Page 26 of Sweet Twins For My Brother's Best Friend

“Tyler doesn’t feel anything but love for you. He talked about you a lot when we were in college. He was so happy that the two of you were close. He does feel a sense of responsibility for you, but it makes him happy, gives him purpose. Tyler felt rather alone before you came along.”

Her smile is unsure, a gentle teasing at the corners of her lips. I shake her hand a little.

She says, “Well, anyway, he was a kid and I was a kid, and I never…learned how to cook. At all. No one ever taught me, and I’ve tried, but I always mess it up.” Her gaze dips to the floor.

Her ‘confession’ makes me a laugh a little, but when I see her wounded expression snap back up towards me, I swallow my chuckle back.

“I’m sorry. Is that all? I’m sorry you didn’t feel cared for as a child, but you should know that not knowing how to cook at 25 is quite normal. You aren’t far behind me and I’ve had about ten more years to practice than you’ve had. Here, I’ll give you some pointers now. Do you want to help me make this?”

The hurt expression slips off her face, and an easier one of relief replaces it. “Really?”

“Of course. I’m 35, Hannah. Most people learn to cook when they want to eat something. For me, it was a stir fry. I was craving it so badly that one day I learned how to make it.” I grin.

“Maybe you just haven’t had a craving like that yet. Don’t sweat it.”

I bat away her insecurities with the hands we’re holding. Hers is warm and soft with a heartbeat, like a small animal.

Shyly, she tells me, “Well, there’s something else.”

“Oh, gosh, what? You don’t know how to do laundry, either? The shame of it all.”

My other hand takes her other hand, and the intensity of my own heartbeat rushes into my ears, a tidal wave of heat and self-consciousness.

She breaks eye contact. “I don’t really have a way to learn to cook right now. I’m sort of…living in my office.”

Her eyes come back to find mine, searching for something, maybe understanding, maybe judgment.

Hurriedly, she continues, “The plan was to live there for a little while the business got legs, and then time kept passing, and the business kept being hard, and…I’m barely making ends meet, you know? I can’t really afford to lease that placeandpay rent. And I don’t have a real kitchen there, just a microwave and a fridge in the office kitchen, so.”

“But…Tyler wouldn’t let you do that. He’d have you stay with him,” is all I can think to say. It’s sad to think of her living in her office. I’ve seen it. It’s small and cramped. She and Lucy in there together must make her feel stir crazy.

“He doesn’t know. No one in my family knows.”

Her voice is quiet, but then her lips curl up a tiny bit and her voice cracks with a chuckle she’s holding back. “They think my landlord’s name is John.”

“John?” I ask, letting go and handing her the wooden mixing bowl and setting some spices next to her on the counter.

“Put those in and stir them together. Taste it as you go to see if you like what you’re doing. That’s the biggest rule in learning to cook, making sure you like it.”

She reaches out hesitantly and stops, her milky, freckled hand suspended above a bottle of soy sauce. “You won’t ruin it,” I assure her, “And if you did, I wouldn’t care.”

Dumping sauces into the bowl haphazardly and stirring with a wooden spoon, she continues, “Yes, John. He has long brown hair. Oh, and a daughter.”

“Fake John has a fake daughter?”

“Her name is Ruby. She’s two.”

Hannah’s grin is devilish, and I can’t help but laugh at the mischievous twinkle to her eyes. She’s bouncing on her heels, like someone who can’t wait to say something. It must feel so good to say this out loud. I can’t help but chuckle with her. It’s a ridiculous thought.

“Is she a redhead, too?”

“She is! Little self-insert moment, I know, embarrassing,” she tells me as she brings the spoon to her lips to taste it.

“You might want to put that on your finger to taste it. It’s not a soup, so it might be a lot of flavor to slurp up. If you’re feeling fancy, you could use your pinkie.”

With a childish look of joy, she cradles the big mixing bowl in one arm and uses the hand holding the spoon to dip her pinkie into it, splashing specks of sauce across the counter.

“Sorry,” she whispers before sucking on her pinkie, her peachy lips forming a small O.

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