Jax said over dinner one night. Evie’s first week had been an adjustment for all of us, especially Jax, but she was slowly making herself at home. And in an attempt to make herself feel better for imposing, she insisted on cooking us dinner most nights. I wanted to tell Jax she wasn’t my girlfriend. I didn’t know what the fuck we were, and labels were never my thing. But I kept my mouth shut. Leave it to Jax to speak without thinking first. “Yeah, the girl can cook,” I agreed, throwing a smile at Evie as she watched us scarf down the latest Midwestern church potluck dish she’d cooked up. “You don’t have to eat my cooking if you don’t like it, Jax,” she teased. “I wouldn’t want to destroy that surfer boy figure you’ve got going on.” “How can I say no?” Jax said, rubbing his washboard abs. “I smell this stuff in my room every night. It’s like I just follow my nose and I end up right here with a big old plate of whatever’s on the menu.”
