Jackson’s P.O.V.
I sat back in my chair, nursing the last sip of wine like it might whisper some answers into my soul. The food had been incredible, and the restaurant itself had that rustic charm that designers in Nashville tried to replicate for thousands of dollars but never quite got right.
But I wasn’t thinking about the food. I was thinking about her.
Eluna.
Even her name stuck in my chest like a lyric waiting for a melody.
And now that I had met the cook—Koda, he had said earlier—I was damn near certain those two were related. Same dark hair. Same stare that made you feel like they could see everything about you in two seconds flat. Same dark brown eyes, stormy and stubborn and impossible to forget. As soon as I shook Koda’s hand, I knew he had figured me out. He hadn’t said a
