told stories instead of directions.”

She studies it in silence for a while, her face unreadable, and then says, almost too softly for me to catch, “They look like something ancient. Like if you knew the right words, you could bring them back.”

I have to keep my jaw from dropping. That exact thought crosses my mind every time I look at the Lomax.

She turns to the last one.

“ The Sound of Saturn, ” I say. “It might be my favorite.”

The fifth planet is crafted out of layered ceramic, its ring smooth and textured like bone, with streaks of fused glass trailing behind it in a wide arc, almost like a comet’s tail. When you look at it indirectly, it looks like the planet’s still spinning, still echoing.

Daniela steps to the side to catch the shimmer of the glass from a different angle. “Why Saturn?” she asks.

“That’s the one she said kept showing up in her dreams.”

“Who?”

“The artist. Juno Reyes.”

“Reyes?” Her eyes widen and the color drains from her face.

I rush to her side, wrap an arm around her shoulder. “Everything okay, honey?”

She doesn’t respond right away. Just stares.

“There was a…man in Colombia. One of my father’s friends. His last name was Reyes.”

I squeeze her shoulder. “Reyes is a common last name. I’m sure there’s no relation.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, shakes her head a bit. Finally she opens them and looks up at me, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I’m sure you’re right.” She looks back at the paintings. “So… You like stars.”

I blink. I guess I never saw the connection between these three pieces. I just liked them all. They spoke to me. Made me feel…safe.

Just like Ted Tucker did.

Oh, shit.

I attempt to shrug nonchalantly. “Guess so.”

“Me, too.” She looks back to the artwork. “You have an eye for beauty.”

I glance at her then, appreciating her own unique beauty under the soft glow of the lights. “I like to surround myself with beautiful things.”

We end in my large recreation room—or my man cave, as I call it—and settle on the comfy leather couch.

I long to take her in my arms and kiss her deeply.

So when she looks at me, her eyes shining and her lips slightly parted, that’s exactly what I do.