Page 60 of Someone to Tempt
Despite some of her more glaring flaws, our mom was always a fantastic cook. When she was in the mood, Mom had the ability to meld spices and flavors into the most mouth-watering meals with the most basic of pantry ingredients. Even though our mother had natural talent, she had little inclination to use it for anything so mundane as feeding her children on a daily basis. As backward as it sounds, her indifference made the meals she did cook even better, at least to me.
I don’t know how Nick felt about her somewhat lackadaisical commitment to raising us. But as Nick inherited our mother’s cooking skills, he did most of the cooking when we were growing up. When we were young, we spent most of our time trying to survive and cope. Later, I spent way too many nights praying he’d survive his own demons.
“Are you and Jake still friends?” I ask casually. “Is that how you know he’s back here?”
“Jake didn’t tell me, but I know.” He smears two slices of bread with butter as I cut thick slices from a block of golden yellow cheese. I don’t love how this visit is starting, but appreciate having something to do with my hands if we’re going to talk about Jake. There’s no doubt I’d have a hard time hiding my feelings from Nick if he was looking into my eyes right now. “I saw him at the rodeo tonight.”
The knife slips from my fingers and skitters across the counter before I grab it back. “What were you doing at the rodeo?”
“Hoping Chase Calhoun makes a full recovery, just like everybody else.” He nudges me with his elbow. “Why is it that while we’re both asking questions, I’m the only one answering them? I’m real curious about the two of you being friends.”
“We’re taking a dance class together.”
My brother barks out a laugh. “Shut the front door.”
“It’s true.” I focus on slicing more cheese. These sandwiches will be two inches thick by the time I’m done. “We didn’t sign up together,” I clarify. “I’m in the class because my political mentor is there. And while you might not remember this detail from our childhood, I love dancing. It’s fun.”
The magic word.
“I know you love to dance,” Nick says, and my hand stills on the block of cheese. At this rate, I’m going to be lucky not to slice off a finger.
As usual, Nick sees more than he lets on. He takes the knife and slides the cutting board away from me.
“I’ll handle the grilled cheese,” he says. “Do you still have a thing for chamomile tea?”His memory of the smallest things is one of the things I love best about him. My brother is the best despite his demons.
“I’ve upgraded to lavender,” I tell him.
“Even better. Lots of honey in mine, please. And while you’re boiling water—which I assume you can manage without hurting yourself—you can explain why Jake is part of the dance class. Does he wear tights?”
“Don’t be a dick.” I grab the copper kettle from the back burner and fill it with fresh water. “Not that there’s anything wrong with wearing tights, but it’s ballroom dancing. His grandfather is part of the class. Jake joined as a favor to Gilbert. And he’s good.”
Nick laughs as he layers the cheese across the bread. “That doesn’t surprise me. Jake is the most naturally coordinated person I’ve ever met.”
I snort. “Right? He’s annoyingly good at pretty much everything.”
“Not everything.” He glances at me while he places the second side of bread on top of the cheese, buttered side up. The scent of toasting bread fills the kitchen. “He’s terrible at relationships, and I saw him dropping you off a couple blocks from here early this morning. Too damn early for a ballroom dance class. You spent the night with him, Iris.”The way he says it feels like a warning, echoing the doubts in my own head and heart.
“Who I spend my nights with is none of your business.” I swat his arm. “And you sound like a total creeper spying on me. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“I wasn’t spying.” The smell of melting cheese and the sizzle of buttered bread in the pan bring me back to my childhood as much as arguing with Nick does. Only now, it’s not cheap processed singles in individual wrappers, but locally-made smoked cheddar and artisan bread from the local bakery. And we’re not fighting over who used the last of the hot water but things that are far more serious for both of us.
“I flew in from Savannah last night. I wanted to surprise you.”
“You hate surprises,” I remind him.
He glances in my direction and then flips the bread, which is perfectly crisp and golden on one side. “Okay, I didn’t call or text first because I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about me coming to Skylark. My flight got delayed, and we didn’t touch down in Denver until nearly three a.m. I didn’t want to wake you up at that god-awful hour, so I parked the rental in the neighborhood and went for a run.”
The kettle begins to whistle, and I pull it off the burner and pour water over the teabags I’ve placed in ceramic mugs. They're a set I bought myself when I first moved here—deep blue with little white daisies, nothing like the mismatched collection our mom pilfered from restaurants and hotels.
“Since when have you become a runner?”
“Since I saw how much good it does for you mentally and emotionally.” He shrugs. “My last rehab center was surrounded by nature trails. One of the counselors did ultra-marathons. I’ve never been a great sleeper, so I started tagging along.”
“That’s what you were doing yesterday morning when you saw Jake drop me off?”
“I saw him drop you two blocks from your house like he didn’t want any witnesses to you getting out of his car. Like he has a problem being seen with you.”
I carry the mugs to the table while Nick scoops the sandwiches onto a cutting board. “It’s not Jake who has a problem with it. This is a small town. I don’t want people talking about us when there’s nothing to talk about.”
