Johanna
CHAPTER EIGHT
“TUNNEL VISION” — JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE
Six Years Ago
The intoxicating smell of cinnamon and sugar hits me before I even reach the kitchen. For a moment, I think I must still be dreaming—because I know no one in this house of overgrown frat boys is capable of making something that smells this delicious.
When I round the corner to come down the hallway leading from the bedrooms to the living room and kitchen, I hear voices. All male, all loud, and completely unfiltered.
Fantastic. It’s the testosterone trio.
I pause, giving myself one last chance to turn around and crawl back into bed before they realize I’m up—before I have to make small talk with the human embodiment of chaos that is my brother’s band. My stomach growls in protest like I’ve personally offended it, and I know I’ll regret not eating.
The moment I step into the kitchen, the voices are silenced and three pairs of eyes swing my way.
It’s like walking onto the runway in the middle of a fashion show in a room jam-packed with press—except I’ve traded the designer couture for an old t-shirt and leggings.
Even still, I can practically feel their attention crawl up my skin.
Tony, the only one I haven’t officially met, is perched on a barstool. He wears nothing but his plaid pajama pants and a smirk as he chomps down on a piece of French toast without ever taking his eyes off me.
Eric—who used to practically live at our house when we were growing up because his parents were never around—gives me his signature crooked half-grin, looking equal parts charming and dangerous.
Brandon is at the stove with his back to me.
He’s wearing a black long-sleeve t-shirt, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, forearms inked and flexed as he flips a piece of French toast with effortless precision.
He doesn’t turn when he hears me, but he knows I’m here.
I can see the shift in him. The small straightening of his spine.
The tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before.
“Look who finally decided to wake up,” Eric says, crossing the room to pull me into a side hug. “How was the trip?”
“Fine,” I say, leaning into him for half a second before I pull away. My focus is already somewhere else—still on the man at the stove who seems to refuse to look at me.
“Hi there, sunshine,” Tony drawls through a mouthful of food, pulling my focus. “I was starting to think you didn’t actually exist.”
“Oh, I exist,” I say, brushing past him towards the coffee pot. “In your nightmares.”
“If you’re in my nightmares, I’ll take ‘em,” he snickers.
“Can you not?” Eric mutters with a smack to the back of Tony’s head. “Just ignore him, Jo. We forgot to muzzle him this morning.”
Brandon finally speaks, his tone low enough to cut through the noise. “Fix you a plate?”
The question catches me off guard. “I—” My voice falters before I clear my throat. “Sure.”
He slides two pieces of French toast onto a warm plate and places it in front of one of the barstools along with a tray of butter and a bottle of maple syrup.
I move away from the coffee machine and slide onto the barstool as my stomach growls again.
Brandon hands me silverware without looking directly at me, and somehow that’s worse. I try to eat slowly, carefully, because I know if I let myself, I’ll devour the whole thing and give him the satisfaction of being right twice in less than twenty-four hours about my eating habits.
Tony makes a move for the maple syrup like some sort of feral, sugar-obsessed gremlin as he’s finished stacking what I’m guessing is his third plate of toast. With fast reflexes, Brandon smacks his hand away without hesitation.
“Did you ask our guest if she was done with it before you tried to grab it from her?” Brandon’s voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it—something almost protective, territorial.
My stomach flips—fuck. It’s just syrup. Just breakfast—but the way he says it feels like more than that. I’m quick to remind myself I can’t care about the way he treats me or that he apparently makes the best French toast known to man.
“She was finished.” Tony grins devilishly, pouring the rest of the half-full bottle on his plate. “Weren’t you, sweetheart?”
I open my mouth to respond, but the air changes. Brandon freezes—barely perceptible, but I catch it. His jaw ticks.
“Why don’t you go finish that in front of the TV?” he says, his tone still deceptively casual.
Tony blinks, confused by the response. “What?”
“You heard me,” Brandon says before turning to Eric. “Both of you.”
Eric looks between us and his eyebrow cocks. “Seriously? You think that’s a good—”
“Yep,” Brandon says, and his voice doesn’t waver in the slightest.
Tony catches on and snickers. “Fine. We’re going.” He grabs his plate and stands, bumping shoulders with Eric on his way out. “Enjoy your breakfast, sweetheart.”
He turns to give one last wink, knowing he’s pushing it as Brandon’s head snaps toward him and my pulse kicks into overdrive.
“Go,” Brandon warns, and for once, Tony and Eric listen.
The moment they’re gone, the kitchen feels smaller.
Brandon goes back to the counter and braces his palms against it, his head bowed like he’s trying to get himself back under control.
“You didn’t have to chase them off,” I say, breaking the silence. “I’m a big girl. I can handle Tony and his commentary.”
I hear him exhale, but he still doesn’t turn to face me. “Didn’t want to—had to.”
“Why?” I ask, but the minute the word leaves my lips, I’m not sure I want to know his answer.
“Because if Tony called you sweetheart one more time, I was going to put him through a wall.”
My breath catches, and before I can think better of it, I whisper, “Why do you care what Tony calls me?”
Finally, he turns around. He’s still leaning against this counter with his palms pressed into the granite, but his gaze lifts to meet mine. “I shouldn’t.”
“You shouldn’t,” I echo, because my brain can’t form a more intelligent response and the fact is, he’s right.
The space between us feels electric—charged in a way I’ve never felt before. He moves towards the island slowly, almost like he’s giving me a chance to stop him.
I don’t.
He leans over the island and his fingers graze mine as he takes my empty plate, his eyes never leaving mine. It’s a light touch—barely there—but it sets my skin and my core on fire, just like my own touch had done last night thinking about what this sensation would feel like.
In my head, I find myself admitting, I want more than what I can give myself.
“Need anything else, Hurricane?” he asks innocently, turning away again to place my plate in the sink.
Yes. No. Maybe. Fuck.
“So you get to use a nickname—one I hate—but Tony doesn’t?” I challenge him, snapping out of my daze after realizing his hypocrisy. “Make it make sense.”
When he doesn’t respond, I slide off my stool and turn to go back to my room. I should leave—retreat down the hallway, close my door, and pretend none of this interaction ever happened.
Instead, I linger for a moment at the threshold, giving him one more chance to say something. Anything.
He doesn’t.
Just before I step out of the kitchen, I hear his voice—low, rough, and meant only for me.
“You started it, Johanna.”