A Night of Southern Comfort by Robin Covington

the riot act about making sure you were safe and then…she threatened me.”
    “She what?” Michaela choked on the sip of juice she’d just taken.
    “Yeah. She told me to keep my gun in my pants”—he looked up and she saw a smile teasing the edge of his mouth—“or she’d make sure that I never got to fire it again.”
    Michaela stood speechless, holding the juice glass in midair, touched by the misguided but heartfelt protection of her friend. Bursting into laughter, she placed the glass on the counter then gave herself over to uncontrolled peals and snorts. It was so damn good to feel something other than fear and the constant demand to live up to the Eastland standard of decorum.
    “Hey, it isn’t funny to threaten a guy’s…service weapon.” Jackson’s grumbling sent her careering back into a fit of giggles.
    He watched, probably waiting for her to either come unhinged or sink onto the floor in a puddle of tears. She didn’t feel like falling apart. Not today. And it didn’t look like it would be on the agenda tomorrow either—not if she could help it.
    She wasn’t ready to burst into verse one of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” but she felt pretty good for the here and now. She’d been sucked into discouragement and doubt at the hospital. But the governor forgot her greatest strength—she was his daughter. The drive that helped her get away and pursue her dreams would only keep her fighting. Besides, with Jackson on the case, she felt uncharacteristically hopeful that the odds were in her favor this time around.
    “Are you hungry? You want to eat?” she asked.
    “I could eat.”
    “That’s the universal male answer for ‘I’m starving please feed me before I gnaw off my own foot.’” She turned and pawed through the refrigerator, pulling out ingredients and placing them on the counter. “You like omelets?”
    “Yes, but I can call my mom and order something. You should be taking it easy.”
    She straightened and plopped smoked Gouda on the countertop. She grabbed the utensils necessary to make their dinner. “Nope. I feel like cooking. I want to do something normal.”
    She found herself smiling as she prepared the simple supper. It felt good to do something normal in the midst of all this drama. She switched on her iPod and music filled the air. Swaying her hips to the easy rhythm, she cooked the omelet and brewed the coffee.
    Jackson’s voice broke her reverie. “I don’t want this to come out wrong, but why are you in such a good mood?”
    “Why not? Right now, I’m safe here with you and I know that you won’t let anything happen to me.” Michaela bobbed her head in time with the music. She refused to let the bubble pop. “Just humor me, I’m in denial.”
    She felt Jackson’s silent scrutiny for the few moments it took her to finish up and slide the meal onto plates. Until she’d spoken her thoughts, she hadn’t realized how much they revealed. Glancing at the pile of papers and computers on her dining table, she chose to set two places on the island bar.
    “Come and get it.”
    “It smells delicious.” Jackson sat on the barstool alongside hers and took a sip of coffee before digging into the omelet. His eyelids closed briefly in ecstasy. “And it tastes amazing. Where did you learn to cook like this?”
    The praise spread warmth down to her toes. Michaela took a bite of her own omelet and savored the smoky taste of the Gouda and the beefy portobello before nodding toward his stacks of papers on her dining table. “Don’t you have that information somewhere over there?”
    Jackson shifted in his seat, his fork stalling in its journey. He placed it on his plate.
    She’d meant for her tone to be playful but it had been tinged with criticism that he’d clearly heard. She didn’t like the fact that he’d rooted through her life and unearthed all of the gory details of what it meant to be Jefferson Eastland’s daughter. She didn’t want him to judge her, or