Chapter 20 The Teacher
The Teacher
SYDNEY
Ileave the station through the back door, my mind still replaying this past week and a half with Brooks, since the night at the cabin, on a continuous R-rated loop.
Two steps into Maisie’s kitchen and my body instantly recognizes him before my brain catches up—that familiar flutter low in my belly that’s become my new normal whenever he’s within fifty feet.
He’s leaning against the counter in a worn Beavers T-shirt that hugs his shoulders, looking so casually gorgeous it’s almost offensive.
A month ago, I would’ve made a snarky comment about his choice of faded jeans.
Now? I’m mentally calculating how quickly I could get him out of them.
“Hey.” His voice is warm honey. “How was work?”
“Fine.” I set my bag down with a thud, trying to act like a professional woman who didn’t just spend her entire broadcast thinking about him. “Donny tried to steal my segment again, but Diane shut him down. I think she’s developing a girl crush on me.”
Brooks smiles that half-smile that does things to me. “Smart woman.”
The house is unusually quiet—no TV game shows, no Maisie calling out random thoughts from the living room. Just the tick of the grandfather clock and the hum of the refrigerator.
“Where’s your grandmother?” I slip off my jacket and hang it by the door. Gus runs up to me, and I give him a good pet.
“Beaver Bookies meeting. In person this time, not Zoom. Pam Parker picked her up.” Brooks pushes away from the counter, moving toward me with that grace that makes my mouth go dry. “Said not to wait up.”
“Not to wait up? For a book club?” I raise an eyebrow.
“I’ve stopped questioning her social life.” He shrugs. “Pretty sure the Beaver Bookies is just a front for some poker tournament, anyway.”
“That fits. Especially because I don’t think Pam’s even in the Beaver Bookies.”
“Well, let her have a night of fun before her treatment starts tomorrow, Thursday, and Friday.”
I sigh. “Those take so much out of her—and she’s been doing so amazingly well.”
“I’m nervous, I admit.” He scrubs his chin. “Especially since she’s insisting she take the shuttle there since both of us will be at the Dickens’ High School hockey game thing tomorrow.”
“It’ll be the first time I don’t take her.” I purse my lips. “But maybe I should be happy she’s feeling good enough to do it herself.”
“Yup.” Brooks gestures to the counter behind him, where various ingredients are scattered—tomatoes, garlic, a block of cheese, some kind of herbs. “I was about to make dinner. You hungry?”
“Starving,” I admit, and not just for food.
Brooks and I are alone. Really alone. Well, minus Gus. My body hums with awareness.
We get little alone time, and we’ve fallen into a routine that’s perfectly split: Brooks does the shopping and most of the cooking while I handle all the cleaning and laundry.
There’s something intimate about folding his T-shirts or picking up his socks from the bathroom floor, as if some neuron in my brain is firing off evolutionary signals about nest-building.
Sometimes, when Maisie goes to bed early, he and I end up sprawled on the living room floor, watching old hockey highlight reels and trading stories about childhood disasters.
We laugh until our sides hurt and then barely make it to the bedroom with our clothes on.
An impulse strikes me—an idea that pops up and refuses to leave. “Teach me,” I blurt out. The responsible part of my brain reminds me I should review tomorrow’s sports highlights, but the rest of me wants to spend time with him, be near him, and hey, maybe learn to cook something.
Brooks turns, brow furrowed. “Teach you what?”
“How to cook.” I wave at the ingredients. “You know I’m hopeless.”
“Come on. You’ve perfected burnt toast with a side of smoke alarm.”
“Exactly.” I move closer. “Come on, Brooksie. Here’s your chance to fix that tragic flaw in my character.”
His eyes light up at the challenge, or maybe at the idea of me admitting to a flaw. “All right, Holt,” he says, a note of playfulness in his voice I rarely heard before our night at the cabin. “Chicken parm. My specialty. Think you can handle it?”
“I’ve tackled fire evacuations and blizzard warnings. I think I can manage some dead bird and cheese.”
“First lesson: respect the ingredients.” He pulls out a cutting board and sets two chicken breasts on it.
“The secret to great chicken parm isn’t the sauce or even the cheese,” he says, reaching for plastic wrap.
“It’s getting the chicken just right. Too thick, it’s dry and tough. Too thin, it falls apart.”
He covers the chicken with wrap, then from a drawer, he produces what looks like a small hammer.
“Oh, cooking weaponry.”
“Right, but not to massacre. You want to pound it out evenly, thin but not shredded.”
The first strike is controlled, precise. His forearm flexes with each blow, the muscles shifting under tanned skin. I’ve seen those arms in action—on the ice, in the cabin, this morning in bed—but there’s something intimate about watching him cook.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking up.
“Just learning,” I lie.
He finishes the first breast and steps back. “Your turn.”
“Me? I’m more of a verbal pounder. Ask any interview subject.”
“Try it.” He holds out the tenderizer. “It’s therapeutic.”
Our fingers brush as I take it, its weight solid.
I position myself in front of the board, raise the mallet, and bring it down with force. The plastic wrap tears, and chicken juices splatter across the cutting board.
“Whoa, Leatherface.” Brooks laughs, stepping behind me. “More control, less power.”
And then his arms are around me, his chest pressed to my back, his hands covering mine. “Like this,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear as he guides my movements. “Gentle but firm.”
I’m barely processing his instructions. All I can focus on is the solid heat of him behind me, his scent, the way his stubble grazes my temple when he speaks.
“That’s it.” His voice is lower as we pound the chicken together. “Feel the rhythm?”
I feel something, all right.
After a few guided strikes, he steps back. “Finish that one, then we’ll bread them.”
I channel my frustration into the chicken, imagining it’s Donny’s smug face when he tried to steal my segment. By the time I’m done, the breast is perfectly flattened, and I feel accomplished.
“Not bad.” Brooks inspects my work. “Ready for phase two?”
Phase two involves three dishes—flour, beaten eggs, and breadcrumbs mixed with herbs and parmesan. Brooks dredges the chicken first in flour, then egg, then the crumb mixture, his fingers working with surprising dexterity for such large hands.
I copy his movements, but the egg drips everywhere, and breadcrumbs scatter across the counter. “I’m making a mess.”
“Cooking is messy.” He moves behind me again. This time, his hands settle on my hips, and I swear I feel the heat of his touch through my work pants. “Keep going. You’re doing fine.”
There’s something deeply sensual about cooking with him like this—his body close, his voice guiding me, the tactile nature of the ingredients beneath my fingers.
When both pieces are breaded, Brooks drizzles olive oil into a pan and turns on the stove. “Medium-high heat. You want it hot enough to sear, but not so hot it burns before the chicken cooks.”
He places the first piece in the pan, the sizzle making my stomach growl. The aroma of garlic and herbs fills the kitchen as he sprinkles a pinch of salt over the cooking chicken.
“Where did you learn to cook?” I’m genuinely curious.
“My mom. All those years Dad was pushing hockey, Mom was teaching me other things when he wasn’t around. Said I needed balance.”
“Smart woman,” I echo his earlier words.
“She is.” He flips the chicken with practiced ease, the golden-brown crust making my mouth water.
The man behind the hockey star keeps revealing himself in these small moments, and each revelation makes it harder to accept that this has to end.
While the chicken cooks, Brooks hands me a head of lettuce and a tomato. “Salad duty,” he says. “Think you can handle a knife?”
“My hands are skilled with sharp objects.”
“Among other things,” he murmurs, his eyes briefly dropping before returning to the stove.
Suddenly, the kitchen feels several degrees warmer, but I focus on the vegetables, chopping with more enthusiasm than skill.
When the chicken is perfectly browned on both sides, Brooks transfers the pieces to a baking dish, then ladles red sauce over them. The final touch is a thick layer of mozzarella and Parmesan.
“Into the oven at 375 for about fifteen minutes.” He slides the dish onto the middle rack. “Just long enough for the cheese to get bubbly and golden.”
While we wait, we eat the salad together. The simple domesticity of it all—making dinner together—feels dangerously right, like we’ve been doing this for years.
The timer dings, and Brooks pulls the dish from the oven. The sight is magazine-worthy—bubbling cheese golden-brown on top, sauce simmering around the edges.
“That,” I say appreciatively, “is definitely not what happens when I try to cook.”
“Because you haven’t had the right teacher.” He serves the chicken with enthusiasm.
We settle at the table; the candles casting a glow that feels intimate in a way I’m still not used to associating with Brooks Kingston. The first bite of chicken nearly makes me moan—it’s tender and flavorful, the cheese perfectly melted, the sauce rich with herbs and garlic.
“Okay, I admit it,” I say after swallowing. “I do love this.”
“I knew it.” Of course he’s smug.
We eat in comfortable silence for a few moments; him tossing Gus bites as he goes, and now I know why that dog hasn’t lost any weight.
The only sounds are the clink of silverware and occasional appreciative murmurs. It’s good—not just the food, but this. Us. The ease we’ve found with each other.