Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
brANDON
I unlock my apartment door, letting Naomi step in first.
She runs a finger along the spotless kitchen counter. “Did you hire a cleaning service?”
“I did it myself.” I toss my keys in the bowl by the door. The one she bought me months ago, claiming my keys shouldn’t live on the floor.
“Seriously, who are you, and what have you done with Brandon Milton?”
“Maybe I just got tired of living in my own filth.” I brush past her, heading for the cupboard, and grab two glasses. “Tea?”
“Brandon.”
Chamomile or ginger? I read both are good after vomiting. But ginger, apparently, is better. “How about ginger? Any protests?”
Her voice is sharper this time. “Brandon.”
“Yes, cupcake?” I set the kettle on the stove.
“You cleaned.” She’s not letting this go. Like mother, like daughter. “And you’re making tea.”
“Amazing observation skills.”
“When’s the last time you cooked?”
My hands freeze on the mugs. “You tell me.”
“How would I know?”
“It was when I went by your office to bring you lunch.”
“That was 6 months ago or so.”
“Huh.” I halt. Six months, two weeks, and four days, to be exact. “That long?”
“You stopped cooking when your father died.”
I busy myself with the tea, measuring out leaves. “Really earning that accounting degree.“
“Brandon. You?—”
The kettle whistles, sharp and shrill. Perfect timing. I pour the water, watching the steam curl up from the mugs. It’s better than having to see the pity in her eyes.
I know they are on me, heavy with all the things she wants to say. All the things I can’t hear right now.
Her voice is soft, careful. “What are you making?”
I glance at her, surprised by the change in topic. She’s perched on one of the barstools, chin resting on her hand.
No pity in her eyes.
“Haven’t decided yet.” I slide her mug across the counter. “Any requests?”
“Something simple.” She curls her hands around the mug, inhaling the steam. “Baby steps, right?”
My lips twitch. “Look who’s giving advice about baby steps.”
“Shut up.”
“There are only two things that are going to shut me up.” My gaze snaps to her lips. “That. Or your pussy.”
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush. “That’s not happening again.”
“Again implies it happened once.” I grin down at her, enjoying the way she has to look up at me. “Which means you’re thinking about it.”
“I’m thinking about how insufferable you are.”
“Mhm.” My fingers brush her wrist. “That why you’re blushing?”
She yanks her hand back. “That’s the tea.”
“Right.” I push off the counter and head to the fridge. “The tea.”
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for food.” I peer inside. Empty except for beer and takeout containers. That’s too much for her stomach. She needs something lighter but still with carbs. Fuck. “Or not.”
“When’s the last time you went grocery shopping?”
“When’s the last time you kept food down?”
Her sharp intake of breath makes me wince. Low blow, Milton.
“Fuck, I didn’t—I’m sorry,” I say, head held low.
“When you brought me lunch.” She gets off the stool. “I should go.”
I slam the fridge shut. “Stay.”
“Why?”
Because I can’t stand the thought of you alone. Because seeing you break down in that bathroom killed me. Because maybe I need you here as much as you need to be here. “Because I’ll make you something.”
“With what?”
“I’m guessing Bash has a pretty full fridge. Or Connor. Or Elijah.”
A smile tugs at her lips. “That’s your plan?”
“That’s not a no.”
She sighs, dropping her purse. “Fine. But I’m not eating.”
“Wasn’t going to make you.” Yet. “Just stay and taste.”
I grab my keys and head for Sebastian’s apartment next door. “Coming?”
“You’re seriously going to raid Bash’s fridge?” Naomi trails behind me.
“He owes me.” For what, I’m not sure, but he always owes me something.
“And what if he’s home?”
“Even better.” I unlock his door with my spare key. “He can cook for us.”
The apartment’s dark and quiet. Sebastian and Lil are on a spa weekend.
I flip on the lights and make a beeline for the kitchen. “Jackpot.”
“This is breaking and entering.” Naomi hovers in the doorway, arms crossed.
“I have a key.”
“That doesn’t make it legal.”
“It was when you broke into mine.” I open the fridge. “Want to call the cops?”
Vegetables. Salad, cucumber, bell pepper, some imported cheese. I still have some cans of corn, wraps, and mayonnaise. That could work, and I don’t exactly have to cook for that. Baby steps and all.
She steps inside. “You’re still stealing.”
“Borrowing. Besides, he probably doesn’t even know he has food in his fridge.” I start pulling ingredients out. “Before Lil, Sebastian survived on takeout and protein shakes.”
“Like someone else I know.”
“Used to know.” I grab the salad. “I’m turning over a new leaf. Get it? Leaf? Because salad?”
“Awful.” But she’s smiling, really smiling.
“Want to hear my egg puns? They’re egg-cellent.”
“Brandon…”
“I’ve got waffle puns too. Though they’re a bit rough around the edges.”
“Seriously?”
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it.” She points at the food. “What are you making?”
“Wraps.” I close the fridge and grab everything. “Let’s go back. Do you mind opening the doors for me?”
Back in my kitchen, I dump Sebastian’s groceries on the counter. “Grab me the mayonnaise from the cabinet, please?”
“Which one?”
“Second from the left.” I slice through a cucumber, my eyes tracking her as she stretches, that dress creeping higher—revealing more of the thighs I had my head between.
The knife slips, nearly taking off my finger. Shit. Focus on the cucumber, not her legs.
“Found it.” She sets the jar next to me. “Need anything else?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “The wraps from that cabinet next to it.”
She reaches up again, and I force myself to look at the vegetables. The cucumber’s uneven now. Mom would’ve made me start over.
“Anything else I can do?” Naomi asks.
“Only if you want food poisoning.” I grab a tomato, carefully slicing it into thin rounds. “Last time you ‘helped,’ we almost burned down the dorm kitchen.”
“That was your fault.” She leans against the counter, close enough that her perfume mingles with the fresh vegetables. “Who leaves oil unattended?”
“Who distracts the chef?”
She was drunk and started undressing after making me promise to cook her the vodka pasta. Luckily, no one else was around, and I was able to throw my jacket over her, much to the expense of the burning pan.
“I didn’t.” Her cheeks flush. “That’s not what happened.”
“Must’ve been some other woman in my kitchen.”
“There probably were plenty.”
My hand stills. Is that jealousy in her voice? “Careful, cupcake. Almost sounds like you care.”
“I don’t.” She picks up a piece of cucumber.
“Right.” I snatch the cucumber from her fingers, popping it into my mouth. “Do you want to chop? Doesn’t involve any actual cooking.”
Naomi nods, washes her hands, and then takes the knife from my hand. She positions herself in front of the cutting board, gripping the handle like she’s about to stab someone. Each slice is sharp and aggressive. The poor cucumber does not stand a chance.
“What did that vegetable do to you?” Though, given our history, maybe I should be worried.
She ignores me, hacking away. The pieces are uneven, some paper-thin, others chunky enough to choke on.
Fuck the no-touching rule.
I move in behind her, my chest flush against her back. Her body starts to turn, but when my hands settle over hers, she stays.
“Gentle,” I guide her movements, slowing the knife’s trajectory. “Like this.”
Her breath hitches. “I know how to cut vegetables.”
“Relax your wrist.” My fingers adjust her grip on the handle.
“Brandon…”
“The secret,” I murmur, lips brushing the shell of her ear, “is to love what you’re making. Food knows when you’re angry or when you’re sad. It tastes different.”
Naomi’s hands tremble beneath mine. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” I guide her through another slice, smooth and even. “But Mom was never wrong about food.”
Every muscle in her body locks into place. “You never talk about her.”
“Never came up.” In all our years of whatever-this-is, I never mentioned my mother, huh? I shrug, the movement bringing us closer. “She was good at cooking. Amazing, really. Could’ve been a chef if my father hadn’t… The kitchen was her space.”
Her voice is barely a whisper. “Show me again?”
“Watch closely.”
Together, we slice the vegetables in silence. The tension drains from her shoulders, her movements growing fluid and natural. With each cut, her body softens against mine, following my lead. Her hands are small under mine, soft where I’m calloused, and I can feel her pulse racing at her wrist where my fingers rest.
“When did she teach you?” Naomi asks.
“Every Sunday.” I adjust our grip on the knife. “She’d wake me up at dawn and drag me to the kitchen. Said cooking was meditation.”
“Was it?”
“Nah. Just wanted help with prep work. Clever woman.”
Naomi hums, her head tilting back slightly. “Like mother, like son.”
“You calling me clever, cupcake?”
“I’m calling you manipulative.”
“Working, isn’t it?”
She sets the knife down, turning in my arms. Her eyes search mine, and fuck if I know what she’s looking for. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“This.” She gestures between us. “The cooking, the stories about your mom…”
I could lie. Should lie. But her eyes keep mine trapped, and suddenly, I’m too tired for games. “Because you’re here.”
“I’m always here.”
“No.” My hand cups her face before I can stop myself. “You’re never really here.”
She leans into my touch, just slightly. “I?—”
“Don’t.” I drop my hand. “Don’t say whatever you’re about to say.”
Her lips part, then close. She nods once, turning back to the bell pepper.
I step away, giving us both space to breathe. “Let’s finish these wraps.”
I finish assembling them, trying not to watch Naomi too closely as she carries the plates to the living room. She curls up on the couch, tucking her feet under her like she belongs here. Like this is normal for us.
I settle next to her, close enough to feel the warmth of her body but not quite touching. She’s looking past me, her eyes fixed on something behind my shoulder.
“What?” I follow her gaze to the crystal vase on the side table.
“Nothing.” She takes a bite of her wrap, and I can’t help but stare at the way her lips close around it and the bob of her throat as she swallows. “It just looks… special.”
Didn’t she say she wouldn’t eat? Don’t ruin it, Brandon. Don’t say anything.
“You want a picture?” Naomi asks.
I smirk, settling deeper into the couch cushions. “Maybe I will. Could sell it to the tabloids. Naomi Smith caught eating. Bet that’d make headlines.”
She flips me off, taking another bite. Is she actually hungry? Or is this one of those binge episodes she thinks I don’t know about?
But she eats slowly, savoring it like it’s some gourmet shit instead of a thrown-together wrap. It’s… different. Usually, when I’ve seen her eat, it’s either not at all, forced, or it’s frantic, afraid the food will disappear if she doesn’t inhale it fast enough.
But this? This is slow. Deliberate. Almost… normal.
Just like she used to eat the vodka pasta in college.
Some of the tension bleeds out of my shoulders. Maybe this is okay. Maybe she’s okay.
“I’m not going to run for the bathroom.” She sets the wrap down, hands twisting in her lap. “I don’t… I don’t do that every time.”
“No?”
She focuses on the wrap. “When everything else feels like it’s spiraling, this is the one thing I can control.”
I nod, even though I don’t fully get it. How could I? But I want to. I want to understand her, all of her.
Even the broken parts. Especially the broken parts.
“And with you here.” Her voice turns so soft I have to move closer to hear her. “It’s somehow easier.”
My mind spins, trying to find the right thing to say. But what do you say to that? How do you respond when the woman you’ve been chasing for years finally cracks open the door just a little?
Maybe there is another way to break down her walls.