Chapter 2
NOELLE
Eventually, I give up trying to distract myself.
No amount of scrolling through my feed is going to keep me from listening too closely to the low hum of their voices spilling down the stairs.
It’s pointless pretending I’m not caught up in it. My body is way too wired to settle down, let alone get lost in anything else.
So, I peel myself off the couch and drift back toward the kitchen.
My arms wrap tight around my middle, using the pressure to try and squeeze the restlessness out of me.
When that doesn’t work, I go about starting a task I can actually control: making dinner.
I roll up my sleeves again, tie my hair in a messy knot on top of my head, and start pulling open cupboards like I’m on a mission.
Pasta, canned tomatoes, garlic clove, olive oil all get cradled in my arms and carried over to the counter next to the stove.
It’s not going to be five-star-restaurant fancy, but at least it will get real food into everyone’s stomachs.
The real four-course menu will come later this weekend when Dad’s home and I’ve got actual groceries to work with.
Finding a pot, I set it on the stove with a couple cups of water in it and dump some pasta into it.
The liquid hisses as it heats, steam curling faintly into the air once I crank the burner more.
The rhythm of chopping garlic takes over, the sharp bite of the blade hitting the cutting board oddly comforting.
The sizzle as it hits the oil in the pan pulls a sigh from me, tension easing just slightly from my shoulders.
While I’ve never been anything close to a chef, I’ve always liked the ritual of cooking.
There’s something comforting about the rhythm, the predictability, the quiet sense of purpose it gives me once everything’s all said and done.
Maybe that’s why I keep finding myself in the kitchen whenever my thoughts start to spiral out of control, even when I’m at college.
It’s a place where I can create something that makes sense even when it feels uncertain in the beginning because somehow it always turns out fine.
I hum softly, a Christmas tune I can’t remember the lyrics to, the melody wobbling in and out of key as I reach for the spoon to stir the sauce, and my mind drifts as I work.
If I’m being honest with myself, there’s another reason besides how attractive they all are that I’m finding hard to ignore.
It’s the way they look at me, not inappropriately exactly, but with the kind of attention that makes me feel, I don’t know, seen.
I can’t remember the last time a guy made me feel that way. Let alone three of them.
It’s not like they see me that way though.
Why would they?
To them I’m just Noelle, Richard’s kid.
The girl that’s supposed to keep them entertained until their friend returns from saving lives.
I’m too young for anything but polite smiles and small talk.
And yet, despite every reason not to, some reckless part of me wonders what it would feel like to be seen differently by them.
But how exactly?
It isn’t like I’m ready to throw myself at them and see where it gets me.
They’re Dad’s best friends.
Completely off-limits.
All of them.
This isn’t complicated, it’s basic common sense.
Besides, they’re only here for the weekend, just passing through for Dad’s birthday, and nothing more.
I tell myself that again and again as I stir the sauce and check on the tenderness of the noodles.
I exhale through my nose, muttering to myself, “Jesus, Noelle. Get a grip. You don’t even know them.”
By the time the pasta’s almost done boiling, a voice startles me.
“Oh damn, smells amazing in here.”
When I look up, it’s Dean I see wandering into the kitchen again. He’s got his hands tucked into his pockets, an easy grin stretching across his face.
I blink, forcing a breath past the sudden flutter in my chest. “You scared me.”
“Didn’t mean to,” he says, still grinning. “Couldn’t resist following the smell, though. First cookies, now real food? I could get used to this. Smells heavenly.”
I laugh softly, turning back to the stove so he won’t see the way my face heats. “It’s just pasta. Hardly anything special.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I must’ve been living in hell,” he teases, stepping farther into the kitchen.
I stir the sauce, focusing on the small bubbles breaking at the surface and the steady rhythm of the spoon. “I don’t believe that for a second. You strike me as the kind of guy who knows his way around a grill.”
“Guilty,” he admits, leaning his hip against the counter near me. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate someone else doing the cooking. Especially when it’s this good. I’m kind of a foodie.”
The compliment shouldn’t do anything to me, but my pulse stumbles anyway. “You haven’t even tried it yet.”
“Don’t need to. I can already tell it’s going to hit the spot.”
The kitchen feels smaller now that he’s close to me again.
The low light of the overhead fan glows against the steam, clouding the air in front of me.
When I move to turn the burner down, it’s then that I realize how close he’s standing only a few inches from me.
I risk a glance his way, and he catches it instantly. His grin shifts into something a little softer, more subdued, tugging at my heartstrings.
He speaks after a beat, tone teasing again.
“I didn’t peg you as the domestic type. Whenever Richard talked about his daughter, he always said you were always so busy in your room burying yourself in textbooks.
‘Real studious’ he’s always saying. It’s nice to see you don’t have an aversion to stoves. ”
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. “Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence. You know, book smart people can cook too.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Hey, his words, not mine. Didn’t say I agreed with them.”
The playful edge in his voice makes something twist low in my stomach again, and I quickly clear my throat before taking the boiling pot off the burner. “You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Then make yourself useful.” I gesture to a drawer with a nod. “Grab me a strainer for the pasta.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, mock-saluting.
The sound of him rummaging through the drawers fills the space as I bring the pot over to the sink to pour it.
When he finds what he’s looking for, he steps up beside me at the sink, shoulder to shoulder, and holds the strainer under the lip of the pot.
For a second, we just stand together.
Steam rises in white plumes between us as I drain the water.
It’s hard not to be obvious when I hold my breath, but breathing in his cologne this up close is making my head spin.
My hand slips when I try to tilt the pot back, nearly knocking everything into the sink.
Dean takes it from me before I can protest, draining the rest into the sink for me.
He moves easily, confidently, like he’s done this a hundred times before.
His shoulders are broad beneath his flannel, forearms flexing as he lifts the pot with one hand and sets it to the side.
I shouldn’t be watching, but fuck, my eyes have a mind of their own.
“Careful,” I say without thinking.
He glances back at me, grin widening. “You worried about me, sweetheart?”
My cheeks flush before I can help it. “I’m worried about the food, actually. Don’t drop the pasta or we’ll be drinking just the sauce for dinner.”
He laughs a low, warm sound that fills the kitchen and makes it hard to focus on anything else.
I can’t help staring into those blue eyes that bore into me.
They pin me in place, keeping me rooted to my spot with no way to pull myself out of the hypnosis I’ve suddenly fallen into.
His lips part then, the tip of his tongue quickly swiping across his bottom lip to wet it. “You—”
A deeper voice cuts him off, coming from behind us. “You two aren’t burning the place down, are you?”
I look up just in time to see Grant appear in the doorway.
His flannel sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, something solid and box-like tucked under his arm that I can’t quite make out from here.
Dean rolls his eyes. “Relax, cowboy. We’ve got it handled.”
“Sure you do,” Grant says, his tone dry but edged with amusement.
His gaze shifts to me, and for a moment, the whole room seems to still again.
His eyes roll over me slowly just like they did in the foyer, making my chest give a sharp, traitorous flutter.
Fuck me…
I clear my throat quickly. “Dinner’s almost ready. I was just about to set the table. You want to take that over? Dad should be here soon.”
He nods. “The plates are…?”
I nod over to the opposite side of the kitchen, toward a cabinet next to the pantry. “You can take out the fancy ones. Tonight’s a good excuse to use them.”
Dean laughs again. “Hell yeah. I like the sound of that.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
After shooing Dean away to help Grant, I’m left in the kitchen for a few blissful minutes by myself again.
I take the time to pour the pasta back into the pot and bring it back over to the stove where the sauce is still simmering.
Combining it, I knead it together until everything’s nice and coated in a thick layer.
By the time I’ve got the garlic bread toasting in the toaster oven next to the microwave, Grant finds his way back into the kitchen.
He comes up behind me, his movements slow.
When he leans over my shoulder to peek at the pot, he’s close enough that I can feel the faint brush of his sleeve against my arm as he leans forward.
He hums approvingly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “You make this from scratch?”
I give a little shrug, trying to play it off as no big deal. “Yeah. I’m not an expert by any means but I’m pretty good at finding random stuff and putting it together. Hopefully it turned out good.”
Grant’s eyes flick up to mine, unreadable. “Richard’s lucky to have you around.”
The words are said with barely a thought, but something about the way he says it lands heavy over me.
He doesn’t mean for it to be a jab, I know that. There’s no judgment in his tone, no pointed edge. But the guilt still blooms fast and hot anyway.
He’s lucky to have you around.
Except I haven’t been.