10. Darcy #2
A cutting board dusted with flour. A glass mixing bowl streaked with batter.
Blueberries that have rolled loose across the island and been lazily corralled into a shallow dish like someone started cleaning and got distracted.
Copper pans hang above the range, catching the flames every time they shift.
Tyler catches me turning slowly in place and smiles.
“Try not to look too shocked. You’re hurting our feelings.”
“This whole place is…” I trail off, searching.
He rests one hip against the stove and gives me a wink.
“A disaster? Be honest.”
A laugh escapes me as I glance around one more time, taking in the undeniable evidence that they decided homemade pancakes were the appropriate response to a power outage.
“…it’s a full-on Ralph Lauren fever dream.”
“We’ll take that as a compliment,” Mason says.
“You should. Most guys living together have a folding table and a TV sitting directly on the floor.”
Tyler barks out a laugh.
“Not in this house.”
My gaze drifts back across the room.
“You did all this?”
“Most of it.” Tyler gestures around the apartment with his spatula. “This used to be two separate units.”
My head snaps back toward him.
“What?”
Mason slides a mug toward me across the island and nudges a stool out with his foot.
This time, I don’t argue. Which probably has nothing at all to do with the way his slutty shoulders are on full display under a black muscle tanktop and I’m just now close enough to notice.
Gray sweats embroidered with Station 37 ride low on his hips, and I have to physically chew on my tongue to stop from gawking.
“First and second floor,” he notes, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“We opened it up,” Tyler adds. “Knocked out part of the ceiling. Added the loft.”
I glance up again.
The floating stairs. The exposed beams. The sheer amount of work that must have gone into turning two apartments into one.
“This must’ve taken forever.”
Mason takes a sip of coffee.
“We had some help.”
“Our dad, mostly.”
So the compulsive competence is hereditary.
I point between them.
“Okay, so the cooking comes from your mom’s side.”
Tyler nods.
“And the whole handy thing comes from your dad?”
A grin pulls at his mouth.
“Our grandfather too,” he adds. “Sort of a family trait.”
“What, like a family of contractors?”
“Firefighters,” Mason answers.
I blink.
“Plural?”
“Dad, grandpa, Uncle Garrett,”
The look that passes between them is small but familiar, the kind that comes from telling the same stories for years.
“Wow.”
Tyler points his spatula at me.
“That’s exactly what Mom says every time Dad starts a project.”
“Because he’s handy?”
“Because he refuses to acknowledge the existence of professionals.”
A laugh slips out as I wrap my hands around the mug and finally take a sip expecting coffee and stop.
My brows lift.
Green tea. I look down into the cup, then back at the two of them. It’s not exactly impossible to figure out. They’ve both been in my apartment. They’ve seen the tea bags multiplying beside my kettle like a small herbal infestation.
I get hauled downstairs against my will and somehow they already remember how I take my caffeine.
I take another sip before I can think about that. My eyes drift shut for half a second, which is a mistake, because when I open them both of them are watching me.
Blink. Please blink.
The tea, the apartment, the fact that they’re both looking at me while dressed like that. At a certain point it starts feeling less like hospitality and more like a coordinated attack.
I clear my throat.
“Nobody should get to be this competent and also have good taste.”
Tyler makes a wounded sound.
“Wow. Didn’t even mention the pancakes.”
“I was getting there.”
He points at me with the spatula.
“See? She respects the craft.”
“Easy,” he says, eyes still on mine. “Encourage him too much and he’ll start narrating his own cooking show.”
Tyler snorts.
“She walked into the middle of one.”
Outside, Boston is disappearing under snow. Inside, I’ve somehow ended up at their kitchen island before nine in the morning while Tyler makes breakfast and Mason brews me tea. The whole thing feels suspiciously comfortable.
“I’m not encouraging anyone,” I say, wrapping both hands around the cup. “I’m just deciding if I should be offended you’ve been living like this under me without warning.”
Tyler’s grin widens.
“That sounded dirtier than you meant it.”
I choke on a laugh.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
His certainty is annoying. So is his accuracy.
Tyler reaches up to grab the powdered sugar from the cabinet above the stove, his sweatshirt riding up just enough to expose a sliver of skin and the sharp V disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts.
I immediately look away, eyes landing squarely on his toned thighs.
In my defense, there are currently very few safe places to look. It’s like being in a funhouse designed solely to test my self-control.
I take a very measured sip of tea and remind myself that objectifying my landlords during a weather emergency is probably frowned upon.
Then file the mental image away for a future self-care session with my wand anyway.
Mason slides a plate onto the island in front of me. Blueberry pancakes stacked high, butter melting into the seams, bacon still crackling faintly from the heat.
“Eat,” he says.
I arch a brow.
“Let me guess. That wasn’t a suggestion either.”
His eyes meet mine over the rim of his mug.
“No.”
Tyler, traitor that he is, looks between us and tries to hide a grin.
“Don’t mind him,” Tyler says. “Shoveling makes him crankier.”
“If you wait until after the storm, the snow freezes. You’ll be stuck for days.”
Tyler sets his own plate down and leans against the island, too restless to sit even in a blizzard.
“So,” I say, in between bites, “do you two do this a lot? Collect stranded tenants?”
“Just you, so far,” Tyler says.
“Lucky me.”
Mason’s mouth twitches before looking at Tyler.
“Depends who you ask.”
Something about the look they share makes my stomach flip. Suddenly the storm outside doesn’t feel like the most dangerous thing brewing. I take another bite of my pancakes and decide not to think about that yet.