Page 48 of Ride By Your Side

“What?” she asks, stunned by the sudden movement as she tilts her head to look up at me.

“Hold on, one second,” I say, carrying the knife over with me and setting it in the sink before washing my hands to avoid cross-contaminating. Once that’s done, I grab a new knife and move to join her. “Let me show you the proper way to cut so you don’t actually cut off your finger and bleed all over the food.”

“You know, I really was trying to be careful,” she pouts, but I shake my head.

“I’m sure you were, but I also didn’t realize how serious you were about the probability of cutting yourself.”

“You really that worried I’m going to ruin our dinner?” she asks, a playful grin tugging at the corners of her mouth as she tilts her head to look at me.

“No, I’m worried that you’re seriously going to injure yourself and I’ll have to take you to the hospital for stitches,” I explain, nodding for her to move over and make room. “Now, let me show you the proper way to hold a knife.”

“I did warn you earlier that I was pretty hopeless in the kitchen,” she reminds me with a soft whine.

“You’re not hopeless. Honestly, I couldn’t care less if you ever learn to cook a real meal. But knowing how to properly handle a knife? That matters. For my sanity, if nothing else—because the last thing I want is to worry about you getting hurt.”

“If you say so,” she says, nodding for me to continue.

Holding the knife up, I make sure she takes notice of where my hands and fingers are situated. “Now,” I begin, “don’t just pay attention to how I’m holding the knife, but watch how I’m holding the zucchini as well,” I say, since, honestly, in watching her, that had been my biggest concern.

After making a few slices and finishing up the vegetable, I pull out a new one and hand it over. “Your turn,” I nod, stepping aside so she can once again take her place.

With a new, confident grip on the knife, she steps in and begins to chop as I move in close, proudly nodding my head at her now perfect technique. The kitchen should smell like the seasoned chicken I’ve been preparing or the fresh vegetables she’s slicing, but my senses are overwhelmed by the intoxicating scent of vanilla and berries. I should focus on her cutting, but my gaze shifts to the delicate sliver of skin exposed on her neck. A sudden, intense urge washes over me. It would be so easy to reach out, trace my fingers along her soft, pale skin... and worse, make an entirely new trail with my lips.

My mind continues to wander, drifting back to the moment when the two of us were pressed up against this very counter. I could’ve easily taken control then and done exactly what I’d so desperately wanted—lifting her onto the counter and pressing my lips against hers—if only I’d been man enough. That same temptation takes over even now, my dick twitching in my pants as I quickly take a step back. “Well, looks like you’ve got it,” I saybefore she can realize what’s happening as I scurry back toward the stove to turn up the heat.

“Well, you’re an excellent teacher,” she says, her smile warm and genuine as she turns back to her work. The rhythmic sound of her knife hitting the board is a counterpoint to the racing thoughts in my head, which thankfully, she seems too focused on to notice.

“Well, you’re a mediocre student,” I tease, reaching for the oil and dropping some into the heating pan.

“You know, I’m actually surprised by how much you seem to know about cooking. Blair always seemed a lot like me, since we preferred to going out to eat, and I guess I just figured it was the same for you,” she says, continuing to chop.

“That’s because I did all the cooking growing up, and she never had to worry about it.”

“I guess that makes sense, but who taught you how to do it?” she asks, curiously glancing over her shoulder.

“Nobody,” I admit, not really in the mood to discuss it, but I’m also not about to brush it off, since I’m sure she’s going to press it either way.

“What?” she asks, her eyes widening. “Then how did you learn?”

“It was all self-taught I guess.” I say, reaching for the chicken and dumping it in the pan as a loud sizzle fills the air. “The adults in our lives were never going to do it, so if there was ever going to be a proper meal for me and Blair, it was up to me. I really had no other choice.”

Sure, my dad and grandma may have been around, but they certainly didn’t care whether we had a fresh or hot meal on the table. They may not have cared about that sort of thing, but I certainly did, especially as a protective older brother. My sister deserved so much better than what we got.

“Oh, wow,” she quietly offers, her chops pausing. “I guess I never realized it was that bad. I mean, I know you and Blair were left to your own devices and had to look out for yourselves in many ways, but I guess with that sort of thing, I never put much thought into it.”

“I don’t think Blair did either,” I admit, flipping the chicken over in the pan and making sure to give each side a good sear. “And that’s exactly how I wanted it to be. Our childhood was shitty enough, and if there was anything I could do to make her life easier, I’d do it—even if it meant taking on more of the responsibility myself.”

“Wow,” she says barely above a whisper. “Blair was really lucky to have you. Hell, she still is.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on the chicken, not daring to look in her direction. I already know what I’d see—pity. That’s the last way I’d ever want anyone looking at me—especially Veronica. I’d even take the judgy-ass stares of those who still see me as trash over someone looking at me and seeing nothing more than a sad, pathetic loser with a tragic backstory.

“It is a big deal, but if you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to. I know Blair hasn’t always wanted to open up about things either, but if you ever need someone to talk to or even vent to, just know that I’m here,” she says, reaching over and giving my arm a small squeeze.

“Thanks, Vee. I appreciate it, but you’re right. It’s not something I want to talk about,” I insist, trying to keep my voice even. “If you want to finish up with the veggies and take a break, I can handle the rest from here,” I offer, needing to create some space. Not only is her lingering scent still throwing me off, but now I can’t stop thinking about how she might see me differently, as though I’m nothing more than some kind of pathetic charity case.

“Will do,” she says before finishing up, and I thankfully get a moment to decompress as she leaves me alone in the kitchen to complete our meal.

A small comfort in all of this is that, at least now, I don’t have to worry about anything happening between us. There’s no way someone with a life as perfect and full as hers would ever be interested in someone as broken and pathetic as me.

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