Sweet Twins For My Brother's Best Friend: An Enemies To Lovers Romance (The Sweet Twins Collection)

Chapter Ten

Christopher

When I arrive home, I try to decide whether or not I’ll have time to shower before Hannah gets here. Just when I decide to go for it, peeling off my shirt, I hear the buzzing of my apartment’s box.

I stand still for a moment with my shirt above my head before yanking it off to hit the button and tell her to come on up.

When she knocks on my door, I let her in, and she stands smiling for a moment before nonchalantly commenting, “Nice hair” and pushing past me to sit at my dining room table.

I look in the mirror on my wall and see that the static has animated my dark curls. I smooth them down quickly and try to snap back, “Nice…” but nothing comes to mind.

She looks beautiful. Her hair’s glossy sheen seems especially bright in the warm lighting of my penthouse apartment and she’s put on eyeliner that accentuates the almond shape of her eyes.

“Good one,” she chuckles, her eyes shining.

I shrug, resigned, and sit next to her in a chair, shaking my legs. I feel an unnamed tension bubbling inside me at having her in my house. She looks natural in it, like she’s been here before.

“What did you need to tell me?”

“Why are you sweaty? And shirtless?” She squints at me and tucks her long hair behind her ears as she shuffles her chair closer to the table.

“I just…went on a run. Why, do you like it?” I tease, running my fingers down my chest.

She wrinkles her nose, but her tongue flicks out to lick her bottom lip unconsciously, and I can’t help but smirk at her body language betraying her.

“Here.” She lays down the papers in front of her like she’s reading my tarot cards or about to do a magic trick. “Do you see anything strange?”

“I wouldn’t know what to look for. That’s why I pay you the big bucks.”

Hannah snorts. “Well, who would? Who’s in charge of your finances?”

Her question takes me aback. I’m not sure if I should say. Maybe she’s misunderstanding whatever it is.

“What did you find, Hannah?” I ask, lowering my voice and scooting in. I squint at the papers trying to understand what it is she thinks she sees.

“Chris, your projected profits versus your actual profits are markedly different.”

“So? Like the actual profits are lower?”

“Yes, lower.”

“So? It happens. We got cocky with the projections.”

Hannah’s mouth twists uncomfortably. She drops her elbow heavily on my table and lays her face in her hand, covering her mouth with her cupped palm.

“That’s not really what projected profits are. There’s no reason to be overly cocky with them. Listen to me. You could be right, okay? It could be a simple mistake, but it has happened to you practically every quarter. Your company is consistently underperforming. Why would someone continually make that mistake and project high profits when historically the profits were not rising to that level?”

“So what are you saying?”

“I think someone who has control of the company’s financials and bank accounts is stealing from you,” she says simply. “And if you could get me an itemized list of your company’s financial transactions, I could confirm it.”

Her words shoot ice into my veins. I drag the papers over to me and look them over, staring at the numbers she’s highlighted and her math in the margins.

I look back up at her with my mouth open.

“Is this right? $30,000 a quarter less than projected? For—” I shuffle through the papers, then look back at her again, “—years?”

Her nod is silent, allowing me to soak in the information.

$30,000 a quarter. $120,000 a year. For years.

I put the papers facedown and stand. And the only person who has that kind of power is Sarah. Sarah, who I’ve promised an even bigger position. Sarah, who’s been with me since the beginning.

A cold sweat now mixes with the sweat from my run. “Are you hungry?”

“I, uh—”

“Let me make you something. I just went to the farmer’s market. I got some bok choy I’m very excited to experiment with. Have you ever had bok choy?”

“Yes, but Chris—” She turns around in her chair, her body following me as I walk over to my kitchen.

“Well, so have I, I guess, little wilted things in American Chinese dishes, but look at these bad boys.” I pull out the large head of it, look at her, then back at it, then hold it up next to my head. “You see that? As big as my head.”

“Impressive,” she says grimly and stands. “Listen,” she tells me, walking to me slowly like an officer at a standoff, like I have hostages she needs to save.

“I will help you with this. There’s no need to panic, okay? It will be easy to figure out who did it and then you can figure out how you’d like to proceed. If you want to press charges or sue for restitution, we’ll do our best to get your money back.”

Rinsing off the bok choy, I let her words wash over me as I look out the window down at the ocean glinting in the distance, shining bursts of lights at everythingng metal and glass that people have built.

“I’m not worried about the money,” I finally respond.

It isn’t quite true, but it’s true enough. I bring the vegetable over to my butcher block countertop and start cutting it into strips, unsure if I’m doing it right. I realize halfway through that in my state, I haven’t looked up any recipes or anything.

“Okay, so tell me your concerns. We have to do something about this. It can’t be allowed to continue.”

Something about her saying we and meaning the two of us sends a string of fire that I can trace from my heart down to my toes and back up to my skull.

“We don’t have to do anything right away.”

“Don’t you want—”

“What I want to do, Hannah, is eat. It’s Sunday, and I should be relaxing, and you came tearing in here with bad news, that I don’t really feel equipped to handle right now. Is that okay with you? If I just make us something to eat, then for an hour or so we can forget about all this? The money will still be gone after we’ve eaten, right?”

She backs away from me slightly, then straightens.

Her eyes harden for a moment before softening. I watch all the emotions pass over her, something like pity enter and leave.

“Yeah, okay. I’m sorry. You’re right.”

In a lighter tone, Hannah continues, “You know, it’s funny, I tell myself all the time that I need to get better at work/home life boundaries. Today, I tried, I really did. I tried to not do any work because it’s the weekend, but sometimes it feels impossible.”

She looks at her interlaced fingers and sighs heavily, then back up at me.

“Well, hey, if anyone gets that, it’s me. You’re in the beginning stages of a business. That’s how that first year goes. Before you have help. Will you put that pan on high for me?” I gesture to a pan near her, hanging on a peg on the wall.

“This one?” she asks quietly, pointing. I nod, and she places the pan on the burner.

She turns the knob to high, looking at me as though for acceptance, and I smile reassuringly as I find a bowl to mix seasonings in.

“Can I tell you something? I want to explain my reaction the other day. I know it was…weird.”

I set the wooden bowl down to give her my undivided attention, staring into her mascara-rimmed eyes. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“I know. I just want to,” her eyes downcast.

“If you think it will help me understand you better, go ahead, please.”

I can see the agony in her eyes, the unsureness of telling me whatever it is she thinks she needs to say. It’s a gentleness that’s not usually present in our conversations.

“When I was younger, my parents didn’t have much money. They both worked two jobs, and Tyler and I were home alone a lot. Tyler practically raised me. I feel bad about it, that he used up his childhood on me.”

Seeing her nibble on her bottom lip eats me up, and I feel terrible that she feels that way. I reach out and stroke her shoulder. I run my hand down her arm and interlace her fingers in mine. Her hand twitches as though she might pull it back, but she doesn’t.

“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 place and pay 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.

“I think it’s good?” Her opinion comes out like a question, with a tiny shrug to accompany it. It’s cute to see her unsure of herself, looking to me for answers.

I join her, moving close to her body, only a bowl between us, and dip my finger into it. “It tastes good to me.”

I can feel her body emanating heat, and I see that her chest is moving rapidly, shallowly, a thing of flight. “Don’t doubt yourself. Have confidence in your choices.”

Her eyes meet mine, inches away, inches close, and she stumbles backward and bumps into the pan that I left on the hot burner.

It clatters to the ground, and Hannah instinctively moves to catch it. I grab her hand to pull her away before she can burn herself and pull her body into mine, swiftly taking the bowl out of her hand as I wrap my other arm around her waist. Tucking her head into my naked chest, she chuckles, “Thank you.”

Flutters wave through my stomach. “You’re welcome.” I snake my arm off her waist. “A couple of rules of the kitchen – don’t catch a falling knife and don’t catch a hot pan.”

Taking a step back, Hannah covers her eyes before ruffling her bangs. Sighing resolutely, she slaps her thighs with both of her palms.

“I’m going to let you do the rest.”

Before she can walk away, just as she pivots her hips away from me, I catch her by the hand and pull her back, smiling at her.

“No, no, don’t give up. Pick it up and let’s keep going, Hannah Jackson.” I pick the bowl back up and push it against her chest.