Chapter 13
Annoying Roommate
The cottage kitchen smelled like home.
Emma would never have thought Zach’s place could be a home—he was too rigid, too controlled—but right now, it felt lived in. Warm.
She checked the pot roast, pleased with how the meat fell apart. Starting the slow cooker after breakfast had been worth it. The past two days had the men running ragged with hurricane prep, guzzling coffee as fuel. Someone needed to intervene before they expired from sheer masculine stubbornness.
The knife block beside the stove was professional-grade. So was the cast-iron skillet hanging from the pot rack. That wasn’t surprising, since they owned resorts. What startled her were the fresh herbs in small pots on the windowsill—rosemary, thyme, basil—and the pantry stocked for an expert chef.
She wondered which brother cooked. Probably Nick. He seemed the type.
Emma was whisking together a brown sugar glaze for the roasted carrots when she heard voices at the front door.
“Is that garlic?” David’s voice, hopeful and reverent. “Please tell me that’s garlic.”
“You’ve been living on protein bars again, haven’t you?” Nick’s dry, sardonic voice.
She smiled, not turning from the stove. “In here!”
They appeared in the kitchen doorway, both still in work clothes—Nick in dark slacks and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up, David in jeans and a rumpled Henley. David made a beeline for the oven like a homing missile.
“Don’t even think about it,” Emma brandished her whisk. “Not ready yet.”
“You’re cruel.” He grinned, boyish and unrepentant, and hopped up to sit on the island counter instead.
Nick leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her with open amusement. “You cooked.”
“Astute observation.”
“For all of us.”
“Also astute.” Emma drizzled the glaze over the carrots and slid them back into the oven. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Nick’s sincerity surprised her. “Seriously. This is—” He gestured at the kitchen, the food, her presence in their home. “Great.”
Before Emma could respond, Zach appeared beside Nick.
He froze in the doorway like he’d walked into the wrong house.
His gaze swept the kitchen—the pots on the stove, the table set for four, Emma in front of the oven with a dish towel over her shoulder—and something flickered across his face too fast for her to name.
“You cooked.”
“Relax,” Emma said lightly. “I’m not plotting to poison you.”
“Debatable,” Zach reached behind his back, unholstered a knife from his spine, and laid it on the entry table. He pulled his phone, keys, and a compact flashlight from his pockets, setting them down in a neat line next to the knife. The motions were precise, automatic—habit, not thought.
He didn’t remove the knife sheathed on his thigh. Did he ever relax?
She drew out a cutting board and started slicing the loaf of fresh bread she'd wheedled out of Chef. “You’ve been running yourselves into the ground with hurricane prep and living on junk food. Someone had to intervene.”
“I like her already.” Nick grabbed a beer from the fridge and settled onto a stool at the breakfast bar.
David swung his legs like a child. “I think she’s trying to win favor with management.”
Emma pointed the bread knife at him. “You’re not management tonight.”
“What am I, then?”
“An annoying roommate.”
Nick laughed. Zach didn’t smile but she detected an infinitesimal shift at the corner—not quite a smile, but close. She filed the tell away, adding it to her growing catalog of Zach micro-expressions.
“How’s the storm track looking?” she asked, arranging bread slices in a basket.
Nick sobered. “Helene. Category One, expected to hit upper three by the time it reaches us. It's still five days out, and we’re on the edge of the cone. We’ll see what the three-day forecast shows. That’s far more accurate.”
“Evacuation threshold?”
“Guests: Cat One. Non-essential staff: Cat Three,” Zach said. He moved to the sink and washed his hands with methodical thoroughness. “Luckily, we don’t have guests yet to worry about. Last update listed it at a high one. David’s monitoring it.”
Emma glanced at David, who pulled out his phone and swiped into what looked like weather radar. “If it hits four?”
“Mandatory evac for all personnel except the storm team,” Nick said. “We’ve got protocols in place.”
“Staff housing assignments.” She removed the carrots from the oven, thinking through the logistics. “If we reorganize them now into evacuation groups, it’ll save chaos later. Group by priority—who needs to leave first, who’s storm team, who’s backup.”
She chased that thought as she tossed more glaze on the carrots. “Hmm, let’s see. Storm team in the safest rooms: facing west, second or third floor. Non-essentials above and below.”
Zach looked up from the sink, his slate-blue eyes sharp and assessing in a way that made her spine straighten reflexively.
“That’s good,” he said.
Two words. Coming from him, they felt like a prize. Warmth spread through her chest.
“The staff building is at a higher elevation than the hotel, so the bottom floor is above storm surge levels. It’s the safest level. Put the storm team there. Backup team on the second floor. Non-essentials above.” Nick said.
“I’ll draft new assignments tonight,” Emma said. “Have it ready for tomorrow’s briefing. If it works well on this trial run, we can base long-term room assignments on that system, rather than randomly.”
Zach nodded. “If that becomes the permanent plan, maintenance should get steel panels for the first-floor windows. They’re stronger than the electronic ones. Customize them to fit around the existing system for deployment during major storms.”
He moved to the counter beside her and picked up the knife. Began slicing the bread she’d left half-finished.
Emma stilled. She caught a faint scent—warm wood and something clean, almost herbal. Lavender, maybe. Not cologne. He wasn’t the type. Just soap, and him.
He didn’t look at her. Didn’t acknowledge it. He simply took over the task with the same precise competence he brought to everything, his hands quick and sure.
“You don’t have to—” she started.
“I know.” He kept slicing.
Emma found herself oddly aware of how close he was.
Something both warm and unexpected lodged in Emma’s chest. This wasn’t helping to be helpful. This was… partnership. Sharing space. Moving around each other like they’d done this a hundred times before.
Nick watched them with barely concealed entertainment. “Zach, you’re being domesticated.”
“No.” Flat. Immediate.
“The woman sleeping in your bed just made you dinner.”
Emma’s cheeks heated, even though she knew Nick was teasing Zach. David’s grin went wicked, although he didn’t glance up from his phone.
“That’s basically marriage,” David added helpfully.
“Stop talking.” Zach’s voice could have cut glass.
Emma laughed—she couldn’t help it—and something in the room shifted. Lightened. Zach’s gaze flickered to her, then away, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the sound of her laughter in his space.
“Speaking of disasters,” David said, pocketing his phone, a sheepish expression on his face, “I may have accidentally locked the hotel HVAC system into diagnostic mode.”
Nick’s head turned slowly. “Define ‘accidentally’.”
“I was improving it.”
“Those are famous last words,” she said, checking the potatoes. Almost done. “Right up there with ‘watch this’ and ‘I know what I’m doing’.”
“Don’t forget ‘hold my beer’,” Nick added with a grin.
“I do know what I’m doing,” David protested. “The system needed updating. The interface was from 2025!”
“And now it’s in diagnostic mode,” Nick said. “Which means what, exactly?”
“Nothing’s broken; it’s just… locked. I can unlock it. Ninety percent sure.”
Zach made a sound—barely audible, somewhere between exasperation and resignation. Emma glanced at him in time to spot it: the tiniest shift in his expression, humor softening the hard line of his mouth.
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. But the corner of his mouth moved. Subtly. Like something in him recognized the absurdity and, despite himself, was amused.
Emma’s breath caught.
This was who he was with them. His brothers. The people he let inside his walls.
She turned back to the stove before he could catch her staring, but her pulse quickened. She’d glimpsed something private, something most people never saw—Zach Steele, relaxed and nearly human.
She pulled the pot roast from the oven. “Dinner in five.”
She transferred the roast to another cutting board, hyper-aware of him beside her. The controlled economy of his movements. The heat of his body in the narrow galley. His scent.
“You cook like this every night?” David asked from his perch at the bar, “or is this a one-time bribe?”
“I’m making dinner, not applying for a job.”
“True, you do technically have one already.”
Emma wiped all amusement from her face and shot him a warning glare. “And you technically want to eat, so I’d watch the commentary.”
Nick snorted. David’s grin turned sharp and mischievous, eyes glinting with the particular brand of troublemaking that Lena said got him into regular trouble.
“Is that any way to talk to your boss?”
“You’re not my boss.” Emma pulled serving dishes from the cabinet—crystal, expensive, definitely Nick’s doing.
She thought about that for a second. Nope. He’d been too down-to-earth here at home for that. More likely, the purchasing manager wanted to impress him. “You’re an annoying roommate who’s about to lose dinner privileges.”
Nick laughed outright. David pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense.
“Zach,” he appealed. “Are you going to let her talk to me like that?”
Zach set down the knife. Turned. Met Emma’s eyes with something that might have been approval, or amusement, or both.
“Yes,” he said.
David sighed dramatically. “Fine. I’ll behave.”
“Doubtful,” Nick murmured.
“Unlikely,” Zach said at the same time.
Emma brought the pot roast to the table. Zach followed with the bread basket, and the four of them settled into their chairs as if this were routine. Normal. A weekly dinner instead of the first time she’d cooked in their space.
“This might be the best decision we’ve made all week,” Nick eyed the food with genuine appreciation.
“Second best,” David corrected.
Emma raised an eyebrow. “What was the first?”
“Letting you move in.”
Something in her core went soft and dangerous. She’d expected jokes, teasing, even mild resentment at having their masculine sanctuary invaded. Not… this. Simple acceptance. Warmth.
Of course, Marguerite lived in their house on Mimosa Cay. Kate and Lena did now as well. This family atmosphere may be normal for them. Maybe she was the one not used to it.
“Eat,” Zach said.
Everyone reached for serving spoons. Emma passed the pot roast to Nick, who passed the carrots to David, who loaded his plate like he hadn’t seen food in days. Easy choreography. Found family in action.
Across the table, through the steam rising from the meal and the comfortable chaos of reaching hands and clinking silverware, Emma caught Zach watching her.
Not assessing. Not analyzing.
Just… watching.
Her pulse kicked. Their eyes held for a beat too long—long enough for her to see past the ice to something warmer underneath. Something that looked almost like contentment.
Then he blinked, the moment broke, and he reached for the bread like nothing had happened.
Emma’s hands trembled as she served herself potatoes.
She was in trouble.
The very best kind.