sure he was on his way to the walk-in for more steaks.
As he passed what had once been the dry store pantry, he was surprised to see the space had been converted into a kind of playroom. His small spy had returned to home territory and was now bent over crayons and paper, toys scattered at his feet, a video playing on the TV. The name “Nathan” was stenciled on the wall. Jameson kept moving, his promise urging him on.
They’d reorganized the walk-in refrigerator, but it didn’t take long to orient himself and locate the steaks. He tugged a ten-pound box from the metal shelf and pushed open the walk-in door. As he rounded the heavy door, he nearly collided with a three-foot-tall dynamo in blue jeans and Harry Potter sweatshirt.
The boy jumped back, craning his neck to look up at Jameson. “Who are you?”
Something about the boy teased at Jameson, the stubborn line of his jaw, the pugnacious turned up nose. When he recognized the familiarity, pain stabbed at him. That childish face reminded him of his brother Sean when he was ten years old. Because his grandfather had forbidden any visits, it had been by sheer happenstance Jameson had seen Sean that day in San Francisco. Several years older than Nina’s son was now, he’d nevertheless had that same innocence in his face. It wasn’t until later the rebelliousness and anger engulfed him.
He forced a smile. “I’m Jameson.”
The coffee brown eyes narrowed on him. “Are you the new cook?”
“I’m just helping your mom tonight. Are you Nathan?” Jameson asked, remembering the name on the wall.
“Nate,” the boy corrected him. “Mommy needs lots of help. ’Cause some of the cooks really stink.”
Jameson stifled a laugh. “I’m sure they do their best.”
“Nope. They’re all flakes. That’s what Mommy says.”
The box of steaks was cold and clammy in his hands, and no doubt he had another order waiting, but he couldn’t resist the restless, wiry charm of Nina’s dark-haired son. He found himself trying to think of something to keep the conversation going. “I like your playroom.”
“Come look,” he said, snagging Jameson’s wrist. “Papa and Granny made it for me.”
Nate towed Jameson along toward the playroom. They’d nearly stepped inside when Nina appeared and blocked Jameson’s way.
Alarm burst inside Nina when she saw Nate’s small hand on Jameson’s arm. She couldn’t keep the anger from her voice. “What are you doing with him?”
Jameson backed away. “I’m sorry. I came back for steaks. He was just—”
“I like this one, Mommy.” Nate eyed Jameson from head to toe. “He doesn’t stink at all.”
She took a breath, tried to calm herself. “Go back to your cubby, Nate.”
Nate’s lower lip came out as he considered rebellion. Then he turned toward the alcove, feet dragging. Just before he slipped inside he looked back at Jameson. “Can you come say goodbye to me? Before you go?”
Jameson glanced over at her. How could she say no? She nodded.
“Sure,” Jameson said. “Before I go.”
Arms crossed, she returned to the kitchen, Jameson behind her. He dropped the box of steaks on the prep counter and ripped open the flaps. “I didn’t go looking for him.”
“I know.” Nina stepped back out of his way as he crossed the kitchen to the stainless steel refrigerator.
He yanked open one of the double doors and pulled out a plastic bin. “I would never hurt him, for God’s sake.” He grabbed steaks from the box and slapped them into the plastic bin. Pitching his voice lower he said, “I’m not a damn pervert.”
Guilt warred with her protective instincts. “I didn’t think you were.”
The bin refilled, he returned it to the refrigerator, then glanced out at the floor. “Any more orders?”
“No. I was just coming back to tell you we have a bit of a break.”
He pulled down the last ticket, scrutinized it as if it was the Rosetta stone. His dark brown hair, always such a startling contrast to the blue of his eyes, was cut too short to curl the way it had when he’d worn it longer. She remembered the night they’d been together, that it had started with her brushing a lock of hair back from his forehead.
She never should have touched him. But the loneliness she could usually keep at bay had swamped her that night. She’d seen Tom Jarret in the café, and the hopelessness of her love for him had hit her hard. She’d gone back into the kitchen for a quiet moment to collect herself and there was Jameson, his intense blue eyes reading her soul.
Nina shook off the old memories and hurried out to the register where a customer waited. She rang up the sale, then took out a bus tray to clear the dirty dishes. Once the tables were clean, she took the dishes back to wash. Sending the backlog of four bus trays through the sterilizing dishwasher took nearly twenty minutes. By then, Jameson had dinged the bell for the last order.
As she carried the plates out to the last table of customers, Nina’s conscience hounded her. You ought to tell him, an inner voice demanded. He has a right to know. But if Jameson knew the truth, Nina would no longer be in control. There was no telling what he would do and whether she could keep Nate safe.
Vehicular manslaughter. She didn’t know all the details of what had sent Jameson to prison, but she knew that much. He’d driven a car head-on into another and killed the driver and passenger. He’d pled guilty and been convicted.
The Hart Valley busybodies had had a field day when they’d heard. Jameson O’Connell was always such a wild boy, they said when word of the twelve-year sentence filtered down. He was always headed for trouble. He finally got what he deserved.
Could he be out on parole already? It had been only four years—not nearly a long enough sentence for killing two people.
Nina sorted flatware into a partitioned tray, then carried the tray back out front. When she returned to the kitchen, Jameson was scraping down the griddle with a pumice brick, the muscles of his forearms flexing and bulging as he worked. Nina stared in fascination, remembering how those muscles had felt against her palms as she’d run her hands along them.
When he looked up expectantly, she was tempted to run, and only just managed to stand her ground. “You can take off if you want. I can do the cleanup.”
He shook his head, using a scraper to clear the black mess from the griddle. “I like to finish what I start.”
Her secret weighed heavy on her conscience as she watched him labor. He’d made some huge mistakes, but wasn’t this something a man ought to be told? Did she have the right to keep it from him?
But if she just stayed quiet, let him go on his way, maybe he’d be happier never knowing. “So where are you headed to next?”
She could see the surprise in his face when he looked up at her again. “You mean after I’m done tonight?”
“No, in general. Where are
