Dee
Chapter twenty-four
Iwake with a start, slamming my head into the ceiling of my childhood bedroom.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, holding my forehead, hunched over in pain.
That’s one way to be reminded that you’re not in your apartment. Nope, I’m in my parents’ house. In my childhood bedroom. With my friend…roommate…boss beneath me.
Yikes. It sounds as messy as it feels.
I don’t hear Dylan making fun of me for my rude awakening, so I’m not surprised to find the bottom bunk empty when I lean over the railing.
I rub my head for another moment, trying to soothe the ache before climbing down the tiny ladder. His bed is neatly made, the covers tucked in perfectly at the corners.
“He’s downstairs with Dad. They’re making breakfast,” my mom says from the doorway.
“I might have a concussion, but did you say Dad is cooking breakfast?” I ask. Dad is as good a cook as I am a bartender. Maybe I can get my head checked out when Dylan and I inevitably have to stop at urgent care on the way home.
“I know,” Mom says with a groan. “But he’s retired and bored, and you should have seen him. He needed a project. He found the cooking channel, and here we are.”
“Good thing you love him, huh? Pretending to love all that awful, awful food.”
She waves me off. “I was kind for the first week. The first month, even. But once it became clear this hobby was everlasting, I had to be honest.”
I scrunch my nose, knowing Dad can be sensitive. “How’d he take it?”
She grins. “He laughed. Laughed for so long I didn’t think he’d ever stop.”
“Well, that’s…surprising.”
“I know. He said he’d been waiting for me to be honest. He was just starting to believe he’d turned a corner, finally becoming a decent cook, before I confessed my true feelings.
But, honey—I say this with love—that is not possible.
My future with your father has always been bright, but there is no hope for him in the kitchen.
So now, we do it together. And most days, we’re left with something somewhat edible. ”
“And on the days it turns out like shit?”
She shrugs. “Well, on those days, we get carryout. A win is a win. You won’t see me fighting it.”
She wraps her arm around my shoulder and we make our way to the kitchen together.
Dylan and Dad are standing side by side at the counter. Dylan is explaining something to him, talking with his hands. They’re both so caught up in what they’re doing, they barely notice when Mom and I join them.
“What’s all this?” I ask, sitting at the kitchen table.
Dylan’s eyes meet mine, and all that warmth ignites something deep inside.
“Oh, sweetie. I’m glad you’re up,” Dad says. “Dylan was just showing me a few tricks. I don’t know if I told you yet, but I’m really brushing up on my skills in the kitchen.”
I nod, eyebrows lifted, attempting to put on a brave face, knowing the inevitable is coming. I’m honest…most likely to a fault. But not with this. If I have to eat the worst food ever prepared in America, then I’ll do it for my dad.
I watch the two of them milling around the kitchen, Dylan confident and kind, occasionally offering my dad some advice or adding in a little extra of some ingredient here and there to compensate for my dad’s off-measurements.
In the end, the meal isn’t half bad. And my mom falls in love with Dylan on the spot.
Gratitude clear in her adoring gaze. His hair is tied back, low and messy, his simple white T-shirt stretching around his biceps, and he’s wearing rumpled jeans from the day before.
But fuck…he’s getting more attractive with every passing minute.
Our conversation from last night replays in my mind, and all I can think about is him claiming that I’m too good for him. Irritation flares at the self-deprecation in his statement.
I meant what I said. All I see is the good. When he laughs at Mom’s jokes, cooks with Dad in his kitchen, tells stories from the party the night before with my family, who he loved and who loved him.
Things between us have grown into something more…far beyond friendship.
Goddammit.
I huff out a sigh before a giggle bubbles up. Despite my best efforts, I can’t keep it in. Dylan and my parents look at me, confused, but I just wave them off.
I wonder which one of the girls is about to win the over-under. Because at this rate, something more seems inevitable.