“Boy, it’s about as bad as you being in the kitchen.” He turned, holding the door open for us. “So, yeah, it’s a disaster.”
I laughed at the face Jase made. “Come to think of it, I’ve never seen you cook anything besides soup from a can yet.”
His father laughed as we stepped into the house. The room smelled of cookies and evergreen. “Honey, that is not something ya’ll want to see.”
“It’s not that bad.” Jase frowned as he stripped off his jacket. “I only melted the spatula in the Rice Krispie treats once.”
“Once?” I draped my jacket off the hook of a coat rack. “I think that’s more than enough.”
“What he ain’t telling you is that he also tried to feed it to his cousins.”
I laughed at the sheepish look that crossed Jase’s face. “Oh my God, are you serious?”
“What?” He shrugged as he dragged his toboggan off. “They didn’t eat it.”
“Only because it was as hard as a brick and could have killed someone,” his father replied, smiling. “My son is a lot of damn good things, but a cook ain’t one of them.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Jase!” shrieked Jack from the kitchen. “Tess!”
We turned just as Jack came barreling through the dining room. “Whoa, buddy! Slow down,” Jase said, stepping forward as Jack almost head butted the dining room table. “Jack, you’re gonna—”
Sensing that Jack was about to make a kamikaze dive attempt, Jase knelt and caught his son the second he launched himself at him. He wrapped his arms around the boy, standing up. Jack clung to him, sinking his tiny hands into Jase’s hair.
“I made cookies for Mr. Santa!” Jack announced, holding fistfuls of hair. “They have chocolate in them and walnuts!”
“Is that so?” Jase turned slightly, holding his son close. My chest tightened at seeing them together. Even though Jack didn’t know the truth, you’d be hard-pressed not to see the love between them. “What about peanut butter cups? You know that’s my favorite kind.”
“We have them, too. I ate a lot of them.” Jack grinned as he put his head on Jase’s shoulder.
“A lot?” Mr. Winstead snorted. “The boy ate about half the batch.”
The grin on Jack’s face spread, and then, seeing me, he let out another squeal. “Lemme down! Lemme down!”
Smiling, Jase lowered the kid’s swinging feet to the ground. The second he landed, he took off, wrapping his arms around my legs.
“Hey,” I said, messing up his already out-of-control hair. “You excited about Santa coming?”
“Yes! Daddy said Mr. Santa would be leaving soon!” He pulled back, grabbing my hand. “Come!”
I glanced over at Jase. He smiled and shrugged, lingering back with his father as Jack tugged me through the dining room.
The kitchen was a mess. Cookie batter covered the island and the countertops. Flour was on the floor and the egg shells filled bowls, but the smell of sugar goodness had me anticipating a heavenly sugar rush.
“Lookie who I found! Lookie!”
Mrs. Winstead turned, wiping her hands along the Christmas trees lining the bottom of her red apron. “Oh, honey, I’m so glad you’re here.” She strode over to me in the same long, purposeful strides Jase made. “Look at you,” she clucked, brushing a finger along my jaw, where I knew a bruise was still fading. “How have you been, honey?”
“Good.” I smiled as Jack slipped free and climbed up on a step stool that was pushed again the counter. He sunk his hand into cookie batter. “I’m doing really good.”
“I’m happy to hear that.” Her strong arms went around me, and she nearly squeezed the air out of me. “When Jase told me what—” She glanced over to where Jack was rolling dough into balls. She lowered her voice. “I don’t want the little one to overhear, but I’m glad you’re okay and that—” her voice dropped low—“crazy son of a bitch is in jail.”
My lips twitched. “Me too.”
Mrs. Winstead shook her head sadly as she watched Jack plop a ball of batter onto a cookie sheet. “Just that poor girl . . .”
“I know.” I bit down on my lower lip. “I keep telling myself that at least there’s justice for Debbie now.”
Jack looked over his shoulder, a frown of curiosity on his cute face. “What’s justice?”
“When bad people have their comeuppance, baby. And that’s the good thing.” Mrs. Winstead smiled at me, and the lines around her eyes deepened. Her voice lowered again. “But that . . . that’s not all.”
Placing her hand on my shoulder, her chest rose with a deep, heavy breath. “I’m glad that you know—that Jase told you.”
I didn’t know what to say. All I could do was nod, and Mrs. Winstead’s smile spread as Jack snuck a piece of dough. “Jase used to do that as a little boy too,” she said, blinking rapidly. “He ate more dough raw than he did cooked.”