Chapter 19
NINETEEN
brANDON
“ I hate you.”
“You keep saying that.” Steam fills the bathroom as I guide her under the spray. She’s here, in my shower, saying she hates me while literally leaning into my touch like a cat that hisses while purring. “Yet here you are, naked in my shower. I’m starting to think you might actually like me, cupcake.”
She tilts her face up to the water. “Maybe I just like your water pressure.”
“Among other things.” I grab my body wash, working up a lather between my hands. “Turn around.”
She hesitates for a moment before obeying, and fuck if that doesn’t do things to me. Composure. I run my soapy hands down her back, feeling her muscles gradually relax under my touch.
“This doesn’t change anything,” she murmurs.
“Whatever you say.” She’s like a broken record.
No kissing. This doesn’t change anything. I hate you. Is that the denial stage?
After making sure we’re both cleaned up. I turn off the water and grab a fluffy towel. She’s still shivering, goosebumps prickling her skin.
“I can dry myself off,” she protests as I start rubbing the towel over her arms.
“Uh-huh.” I keep going, moving down to her legs. “Just like you could walk here from the club by yourself, right?”
She scowls at me. “I’m not a child.”
“Never said you were.” I stand, bringing the towel up to her hair. “But maybe I like taking care of you. Ever think of that?”
Her eyes widen, a flush creeping up her neck. “I don’t need?—”
“Yeah, yeah, you don’t need anyone.” I roll my eyes and snugly wrap the towel around her, tucking in the edges like a perfect burrito. “Heard that one before.” Add it to the list.
She huffs but doesn’t argue as I lead her back into the bedroom and grab a clean shirt from my dresser.
“Put that on.” I toss it to her and grab a pair of joggers for myself, putting them on.
The sheets are a mess, tangled and damp from our earlier activities.
“I’m gonna clean up,” I say.
“I can help.”
“Nope.” I point to the door. “Kitchen. Now.”
She opens her mouth, probably to argue some more, but I raise my eyebrows.
“Fine.” She clutches the shirt to her chest and heads for the door.
When did she start listening to me?
I strip the bed quickly, balling up the sheets and tossing them in the hamper before grabbing fresh sheets from the closet and trying not to think about how domestic this all feels. Naomi in my shirt, in my kitchen. Me changing the sheets like we’re some old married couple.
It’s… nice. Weird, but nice.
I give my head a little shake, finishing up with the bed. I’m not going to overthink this. Naomi’s here, and that’s all that matters.
When I walk into the kitchen, she’s perched on my counter, legs dangling. My shirt barely covers her thighs, and her hair’s still dripping onto her shoulders. She’s scrolling through her phone, looking… comfortable? In my kitchen? Wearing my shirt?
Where do I subscribe?
“You hungry?” I ask.
She doesn’t look up. “Not really.”
I open the fridge. Let’s see… eggs, milk, some questionable leftovers. “Pancakes?”
“It’s almost noon.”
“Your point?” I take out the ingredients. “Breakfast food is like my love for you. Available 24/7.” I wink at her eye roll. I love making her do that.
Her phone clicks against the counter. “Did you just quote one of Serena’s Instagram posts?”
“Maybe I’m deep and philosophical.”
A snort. “You don’t have to do this.”
“You’re eating. End of discussion.”
I measure flour into a bowl, keeping my movements precise. It’s been months since I’ve cooked anything, but my hands remember, like riding a bike, if the bike was a $50,000 professional kitchen range.
I crack an egg into the bowl, but my hand slips, and half the shell ends in the batter. I fish it out, cursing under my breath.
Naomi’s voice cuts through my focus. “You okay?”
“Perfect.” I whisk harder, trying to smooth out the lumps in the batter. How hard can it be? I used to do this every day for Nova.
“Brandon.”
“What?”
“You’re getting batter everywhere.”
I glance down. Shit. White drops splatter the counter, my chest, the floor. When did that happen?
“It’s fine.” I grab a paper towel, but my hands are shaking. Fuck. “I got it.”
Naomi slides off the counter. “Let me help.”
“No.” I grip the whisk tighter, knuckles white. “I’m making you breakfast.”
“Why?”
Because I need to prove I still can. Because cooking used to be the one thing that made sense. Because maybe if I can make you one decent meal, it’ll make up for all the other ways I’m failing.
I pour batter into the pan, watching it spread. “Because I want to.”
“Show me how.” She’s quiet for a moment. “I’ve always wanted to learn.”
I pause, glancing over my shoulder. She’s watching me, head tilted, hair still damp and curling around her face.
“Alright.” I clear my throat. “C’mere.”
She steps between the counter and me, bare feet padding across the tile. I hand her the whisk, wrapping my fingers around hers. She doesn’t tense up. Progress.
“First rule of pancakes.” I guide her hand to stir the batter. “Don’t overmix. Lumps are okay. Perfectly imperfect.”
“Lumps are okay,” she echoes. “Got it.”
I step forward, the space between us disappearing as my chest meets her back. “Second rule. Heat. Medium, not high.”
She nods, wisps of hair tickling my chin. “Medium. Not high.”
“Good.” My hand drifts from hers to her hip, my thumb ghosting over the hem of my shirt. “Think you can handle that?”
She turns her head, our noses almost touching. “I think I can manage.”
I smirk. “Prove it.”
She steps out of my grasp, taking the bowl with her. I lean back against the counter, watching as she spoons batter into the pan. It sizzles, the edges already bubbling.
“Not bad,” I say. “For a beginner.”
She shoots me a look. “I’m a fast learner.”
“Oh, I know.” The words come out lower than I intended, laced with memories of her in my bed, my shower, my kitchen.
She keeps her eyes on the pan. “So what’s next, chef?”
I push off the counter, moving to stand behind her again. “Flip it.”
She hesitates. “Isn’t it too soon?”
“Nah. You got this.” I rest my chin on her shoulder, watching the batter bubble. “Just slide the spatula under and… flip.”
She does, the pancake flopping back into the pan, slightly lopsided but intact.
Perfectly imperfect. Like us.
“See?” I press a kiss to her shoulder. “Told you.”
She leans back into me. “Maybe you’re not a terrible teacher.”
“High praise.” I nip at her ear. “I’ll take it.”
Goosebumps rise on her skin. “Brandon…”
“Hmm?” I trail my lips down her neck, tasting the lingering dampness from the shower.
“You’re distracting me.” She places the finished pancake onto the plate beside the pan and pours more batter into it, her movements less steady. “The pancake’s going to burn.”
“Let it.” Her bare skin greets my fingers under my shirt she’s wearing. Warm. Soft. Mine.
“I thought you wanted me to eat.”
“Changed my mind.” I press closer, pinning her against the counter. “Found something better to do.”
“Brandon.” She flips the pancake. It folds in half, batter oozing everywhere. “Shit.”
I laugh. “Maybe cooking isn’t your thing after all.”
“Maybe someone should keep their hands to themselves.”
“Since when do you care about eating?”
Her shoulders tense. Wrong thing to say. Fuck.
“I mean…”
“I know what you mean.” She pokes at the pancake. “But maybe I’m trying. Like you.”
The words hang between us. Heavy. Important.
I want to grab her, kiss her. But that’s not us. Not yet.
Instead, I grab plates from the cabinet. “Good. Because these pancakes aren’t going to eat themselves.”
“They might. You never know with your cooking.”
“Cute.” I bump her hip with mine. “Real cute.”
She wrinkles her nose, placing the pancake onto the stack. “I think I left it too long.”
“It’s perfect.” And somehow, it is. This lopsided, slightly charred pancake made by Naomi’s inexperienced hands in my kitchen at 11 am.
It’s the most perfect thing I’ve seen in a long time.
The doorbell rings, and Naomi freezes mid-flip. Who the fuck dares to interrupt this? Our first pancake moment. Which I’m definitely not way too excited about or anything.
“I’ll get it.” I squeeze her shoulder, already missing her warmth. “Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”
Though honestly? She could burn down my whole kitchen, and I’d probably just stand there grinning like an idiot because she was cooking in it.
I open the door to find Elijah looking every bit the CEO in his tailored suit despite the early hour and weekend.
Great. The fun police has arrived.
“Little brother.” He arches an eyebrow, taking in my bare chest and joggers. “Interesting outfit. You got company?”
“It’s Saturday.” I lean against the doorframe, blocking his view inside. “What do you want?”
“Can’t I check on my baby brother?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Especially after hearing some… interesting news.”
“Spit it out.”
“Jeff called.” Elijah straightens his already perfect cufflinks. “Says you’re finally selling that money pit you call a restaurant.”
“And?”
“And I’m wondering what changed.” He studies my face. “Last time I brought it up, you nearly took my head off.”
“Maybe I realized Dad was right.” The words taste like ash. “Happy?”
“Are you?”
“I’m working for the company, aren’t I?” I cross my arms. “Isn’t that what everyone wanted?”
The smell of burning pancakes wafts from the kitchen. Shit.
Elijah’s nostrils flare. “Naomi?”
“None of your business.”
“So she is here.” He tries to peer around me, but I move faster.
“Like I said, not your business.” My jaw clenches. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Brandon?” Naomi’s voice drifts from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of a pan. “I think another one decided to burn.”
Elijah’s lips curl into a smirk. “Domestic bliss.”
My lips twitch despite everything. She’s in my kitchen, wearing my shirt, burning my pancakes. It’s domestic as hell, and something in my chest warms even if she’s currently committing crimes against breakfast food.
I grip the door, ready to slam it in his face and get back to my beautiful disaster-prone sous chef.
“You want to stay for pancakes?” I ask. “Fair warning. They’re either burnt or folded in half. Sometimes both. It’s very avant-garde.”
“I just wanted to make sure you’re not doing anything you’ll regret because you’re bitter about Dad.”
“That what you think this is? Me being bitter?”
“Isn’t it?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? Working the job, playing the part.” My fingers drum against the doorframe. “What more do you want?”
“I want my brother back.”
“That brother died with Dad’s expectations.”
“For fuck’s sake, Brandon.” Elijah’s composure cracks. “If you don’t want this, just say so. I can handle it alone.”
“And let the old man be right about me? Not a chance.”
“Is that what you think he wanted? For you to fail?”
“No, he wanted me to be you.” I jab a finger at his chest. “Perfect fucking Elijah, always doing exactly what Daddy wanted.”
“You’re so full of shit.” He knocks my hand away. “Dad wanted you to find your path, not follow mine.”
“Bullshit. He spent years telling me the restaurant was a waste.”
“Because you were using it to hide!” His voice rises. “He wanted you to choose it because you loved it, not because you were trying to spite him or fulfill Mom’s dream!”
The smell of burning pancakes grows stronger, and something clatters to the floor, followed by Naomi’s muffled curse.
“You don’t know what he wanted,” I say.
“Neither do you, apparently.” Elijah straightens his jacket. “Because you never bothered to ask.”
I step back. “I’ve got pancakes to save and a beautiful woman in my kitchen. So, unless you want to join us for breakfast?”
His nose wrinkles. “I’ll pass.”
Good. I wouldn’t have let him in anyway.
“Thought so.” I start to close the door. “See you Monday.”
“Wait.” His hand shoots out, stopping the door.
I glare at him. “What?”
“Don’t screw this up because you’re too busy self-destructing.” His eyes soften a fraction. “Just think about what I said, okay?”
I don’t respond and close the door. Fucking Elijah, always thinking he knows best.
Except… maybe he does. A little. Not that I’ll ever admit it.
Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t think about Dad. Don’t think about the restaurant. Don’t?—
“Brandon?” Naomi’s voice snaps me back to the present. “Is everything okay?”
Did she hear us? I’m not sure how much someone is able to hear from the kitchen with the stove on.
“Just the usual brotherly love,” I say.
She frowns, spatula in hand. “What did Elijah want?”
“To make sure I’m not fucking up too badly.” I saunter into the kitchen, snagging a piece of semi-burnt pancake from the plate. “Let’s eat.”
She watches me, her eyes searching, before turning back to the stove. “I think I finally got one right.” She places a golden-brown pancake onto a plate, the corners of her mouth lifting. “Only took, what, six tries?”
“Hey, you know what they say.” I grab the plate, drowning the pancake in syrup. “Sixth time’s the charm.”
“Pretty sure that’s not how the saying goes.”
“Details.” I cut into the pancake, steam rising from the fluffy center. “All that matters is you didn’t burn the place down.”
“Yet.” She points the spatula at me. “There’s still time.”
This.
This is what I need.
Not Elijah’s lectures or Dad’s expectations. Just Naomi, here, in my space. Making me laugh. Making me forget, even for a moment, all the shit waiting for me outside these walls.
I observe her pour more batter, tongue poking out in concentration. She’s a fucking disaster in the kitchen. But she’s trying. For me. And that… that means something.
I don’t know what this is, this thing between us. What it can be with her being in the denial stage. But as I watch her flip another lopsided pancake, flour in her hair, and my shirt slipping off her shoulder, I know one thing for sure.
I’m not ready for it to end.
The question is, where does she stand?