Page 32 of Messing With My Brother's Best Friends

In so many more ways than just cooking.

She blew her breath out and then shook her head before grabbing the basil, or was it the marjoram? I couldn’t tell because I wasn’t looking at the herbs, but at her. She took off the lid with exaggerated care and then demonstrated how to add a generous shake of herbs to the pot.

“The same with each one of these?” I asked, forcing my eyes down to stare at the herbs when all I wanted to do was look at her.

“Start with that and then taste to see.”

I followed her instructions to the letter, making sure to add a good couple of shakes of each herb before putting each one back into the rack and then I was done. She handed me the spoon back and my fingers grazed hers right before I stirred the sauce, careful not to scrape the pot at the bottom. I went to have a taste of the sauce from the wooden spoon, but a hiss from her made clear that was a mistake.

“You don’t contaminate the mixing spoon or the sauce with your saliva.” She handed me a tablespoon, and I tasted the sauce from that.

Not quite right. It was definitely better than anything I’d done before, but still… I told her that, and she smiled.

“That’s because this has only the barest minimum of ingredients.” She went to the fridge and jerked the doors open before pulling out vegetables, some cheese and a bottle of wine, giving that an experimental sniff. “The whole point of this kind of sauce is it simmers for ages with these different flavours, then they all start to meld together, becoming more than the sum of their parts. It’s missing all the other flavours.”

I was supposed to be slowly, very, very slowly, fixing her car. We agreed we didn’t want to do so too quickly, because maybe if we dragged the job out, Kendall would stay for a little longer. But right now, I didn’t want to be anywhere else but here.

She wouldn’t touch the ingredients beyond setting them on the bench, I noticed that real quick, but she gave me clear instructions on what to add and when. I followed her lead, adding wine and vinegar of all bloody things, along with some cheese rind, ready to just trust the process. But her reticence was tested when she gave me vegetables to cut up. I never said I was any good at knife work. I could use tools skilfully, but all of that manual dexterity seemed to desert me in the kitchen. I bludgeoned onions rather than diced them finely, something she noted with a sigh, right before she reached for the knife.

This was how I remembered Kendall.

One long strand of dark red hair hanging in her face as she wielded the knife like a pro, slicing the onion so finely you could see the cell structure in each slice as it fell to the board. Then she diced all of it in movements so quickly I could barely follow it. A couple of carrots got the same treatment, though less finely chopped, and some celery before she looked up at me.

Did she know her cheeks flushed each time she got excited about something? I saw that right now, her eyes shining, a curious kind of energy surging through her as her lips started to twitch into a smile, right before she stopped herself. Because of me, I realised, feeling my heart ache in response. Because I was the one who was looking at her, not a friend or family member. Because this wasn’t her mother’s kitchen, but mine.

“Do you have a fry pan somewhere?” I moved quickly, digging one out and setting it down on the hot plates. “OK, let’s set the heat on. Not too high! Do you guys flambé everything you eat?”

“Gets it cooked quicker,” I mumbled.

“Burns the shit out of it, you mean.” She edged near me, a warm shadow at my shoulder, and all I wanted was for her to come closer. I turned the heat down, but it was the flame of her I wanted searing me, not the gas flickering around the hob. “Now tell me you have olive oil.”

I went to go and grab it, but in my haste I almost collided with her. Kendall stumbled back and my arm moved without thought. To catch her, set her back on her feet and stop her slamming back into the bench, but that wasn’t how it worked out. Instead, I was standing there, my body pressed against hers as my arm locked tightly around her waist. The red spots in her cheeks faded completely as she just stared at me. Like I wasn’t Gage, the fuckhead kid who spent his life pissing her off, but this.

A man. One that stank from a long day of working on the site, then at home on her car. One that would cook whatever she wanted cooked, clean whatever she wanted cleaned, bring her the heads of her enemies, anything. One that still had grease streaking his forearms, even after I’d scrubbed my hands when I got into the kitchen, and the awareness I was probably staining her clothes had me stepping back.

What the fuck was I doing?

“Olive oil,” I said, suddenly remembering as I beat a hasty retreat to the pantry.

Building a walk-in pantry was perfect because I could spend a few fucking seconds trying to get my head out of my arse. My cock was throbbing so damn hard it was like a second heartbeat, but there was no relief to be found here. Probably because the ache in my chest was so much worse, but that wasn’t what Kendall needed. I walked out with the oil bottle in hand and then went to pass it to her, but she shook her head.

“A splash in the fry pan.” I did just that. “A bigger splash than that. Oh… Oh well, let’s get the vegetables in. Right. Just like that.” My hand went to the dial to turn the heat up, but she smacked it away. “You’re sweating, softening the vegetables so they release their flavours, not burning them to a crisp. You should do this first with some garlic.” I reached over and added some garlic powder to the mix. “Fresh garlic next time, but yeah, keep everything moving around in the pan until the carrot goes soft and the onion is translucent.”

“I dunno if many girls have talked about softening carrots in this kitchen before.”

That was meant to be funny, but Kendall pulled away, putting more and more space between us. Her eyes roamed, taking in the kitchen as if with fresh eyes, seeking evidence, but of what?

“Right. Had a lot of girls in here, have you?”

“No, I—”

“I guess that’s the good thing about marble countertops.” She smoothed a hand over one of them. “You can buff out any marks a girl’s butt leaves on them.”

“Kendall—”

“I need to unpack,” she announced, her tone completely different. “Not too much. Just the essentials. No point unpacking everything and then having to put it all back in boxes again weeks later.”

“Jesus, I didn’t mean—”

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