The Dangerous Jacob Wilde

“He was trained to go into burning buildings. The last time he went into one, he died.”

“Hell, Adoré. How old were—”

“Six. And I still remember how I loved him, and how brave he was.”

“This isn’t the same.”

“It is. You saved lives.”

His jaw tightened. “You, of all people, should know better than to believe every story you hear.”

“Jacob—”

He moved past her, opened the refrigerator door.

“I thought we were going to get something to eat.”

Addison couldn’t see his face but she had a clear view of his scar, and of the rigidity of his shoulders, as if he’d been cast in stone.

She’d touched a nerve, and she—she cared for him too much to touch it again.

“Right,” she said briskly. She stepped in front of him and made a show of checking the shelves she’d checked five minutes before. “Let’s see. I have yogurt. Cottage cheese. Wheat bread. Tomatoes and lettuce and, oh, some tofu …”

Nothing. She could feel him standing behind her, something—anger, pain, despair—coming off him like waves of heat.

“Tofu, then,” she said brightly. “Mixed with granola. And toasted wheat bread topped with cottage—”

Jake reached past her and shut the door.

“The basic food groups,” he said, turning her toward him.

The darkness was gone. His posture had eased. There was even what might have been the beginning of a smile on his lips.

She smiled, too, and offered a silent thank-you to the gods for giving women the instinctive knowledge that the mention of fermented milk and soybeans could drag a man like Jacob back to reality.

“I’m going to buy you dinner.” There it was, a real smile, and it made her heart lift. “Or breakfast. Or lunch. Or whatever meal this is supposed to be.”

“At midnight? In the middle of nowhere?”

“Get that look off your face, Adoré. Anybody would think you’re suggesting Wilde’s Crossing can’t hold its own with the gourmet dee-lites of the Big Apple.”

She snorted. Jake’s smile became a grin.

“How about a small wager?”

“Fifty cents. And, just so we have the ground rules straight, McDonald’s won’t do it.”

“Fifty cents,’ he scoffed. “You call that a bet?”

Addison cocked her head. “Suggest something.”

He put his arms around her, laced his hands together in the small of her back.

“How about if I win, we’ll replace that yogurt with whipped cream?”

A rosy pink glazed her cheeks. “Whipped cream and granola

?” she said, batting her lashes in feigned innocence. “I don’t know.”