Page 31 of Messing With My Brother's Best Friends

“Well, that’s very kind, but it seems like a lot of effort for a situation that’s just temporary,” I said, backing away.

“Kendall—” Van started to say, pacing after me.

“Your food is going to burn if you don’t keep an eye on it.” I was talking too fast and using too much emphasis, but I couldn’t seem to stop. “I turned it down, but it might be already burnt. That’ll affect the flavour of the whole pot and… Anyway.”

What the fuck was I babbling? I wondered that as I quickly walked back into the house, but it appeared I had company.

“I’m fine,” I told Gage as he walked beside me.

“Of course you are.” Just a tiny little smile to make clear what a lie that was. “But the Bolognese isn’t, so I need to take a look at it.”

“Right. Right.”

Which was when I walked up the hall and went into my bedroom, right? But my feet didn’t make a move in the right direction. They followed him into the kitchen like obedient little puppies, only stopping when he grabbed a wooden spoon out of the drawer and started to stir the sauce.

“You might want to be careful doing that.” The words came out unbidden. “If you scrape the bottom of the pot, you’ll dislodge all the burned stuff.”

“Right.” His eyes rolled my way, even as he hovered over the pot. “So what should I do? Because the boys are always bitching about the black bits in the sauce when I make pasta.”

I could tell him to work it out himself, to Google it. That’s what he deserved, didn’t he? Shitty tasting food, just like the cakes I’d baked that day, but when a long sigh escaped me, I knew what I’d do. I walked closer, taking the spoon from his hand and then bent over the pot.

Chapter 17

Gage

Seeing Kendall in my kitchen, her taking a wooden spoon from my fingers, had me feeling shit that I had no right to feel.

Finn often led us into the kitchen when the women were cooking, mostly because he had a bottomless stomach that always wanted to be filled, but for me, it was something else. That close, noisy, intimate space seemed like heaven to me, and the fact that Kendall and her mum made stuff that tasted like ambrosia itself was just an added benefit. I thought when we bought this place and installed the kitchen we’d be able to recreate the same magic, but it was quickly becoming apparent that the missing element wasn’t marble counters or soft closing drawers.

It was her.

“What did you put in this?” she asked, dragging the spoon through the sauce.

“Beef, tomatoes, garlic,” I told her with a small frown. Wasn’t that what Bolognese was?

“No onions?” She looked up at me. “No carrots or celery, diced fine? No pancetta?”

“Um, no… What’s pancetta?”

She shook her head. “You could’ve used bacon in a pinch but… What seasonings did you use?”

“Salt and pepper,” I replied confidently, only for her frown to deepen.

“Salt and pepper?” She made it sound like I’d dropped trou and done a shit in the pot. “Jesus, Gage…” Her hands wrapped around the spice rack I’d made in Year 8 woodwork and plonked it in front of me. “You have all of these herbs here. Use them.”

But which ones? Cooking was a mystery to me. I knew my Bolognese sauce was nothing to write home about, but it was hot, filled with protein, and would stick to your ribs, so what else did she want? Herbs, it became apparent by her steady stare. I reached out for one container and she smacked me on the back of my hand with the spoon. I just stared at the red mark she’d left.

“Cinnamon? Really, Gage?” The spoon was set down, but I wanted her to pick it right up, to stir the pot, to smack me, because then maybe she’d start doing the thing she loved doing again.

And she’d punish me for whatever it was that was holding her back.

“Basil, parsley, though fresh stuff minced fine once the sauce is done is better. Oregano, marjoram, even some thyme…” Containers were snatched out of the spice rack and set down beside me, so I picked the first one up and unscrewed the lid, ready to dump the contents in, but her hand snapped out to stop me.

Yes, that. I wanted that so very much. To feel her touch me, even if it was to stop me from doing something. Shit, especially if I was about to do something stupid. Because I was turning away from the pot, ready to ring for pizza or Chinese food, if that’s what it took to keep her touching me, and Kendall seemed to sense that, frowning and pulling away.

“You can’t put the whole container in. That’s too much,” she told me. I nodded and started to rifle through the drawers, looking for a measuring spoon, but she shook her head. “People say you should use your heart to work out how much should go in.”

“Gotta say,” I replied, “my heart’s telling me I have no fucking idea what I’m doing right now.”

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