Chapter 12 #2
The longer we’re cuffed together, the harder this gets, the more confusing, and many more shades of fucked up.
I push an angry hand through my hair, hating that it’s coming down to this.
Hating everything about this situation—but especially how she’s willing to throw away what she’s entitled to because of us.
Because of me, she’s ready to walk away with bronze instead of gold. I don’t just mean the money.
She’s willing to sacrifice her pride and legacy for an underhanded cutthroat who sees an easy target.
We spend the rest of the day apart, but come evening, I throw together dinner.
The kitchen calms the storm in my head when I can’t hit the gym. I figure she needs something to cheer her up, too.
After everything that’s happened over the past week, my mood brightens as I fry up the onions and scallops. I can hear the TV going in the great room as she watches some obnoxious music show.
I’m humming to myself like I’m at home, just Kit and me, settled in our weekly routine.
When she walks in from the great room, my shoulders tense.
“American Idol’s next big thing. Can’t miss it,” she says, voice dry.
“Shit, that’s still going?”
“Mm-hmm.” She walks closer. “What are you cooking?”
“Scallops and mashed potatoes tonight. Side of broccoli.” I taste the buttery scallop sauce, relishing the heat. “It’s spicy. You gonna be okay with that? Or should I fix you some oatmeal instead?”
She accepts the spoon I hold out, the challenge flaring in her eyes. “Seriously? I lived off hot curries and flaming chili ramen packs in college.”
“Nothing new to you, then.”
She blows on the spoon and tests it. Then she grins. “You mean to tell me you spiced this up? The guy who couldn’t handle a habanero?”
“I can hold the line when it’s smothered in red chili flakes, yeah. Sorry if you don’t have any nerves left in your mouth.”
“Oh God.” She shoulder checks me and rolls her eyes. “Classic Holden. Thinking he’s all that because he learned to handle heat. So did that happen before or after I tampered with your chicken salad?”
“That was attempted murder.” I snort. “You mixed in raw fucking pepper. Nearly wiped out a whole gallon of milk trying to cool my mouth down.”
She giggles.
“Typical Portland boy, born and raised,” I say dryly. “Had to work my way up the ladder. Maybe I’ll take another stab at the habanero in retirement.”
“Where’d you learn to cook anyway?”
“Self-taught. My mom needed help in the kitchen growing up. There were four of us kids and I was the oldest.”
“You guys must be close.”
No question.
“Close enough, yeah. No surprise when my siblings moved out of state and I’m the one who stayed.
Good thing, too. Without Kit around, Mom would be bored out of her skull.
” I focus on the potatoes so I don’t have to look at her, though I feel her watching me, her eyes drawn to me like magnets.
“Also, she needs more help these days. Bad arthritis. My father forgets more every year, something like early dementia, and it’s hard for her to manage alone. ”
I don’t tell her how truly crippling it is.
How my mom can’t stand more than ten minutes in front of the stove to cook like she loved—and how much of a toll that’s taken on her mental health.
Never mind Dad’s dementia, the way he mixes up people and places at an alarming rate. Last week, he confused their fortieth anniversary cruise in the Bahamas with their honeymoon. Mom looked devastated.
I also don’t mention how her joint issues are probably hereditary. That’s my problem, and no one else’s.
My knee creaks again, reminding me I can’t outrun age and genetics, no matter how hard I try with diet and exercise.
“I’m sure she’s proud of you.” Cleo grabs a fork and steals a scallop as I’m stirring the potatoes and plating up. “If nothing else, you’re one hell of a cook. She taught you well and it shows.”
“Woman, just because my idea of good food isn’t instant ramen slathered in a whole bottle of sriracha—”
“In college,” she protests, jabbing me in the side again.
I dodge her, swatting her back with the spatula.
“Yeah, what do you cook now? Don’t think I’ve seen you in the kitchen.”
“I can make a mean omelet. And my French toast is legendary, or so my old roommate said.” She tries and fails not to smile.
“French toast? Heavy-ass meal to start the day.”
“Delicious start, you mean. The one thing Dad ever bothered making consistently. Usually because he was so hungover it was the only thing he could handle without throwing up. Get me a skillet and the right ingredients, and I will cook that bread to perfection.”
“Not the brag you think it is, Nile. Keep talking and you’ll be making it for dinner tomorrow.”
“Oh, it’s on. Prepare to be blown away,” she promises.
I stare at her for a second, something in my chest softening. She fetches silverware and sets the table like it’s normal routine.
The ritual I wish I’d had with Charli, half a lifetime ago.
Cursed thoughts.
“I like how you aren’t as scowly when it’s dinnertime.” She brings out a bottle of wine and pours two glasses.
“Huh?”
“You’re usually scowling. Or glowering. Or glaring. Or—”
“I get it, brat. So what?”
She laughs, showing off her elegant throat.
Goddamn, I want to sink my teeth in and fucking mark her.
“So, you should learn to lighten up without a plate of food in front of you. You’d be more approachable.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
When she looks at me again, I know it’s not something premeditated and intentional. She’s not trying to stir me up on purpose, it just comes naturally.
“Mealtimes are sacred in our house,” I say, carrying the plates to the table. “That’s when I get a little peace and quiet. Until Kit goes off about her latest book.”
“I heard her talking about the Russian Revolution. She was really into the egg. I wish you’d let me tell her more.” She smiles.
I roll my eyes fondly. “The girl likes the bloodiest parts of history. Not sure what that means for her later on.”
“They’re the most interesting.” She raises her glass and takes a long sip.
I stare down at the food on my plate, pretending to fluff my potatoes.
How has it come to this? Trying to get through dinner without a permanent hard-on.
“She seems like a sweet kid, though,” Cleo says, not seeming to notice the direction my thoughts are going. “You must be proud of her.”
“I am. Every nerdy, mischievous bit of her.”
The smile Cleo beams back looks a little sad.
I wonder if she’s thinking about her dad and all the ways he’s never been that attentive.
“Nothing wrong with nerdy. The world needs more of that—especially girl nerds. They’re the ones who figure it out for the rest of us while they’re sorting out their own lives.”
Can’t disagree with that logic.
I lift my glass. “Here’s to that. As long as she always remembers there are times when her old man knows best.”
Cleo’s eyes sparkle over the top of her wineglass. The same wine she got from the cellar earlier, when I wasn’t looking. Must be a joy for her to walk in and find it unlocked.
So much has changed.
“She won’t,” she says flatly. “Once she hits twelve or thirteen, you’re screwed.”
“Already dreading it.”
“She’s going to run rings around you.” She grins, licking a stray drop of wine from the rim of her glass. The burgundy liquid disappears behind her lips.
Too sexy by half.
That’s her problem, and she doesn’t even know it.
My cock does, though, and it has a one-track mind. If it had a vote, I’d swear off scallops for life if it meant hauling Cleo into bed this second.
“If she’s anything like you, she’ll make me grey as a wizard’s beard,” I say.
“Greyer, you mean.” I glower. She reaches over and flicks at my beard. “Don’t be embarrassed. The silver makes you look kinda distinguished. You’ll be rocking the full-blown silver fox vibe in five or ten years.”
“Watch it,” I growl, but I relax back into the chair as I pull away, nursing my wine.
Best if I drink very little tonight, and her too. I’ll be counting her glasses.
We don’t want a repeat of—fuck, everything that just happened.
The rest of the meal passes with small talk about our daily routines, the extended family. She tells me the latest she’s heard on her happily married cousins.
I can’t believe that fucking punk Ethan actually helps his wife with her bookstore. Didn’t think he had it in him.
I listen to her complain about her cramped apartment back in Boston, what a mess it is with all her painting equipment lodged into a one-bedroom unit. How sometimes she opens the warped window at sunset and paints, and it’s how she finds her inner peace.
She doesn’t mention her father again.
I’m glad she doesn’t ask me about Kit’s mother, either.
Two ghosts that don’t have to exist if no one mentions them out loud.
We trade stories about our lives like two people over an ordinary dinner—a dinner date I didn’t ask for, shit—and it strikes me how easy it is to be with her when we’re battling our worst instincts or fussing over that mummy cursed object in the basement.
Dangerously easy.
Wine or not, Cleo Blackthorn looks more seductive eating by the nanosecond. I have to adjust my belt, stretching my legs under the table until it hurts.
Good.
Pain will make me sane.
Pain will kill this hard-on from hell and cool the molten lava in my blood.
I must be trying too hard, though. She stops and cocks her head. “Holden? You good?”
“Hmm?” I stroke my beard. “Yeah, sorry, I spaced. Something stuck in my teeth,” I lie. “What were you saying?”
She looks down at the last smear of potato and broccoli she’s chasing around her plate.
“I asked you about the offer,” she says quietly. “Do you think I should take it?”
Not this again.
I sit back in my chair, annoyed that we’ve come full circle. But besides being her bodyguard, I’m her point man too, her only partner in crime.
I shake my head. “Told you before, it’s not my decision.”
“Yes, but if it was…”