Chapter 8 Cece #2
“This is where you're staying?” I ask, pulling off the helmet and shaking out my hair.
“My aunt's kept this place ready for me since I was a teenager,” he says, taking the helmet from my hands. “Said I'd always have somewhere to come back to, even when I was at my worst.”
A loud rumbling sound interrupts the moment, and it takes me a second to realize it's coming from my stomach. Heat rushes to my face as Brayden raises an eyebrow, his lips quirking into that half-smile that makes my heart skip.
“When's the last time you ate something?” he asks, unlocking the door to the guest house.
I try to remember. Coffee this morning, but actual food? “Um...”
“That's what I thought.” He holds the door open for me. “Come on. I'll make us something.”
“You cook?”
The guest house is cozy and unexpectedly homey, with a small Christmas tree twinkling in the corner and throw pillows arranged neatly on a worn couch.
“Don't sound so shocked,” he says, shutting the door behind us. “Been feeding myself for a long time.”
“I'm not shocked,” I lie, “Just...pleasantly surprised.”
I hover awkwardly near the door, unsure if I should sit or stand. Being here in his space feels strangely intimate, like I've crossed some invisible boundary. My fingers fidget with the too-long sleeves of his hoodie.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, opening the refrigerator. “I’m not gonna bite.” He pauses, glancing over his shoulder with that crooked half-smile. “Unless you ask nicely.”
Heat rushes to my face as I settle onto one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. “Do those lines actually work on women?”
“You're still here, aren't you?”
“I'm here for the food,” I retort.
Brayden laughs, the sound rich and genuine in a way that makes my chest tighten. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, princess.”
“Well, I have some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?”
“Bad,” I say, watching him rummage through the nearly empty refrigerator.
“Bad news...” he confirms, closing the door with a sigh, “outside of beer and some soda, the fridge is empty.” He turns toward the pantry and pulls open the door, scanning the shelves. “Good news...” he says, moving to the pantry, “I have spaghetti and store-bought pasta sauce. That okay?”
“Spaghetti sounds great,” I reply, surprising myself with how comfortable this feels—sitting in his kitchen, wearing his hoodie, watching him cook for me. It's been so long since someone took care of me instead of the other way around. “Need any help?”
“Nope. Just sit there and look pretty.” He pulls a pot from a cabinet and fills it with water, his movements efficient and practiced. “Though you're doing more than your fair share of that already.”
The compliment catches me off guard, and I duck my head to hide my smile. “Do you actually have cooking skills, or should I be worried?”
“I can make a mean spaghetti, but with these ingredients, maybe temper your expectations down a bit. Next time, I’ll grab some groceries and make you a proper meal.”
“Next time? That implies you’ll be around?” The question makes me pause. I know he has family here, but where does he call home? I never thought to ask. “Where is home exactly for you?”
“My club is based in Carlsbad, but figured I’d stick around a few days,” he answers, turning on the burner with a quick twist of his wrist.
“Why?” I blurt out before I can stop the question from exiting my lips.
He pauses, his hand still on the burner knob, and I watch his shoulders tense slightly. For a moment, the only sound is the quiet hiss of gas igniting under the pot.
“Because I want to stay.”
The simple honesty in his voice sends a flutter through my chest that I try desperately to ignore. “That's it?”
“That's it.” He leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that makes the fabric of his T-shirt pull tight across his shoulders. “Sometimes things don't need to be complicated, Cece.”
If only he knew.
If only it were that simple for me—just flip a switch, stop overthinking, stop caring so damn much. He says it as though the answer sits right in front of me, as natural as breathing. Meanwhile, I’m over here turning every feeling into a maze I can’t escape.
“That’s the understatement of the year,” I mutter under my breath as he dumps the box of pasta into the boiling water.
“It really isn’t princess. When you stop trying to make everyone else happy, and just focus on making yourself happy, complications just disappear.”
Focus on myself.
Right. Like I’ve ever been good at that. Like my brain doesn’t immediately spiral into what-ifs and worst-case scenarios and every possible way I could screw something up. And God, the way he says princess—he has no idea what that does to me. Or maybe he does. Maybe that’s the problem.
The timer dings, and he drains the pasta before combining it with the sauce in a pan. The rich smell of tomatoes and herbs fills the small kitchen, making my stomach growl again.
Great. As if I wasn’t already broadcasting enough of my problems, now my stomach has joined the conversation. Perfect.
He chuckles at the sound, shooting me a glance over his shoulder.
“Someone's hungry.”
“Starving,” I confess, not just talking about food.
And there it is—too honest, too quick. I can feel it hanging in the air between us, heavy and stupidly vulnerable. I wonder if he heard what I really meant. I wonder if he always does. I wonder if that’s why he’s looking at me like he knows exactly what kind of hunger I’m talking about.
God, CeCe, pull it together. It’s pasta, not a confession booth.
He spoons the spaghetti onto two plates, the steam rising in delicate curls between us. Sliding one plate in front of me, he watches intently as I twirl the first bite onto my fork.
I close my eyes as the flavors hit my tongue, a small moan of appreciation escaping before I can stop it. “Oh my God, this is actually really good.”
“Don’t sound so surprised, but I can’t take all the credit. The pasta sauce is from one of those fair-trade uppity grocery stores.”
When I look up, he’s watching me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. I take another bite, suddenly aware of the way his attention lingers on my mouth.
The sauce is delicious—simple but rich, with just the right number of herbs. I haven’t eaten anything this satisfying in days, though I’d rather die than admit it after my stupid comment.
“You’ve got something…” Brayden motions toward his own chin.
I swipe at my face with the back of my hand. “Did I get it?”
“No.” He steps closer, rounding the counter with deliberate ease. “Here, let me.”
Before I can protest, his thumb brushes against my chin, wiping away the sauce with a touch so gentle it steals my breath. But he doesn’t pull back. Instead, his hand lingers, cupping my jaw as his gaze meets mine.
Time seems to suspend between us. I can count his heartbeats—or maybe they’re mine—in the silence.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the curve of my jaw. “If that’s what you want.”
But that’s the problem—stopping is the last thing I want. Every nerve ending in my body is alive, hyperaware of his proximity, the heat radiating from him.
“I don’t want you to stop,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can think better of them.
Something flickers across his face—relief, desire, triumph—and then he’s closing the distance, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly turns hungry.
His lips are softer than I expected. I gasp against him, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss until I’m clutching his shoulders just to stay upright.
His hands slide into my hair, cradling the back of my head as he shifts my face toward him, granting him better access. I’ve been kissed before—plenty of times—but never in a way that leaves me feeling claimed, overwhelmed, undone.
When we finally separate, both of us are breathing hard. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes still closed, as though he’s savoring something he’s ached for far too long.
Warmth unfurls in my belly, nerves lighting up as his breath meets mine. My lips are swollen, my pulse thrumming through me, reaching places it shouldn’t. His hands are still tangled in my hair, but now his thumb grazes the edge of my jaw, a slow stroke that makes me shiver.
“I’ve wanted this since high school,” he mutters. “You were the one I couldn’t fucking touch.”
The words rip through me. My fingers fist in his shirt, dragging him closer, desperate.
When his mouth crashes back to mine, there’s nothing gentle left, just fire and want and the raw promise of everything we’ve been denying.
His tongue teases mine, his teeth catch my bottom lip, and I’m gasping into him, melting, burning, needing more.
By the time we break apart, my lungs are starving for air, but I don’t care. I can still taste him, still feel the imprint of his body against mine, and all I want is to close the space again and lose myself in him completely.
I press my forehead to his chest, trying to steady my breathing. My whole body is buzzing, every inch of me alive from his touch, but the rush of it all collides with a heavy knot in my stomach. Too fast. Too soon.
He feels it—of course he does. His hands loosen in my hair, trailing downward until they fall away completely. He steps back, as though distance is the only thing holding him together.
“Damn it.” He drags a hand down his face, his shoulders lifting and dropping in a rough attempt to shake off the last few seconds. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”
The words cut deeper than I expect, hollowing me out. Sorry. Like the kiss we just shared was a mistake instead of the most alive I’ve felt in years.
I stare at him, thrown off balance, but he’s turned slightly away now, fists flexing at his sides as if he’s holding something in check.
“I want you,” he finally grinds out, chest tight and restless, “but you just got out of hell. The last thing you need is me making it worse.”
My throat tightens, caught between relief that he understands and a desperate ache that he’s pulling away. Because if that kiss was any indication, worse might be exactly what I want.