5. Asher
Chapter Five
ASHER
I wondered whether I should text Beckett. There was little chance Jordan would share any news with me, although I had no clue why he would keep it to himself. But Beckett was probably swamped with messages anyways. I didn’t want to add to his plate.
Caden. I could text Caden. Unless that came across as nosy. Asking about a famous winger via his nephew’s boyfriend was something a paparazzo would have done. I decided not to bother either of them just now.
We quickly hauled our luggage to our separate rooms. I left the balcony door open to air the room out after months of disuse, then came to the kitchen to find something to eat.
In the meantime, Jordan had apparently showered.
He entered the kitchen with wet hair, a pair of knee-length shorts that revealed his muscular calves, and a loose, sleeveless T-shirt with long oblong cutouts for arms. His ribcage was partially visible when he moved his arms, and the short hair that covered his armpits made me pause and blink.
Had he tried being any sexier, he would have failed.
Or he would have had to take his clothes off.
I swallowed the knot that appeared in my throat.
The soft dusk glow poured into the house, further subdued by the white curtains covering all the downstairs windows.
“Are you cooking?” Jordan asked. I couldn’t tell whether he was trying to sound relaxed. His vocal cords were tense as hell and his voice came out tight, almost accusatory.
The annoyance that flared in me wasn’t all because of Jordan.
But he played a part in it. “No,” I replied stiffly.
Perhaps he knew I couldn’t cook if my life depended on it.
Perhaps he was intentionally rubbing it in.
Nothing surprised me anymore. “It’s just a grilled cheese.
” The words tumbled out of my mouth awkwardly and I turned away from him.
Couldn’t he have worn something with short sleeves?
It was like he knew — God forbid! — and intentionally added another thing I needed to be careful about.
My muscles were in a perpetual state of tension around my stepbrother.
He exhaled in disappointment. Had it been an open wound, Jordan’s sigh would have been rock salt rubbed into it.
“If it ain’t good enough, don’t eat it.” I forced the words through my tight throat. I pulled the fridge door open to search for cheese, then glanced at Jordan. He stood on the other side of the kitchen island, stiffening and straightening.
Pure irritation passed over his hard face and Jordan moved heavily toward me.
I knew he wouldn’t, but the heaviness of his steps made me imagine getting throttled by him.
It wasn’t the worst fate. And then heat rose into my cheeks, so I leaned closer to the fridge.
“Move a little, will you?” Jordan didn’t touch me, but the weight of his presence felt like getting shoved to the side.
He examined the overstuffed fridge and exhaled.
“Is there any pasta up in that cabinet?”
“I’m not your little helper.” I leaned against the counter near the sink and crossed my arms.
Jordan shot me an exhausted look. “No. You’re definitely not.” He picked several items from the fridge. A slab of bacon, fresh mushrooms, shredded parmesan, two kinds of tomato sauce, and the list went on and on.
“Can I just make myself a sandwich? I’m starving.” I cocked my head and pleaded sarcastically.
“Half an hour won’t kill you,” Jordan said. “And I need the work surface.”
I sealed my lips and stalked out of the way. The kitchen opened to the backyard where the small terrace led to the path toward the forest and the lake on the other side. Directly above us were our bedrooms, sharing the same view.
The sound of Jordan browsing through the kitchen cabinets was short and swift.
He methodically discovered everything he needed, although I refused to look over my shoulder.
Then I caved in and glanced at him. His wet hair stood in messy spikes, his lips pressed into a thin, angry line, and his big muscles bunching like he was lifting weights and not a jar of dried mushrooms.
“You can sulk,” he said without looking. He must have felt my gaze. “Or you can wash these and get dinner sooner.”
Get dinner… Like I needed someone to cook for me. I was perfectly happy with sandwiches, cereal, and quick-fried chicken accompanied by rice and steamed vegetables.
I chewed my lip as I unfolded my arms and returned behind the counter. A bowl full of fresh mushrooms waited by the sink while Jordan diced an onion on the cutting board. Silently, I turned on the faucet and rinsed the mix of fresh mushrooms for the chef.
If I were hard-pressed to do so, I would admit he was an interesting sight to behold this evening.
He didn’t move particularly quickly through the kitchen that was not so familiar to him anymore, but he had a lot of confidence.
His knife work was impressive. Then again, I was clumsy with knives so everyone impressed me if they could cut a carrot into reasonably even bits.
The sting came from witnessing yet another thing at which Jordan was superior.
Such a perfect boy, I thought bitterly. “What else?”
Jordan poured olive oil into a large pan.
“Fill half of that pot with water, add a good pinch of salt, put the lid on, and put it to boil.” He tossed the diced onions into the pan after a moment and it sizzled in the now hot oil.
He stirred the pile of onions with a wooden spatula while I did the kitchen lad’s work.
The scent of sea breeze followed Jordan wherever he went, even with the scent of caramelized onions growing stronger. His cologne turned my legs to jelly. I was conflicted between holding my breath and leaning into him until my nose pressed against the crook of his neck.
I did as I was told, then stood still while Jordan cut cherry tomatoes into quarters.
He popped one into his mouth, then handed me a fresh cucumber to wash.
He didn’t look into my eyes. I took the cucumber and turned the water on, my breaths shallow and a simmering heat descending into my groin.
His back was turned to me while I held the thick, long vegetable in one hand and rubbed it clean along its length with the other.
I hurried with it, dried it with a kitchen towel, and then handed it back to Jordan.
My gaze slipped from under my control. The tightness in my chest and the tingling deep in my stomach brewed.
I looked at the side of his torso, bare when his arms moved forward, and his hands busy slicing the cucumber for a salad.
His ribcage was defined so much that I could easily distinguish each connecting muscle along his side.
His bare arms were like hills and valleys of athletic leanness.
He was all sculpted to perfection. And while his shorts disguised it well, I had seen him in a pair of boxer briefs plenty of times.
I knew what he was packing. It wasn’t a leap of imagination that led me from the cucumber to my stepbrother’s body.
“Are you okay?” he asked in a low, partially interested tone, eyes still on the cutting board. His slicing work slowed down.
I lifted my gaze from his skilled fingers to his long, dark eyelashes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You were starving a minute ago,” he said with the greatest care to keep his tone neutral. “And now you’re frozen in one spot.”
Careless. I was careless. It forced my feet to move immediately. “I’m waiting for further instructions.” It was a lame attempt at throwing some of the blame back at him, but he was unfazed.
Jordan simply looked at the dancing lid on the pot of boiling water. He didn’t need to tell me what to do next. I should have been doing it already.
I swallowed a sigh and grabbed the pasta he had already measured in a bowl. I added it to the boiling water and replaced the lid.
“Tsk,” Jordan said as he scattered fresh mushrooms around the pan of sizzling bacon and onion.
“It’ll boil over. We don’t need the lid anymore.
” And when I placed the lid on the counter, Jordan gave me such a pointed look that I wanted to slap him.
Releasing a sigh from the top of my lungs, I bent down and thrust the lid inside the dishwasher.
Down there, my gaze touched on Jordan’s bare legs.
His calves were properly defined for a hockey player and hair covered his legs in an even manner.
It wasn’t too dark or thick, but he was far hairier than me.
I could barely grow some hair down my shins, and even that was invisibly pale.
I didn’t mind it, though. It made for a fun slice of fantasy to imagine my smooth legs tangled in his.
The contrast made me want to smirk to myself.
I straightened quickly once the job was done, but turned away from him at the first sign of pressure in my pants.
“Do you need anything else?” I asked in a slightly hostile tone, perhaps.
It was better than risking staying near him and getting caught sporting a hard-on in the kitchen where my mother cooked a billion dinners and his father serenaded her.
Jordan sucked his teeth.
“Imana shower,” I slurred and hurried away before he could stop me.
I rushed upstairs and into the bathroom, slammed the door, latched it, and exhaled as my chest shuddered. We were cooking together for God’s sake. Why the hell was everything he did so erotic? What the fuck was wrong with me?