28. Miles
28
Miles
W alking through the door, my eyes go straight to the brunette who has tucked herself in on my couch. She looks right at home, snuggled under a large, fluffy pink blanket, her legs slipped beneath her, with Bubba nestled in close.
She glances over her shoulder, her smile a soft curve that steals the air straight from my lungs. “Do you always get home this late, or are you purposely avoiding me?” she asks, trying to keep her voice light and teasing, yet it’s obvious there’s a hint of worry there too.
“I promise, I wasn’t avoiding you,” I say, setting my keys on the black entry table. “I’m just a little behind, is all. Just doing what I can to catch up.”
She sends an apologetic smile my way. “Sorry. I’m guessing that’s my fault.”
I dismiss her worries with a wave and move further into the apartment, leaning behind the couch to give my dog a few affectionate pets and scratches behind his ear. A sweet smell of vanilla and strawberries wafts from Veronica, as I do my best to ignore it. “It’s really no problem. I haven’t taken a break in what feels like forever, and honestly? Every single one of my employees stopped to tell me how glad they were that I finally took some time for myself. Apparently, this was long overdue.”
“You’re sure it’s okay? I’m starting to worry that I’ve gone and derailed your entire life,” she says with a frown, tilting her head toward mine. “I mean, I stole you away, tricked you into marrying me, moved into your house, and to top it off, you’re also behind on your work.”
“Seriously, it’s not a big deal. By tomorrow, I’ll be all caught up,” I insist, and just as I look up, a gruesome, bloody scene catches my eye on the television screen. “What the hell are you watching?” I ask, my face contorting in disgust.
“It’s Criminal Minds ,” she says as her eyes casually drift to the screen as well.
“You and your murder shit,” I say, shaking my head and giving Bubs one final pat before pushing myself off the back of the couch.
“You should really give it more of a chance. It’s actually pretty fascinating, and as an added bonus, I’m now an expert on how not to get murdered.”
“That, or now you know how to commit a murder and get away with it,” I counter as I head toward the kitchen, reach into the fridge, and pull out a bottle of water.
“You know,” she says, turning to face me, “statistically, they say that 40% of murders are committed by a spouse or intimate partner, so maybe you do need to worry.”
I twist the cap off the bottle with a pop. “I’m starting to think you could pull off a murder and get away with it. You’ve got that sweet, innocent face, and somehow, you’ve been getting away with crazy shit for years. Honestly, the fact that you’re still one of the most beloved people in this town is either a miracle or proof that you’ve mastered some kind of witchy voodoo magic and have us all under your spell.”
“Exactly,” she says with a sugary-sweet smile. “You think pushing everyone away with your whole ‘Broody Bennett’ routine is keeping you safe, but let’s be real—if a murder went down around us, everyone would totally be side-eyeing you. Meanwhile, I’d be the innocent victim in all of this.”
“You’re diabolical.” I chuckle before bringing the bottle to my lips and taking a sip as she returns her smug grin toward the television.
“Have you had dinner yet?” I finally ask, my stomach releasing a soft growl as I realize I haven’t had a moment to grab a bite or have any sort of snack since Blair stopped by my shop earlier this afternoon.
“Kind of. I’ve mostly just been grazing and snacking on crackers, cheese, and grapes—you know, the whole ‘girl dinner’ thing,” she admits, her eyes remaining fixed on her creepy-ass show.
“That’s it? Sorry, princess, but that doesn’t count. I’m going to make you a proper dinner.”
“No, it’s fine. You’re already hooking me up with a place to live. You don’t need to make me food, too.”
“Why not?” I ask, reaching into the cupboard as I pull out a pan. “I’m already making something for myself, and adding an extra serving isn’t going to create any additional work.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, clearly conflicted. “I don’t want to put you out.”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I felt put out or didn’t want to do it,” I promise, turning to grab some ingredients out of the fridge.
Veronica shrugs off the blanket and strolls toward the kitchen, casually leaning against the doorframe. “Anything I can do to help? And fair warning: I’m a disaster in the kitchen, but I am willing to try.”
“How are you at chopping vegetables?” I ask, assuming it’s an easy enough job that’s usually pretty hard to mess up. Well, other than the possibility of uneven cuts or cutting herself, but I’m not overly concerned about that. She is a grown woman, after all. How bad could she truly be?
“I’m okay at it,” she says, brushing a piece of her chestnut-colored hair behind her ear before moving toward the sink to wash her hands.
“Well, then, there we go.” I nod, setting her up with a small station of a cutting board, a knife, and the various vegetables that need chopping.
“I can only half-guarantee, though, that I won’t end up cutting myself.”
“Well, as long as you don’t bleed on the veggies, we’re good,” I joke, keeping my tone light. Beyond my humor, though, I can tell she’s worried. She’s strangely tense—shoulders stiff, jaw set—and the last thing I want is for her to feel on edge. We’re just making dinner. It's not like we’re performing brain surgery here.
“Well, how about this? If I do cut myself and bleed, I promise not to get any on your precious vegetables,” she offers, the workings of a smile playing on her lips, some of her nerves thankfully seeming to evaporate.
“Perfect. That’s all I ask,” I chuckle as she gets into place and starts cutting while I work on seasoning the chicken.
“Yeah, unfortunately, my work in the kitchen was one of Pete’s least favorite things about me. He always said it wasn’t very ‘wifey’ of me, since whenever I tried to cook, it usually ended up undercooked, over-seasoned, or burnt to a crisp. I’m kind of a disaster in the kitchen.”
My hands involuntarily clench into fists, my body visibly tensing. What a fucking asshole. “Not very wifey?” I ask, repeating her line. “What was he looking for, a wife or a maid?”
She lets out a less-than-amused laugh. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure,” she admits as she continues to chop. “All I know is that I never measured up, no matter how hard I tried.”
“Well, Pete is a fucking idiot, so who cares what he wanted? He’s someone else’s problem now,” I say, trying to remind myself of this as well, since right now I’d love nothing more than to give that asshole a piece of my mind.
“I suppose so,” she muses, clearly lost in thought as I glance over at her.
My eyes go wide, and it suddenly makes perfect sense why she had mentioned being hopeless in the kitchen. Not only are her chops incredibly uneven, but she looks like she’s about to slice off a finger.
“Shit, Vee,” I say, rushing over and pulling the knife out of her hand.
“What?” she asks, stunned by the sudden movement as she tilts her head to look up at me.
“Hold on, one second,” I say, carrying the knife over with me and setting it in the sink before washing my hands to avoid cross-contaminating. Once that’s done, I grab a new knife and move to join her. “Let me show you the proper way to cut so you don’t actually cut off your finger and bleed all over the food.”
“You know, I really was trying to be careful,” she pouts, but I shake my head.
“I’m sure you were, but I also didn’t realize how serious you were about the probability of cutting yourself.”
“You really that worried I’m going to ruin our dinner?” she asks, a playful grin tugging at the corners of her mouth as she tilts her head to look at me.
“No, I’m worried that you’re seriously going to injure yourself and I’ll have to take you to the hospital for stitches,” I explain, nodding for her to move over and make room. “Now, let me show you the proper way to hold a knife.”
“I did warn you earlier that I was pretty hopeless in the kitchen,” she reminds me with a soft whine.
“You’re not hopeless. Honestly, I couldn’t care less if you ever learn to cook a real meal. But knowing how to properly handle a knife? That matters. For my sanity, if nothing else—because the last thing I want is to worry about you getting hurt.”
“If you say so,” she says, nodding for me to continue.
Holding the knife up, I make sure she takes notice of where my hands and fingers are situated. “Now,” I begin, “don’t just pay attention to how I’m holding the knife, but watch how I’m holding the zucchini as well,” I say, since, honestly, in watching her, that had been my biggest concern.
After making a few slices and finishing up the vegetable, I pull out a new one and hand it over. “Your turn,” I nod, stepping aside so she can once again take her place.
With a new, confident grip on the knife, she steps in and begins to chop as I move in close, proudly nodding my head at her now perfect technique. The kitchen should smell like the seasoned chicken I’ve been preparing or the fresh vegetables she’s slicing, but my senses are overwhelmed by the intoxicating scent of vanilla and berries. I should focus on her cutting, but my gaze shifts to the delicate sliver of skin exposed on her neck. A sudden, intense urge washes over me. It would be so easy to reach out, trace my fingers along her soft, pale skin... and worse, make an entirely new trail with my lips.
My mind continues to wander, drifting back to the moment when the two of us were pressed up against this very counter. I could’ve easily taken control then and done exactly what I’d so desperately wanted—lifting her onto the counter and pressing my lips against hers—if only I’d been man enough. That same temptation takes over even now, my dick twitching in my pants as I quickly take a step back. “Well, looks like you’ve got it,” I say before she can realize what’s happening as I scurry back toward the stove to turn up the heat.
“Well, you’re an excellent teacher,” she says, her smile warm and genuine as she turns back to her work. The rhythmic sound of her knife hitting the board is a counterpoint to the racing thoughts in my head, which thankfully, she seems too focused on to notice.
“Well, you’re a mediocre student,” I tease, reaching for the oil and dropping some into the heating pan.
“You know, I’m actually surprised by how much you seem to know about cooking. Blair always seemed a lot like me, since we preferred to going out to eat, and I guess I just figured it was the same for you,” she says, continuing to chop.
“That’s because I did all the cooking growing up, and she never had to worry about it.”
“I guess that makes sense, but who taught you how to do it?” she asks, curiously glancing over her shoulder.
“Nobody,” I admit, not really in the mood to discuss it, but I’m also not about to brush it off, since I’m sure she’s going to press it either way.
“What?” she asks, her eyes widening. “Then how did you learn?”
“It was all self-taught I guess.” I say, reaching for the chicken and dumping it in the pan as a loud sizzle fills the air. “The adults in our lives were never going to do it, so if there was ever going to be a proper meal for me and Blair, it was up to me. I really had no other choice.”
Sure, my dad and grandma may have been around, but they certainly didn’t care whether we had a fresh or hot meal on the table. They may not have cared about that sort of thing, but I certainly did, especially as a protective older brother. My sister deserved so much better than what we got.
“Oh, wow,” she quietly offers, her chops pausing. “I guess I never realized it was that bad. I mean, I know you and Blair were left to your own devices and had to look out for yourselves in many ways, but I guess with that sort of thing, I never put much thought into it.”
“I don’t think Blair did either,” I admit, flipping the chicken over in the pan and making sure to give each side a good sear. “And that’s exactly how I wanted it to be. Our childhood was shitty enough, and if there was anything I could do to make her life easier, I’d do it—even if it meant taking on more of the responsibility myself.”
“Wow,” she says barely above a whisper. “Blair was really lucky to have you. Hell, she still is.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on the chicken, not daring to look in her direction. I already know what I’d see—pity. That’s the last way I’d ever want anyone looking at me—especially Veronica. I’d even take the judgy-ass stares of those who still see me as trash over someone looking at me and seeing nothing more than a sad, pathetic loser with a tragic backstory.
“It is a big deal, but if you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to. I know Blair hasn’t always wanted to open up about things either, but if you ever need someone to talk to or even vent to, just know that I’m here,” she says, reaching over and giving my arm a small squeeze.
“Thanks, Vee. I appreciate it, but you’re right. It’s not something I want to talk about,” I insist, trying to keep my voice even. “If you want to finish up with the veggies and take a break, I can handle the rest from here,” I offer, needing to create some space. Not only is her lingering scent still throwing me off, but now I can’t stop thinking about how she might see me differently, as though I’m nothing more than some kind of pathetic charity case.
“Will do,” she says before finishing up, and I thankfully get a moment to decompress as she leaves me alone in the kitchen to complete our meal.
A small comfort in all of this is that, at least now, I don’t have to worry about anything happening between us. There’s no way someone with a life as perfect and full as hers would ever be interested in someone as broken and pathetic as me.