by Sosie Frost
Fiona laughed. “Oh, don’t worry, honey. We all make mistakes. Feel free to blame Lachlan.” She pulled her son in for a hug once more. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“Yeah. No problem.”
“Sebastian hasn’t eaten.”
“Neither have we.”
Fiona shook her head. “Then I wish you the best of luck. Please try to feed him something other than pizza. I’d like this child to get a little nutrition at some point in his life.”
“We’ll make him a real dinner.”
We? I shrugged at him. “Maybe I should let you and him spend some time together—”
“It took me this long to score a date with you—you’re staying.” He waved for Fiona to go. “You take care of Aunt Meredith. Say bye to Mom, Bast.”
Sebastian yelled from inside his pillow fort. “I’m Sebastian!”
Lachlan shrugged. “See. We got this.”
Fiona waved goodbye and hurried to her car. Lachlan closed the door, leaning against it with a sharp exhale.
“Sorry about this,” he said.
“I didn’t take you for the baby-sitting type.”
“I help her out as much as I can. It’s always been the two of us…” He nodded toward the collapsing pillow fort. “Well, three of us now. Gotta stick together. Family first, right?”
Yeah, right. He was speaking to a girl who hadn’t seen her family in years.
A girl who left two voice mails for a father within the past week.
A girl who had yet to hear back from her father because she had so ruined any possible relationship with him and her family it was unlikely he even thought of her as a daughter anymore.
If I had been as devoted to my siblings as Lachlan was to Sebastian, things might have been a lot different.
“Are you okay with staying here?” Lachlan asked. “I’ll make us dinner.”
“Are you a good cook?”
“No idea. We’ll find out.”
Well, this had the potential for disaster. I kicked off my heels and readied to watch the fireworks.
Lachlan surveyed the mess of pillows cluttering his living room. He picked a cushion up with his right hand and fished out a squirming Sebastian with his left.
“Okay, little man. Are you hungry?”
“I want pizza!”
“Not every dinner has to be delivered in thirty minutes or less, kiddo.”
Sebastian laughed as Lachlan flipped him onto the pillows. He curled a finger for me to follow.
I liked the kitchen—white and beachy, just like the rest of the house. Huge windows captured the sunset, streaming orange-gold light over the quartz counters. An eat-in table wedged in the corner, opposite an entrance to a formal dining room which seemed to be a catch-all for Lachlan’s equipment.
The duffel bags were his only clutter. No decorations on the shelves. No art or pictures on the walls. Totally minimalist, unlike me.
Weird.
“I…uh…” Lachlan took inventory of his fridge with a frown. “Have a private chef now. I’ve never cooked much. Mom handled dinners when I was at home, and I ate in the athletic dining hall at college…”
He glanced at me. I hated to dash his hopes.
“I…usually grab a salad from a little bistro near my apartment on my way home from the practices.”
“Never learned at home?”
“The only thing I learned in the kitchen at home was how to jiggle the screen door so it wouldn’t squeak when I was sneaking out.”
“Naughty girl.”
Not really. Dinner time was always the worst. Dad usually demanded one of my sisters prepare him dinner. As the youngest, I never had that responsibility. Instead I was meant to sit at the table, completely silent as a woman was meant to be, and listen politely as he talked about his day at the office. It worked fine until my sisters were married off or away at their women’s colleges. Then Dad and I were alone.
I ran away the night Dad bruised my cheek because I refused to make him a steak.
I shrugged. “Didn’t stick around long enough to grab the family recipes.”
Lachlan searched the freezer. “Well, Christ. It can’t be that hard. Here. Chicken breasts. Bast, want some chicken?”
Bast wrestled with the stools at the counter, warning us of the imminent, imaginary lava danger pouring over the wooden floor. “Stop calling me Bast.”
Lachlan avoided the lava and stood on a rug. “If you want to eat, you’re gonna be called Bast.”
“Aw man.”
Lachlan glanced at me. “I named the damn kid. See the thanks I get?”
“You named him?”
“Bast. Chicken. Yes or no?”
Sebastian amused himself by clacking a salt and pepper shaker together. “I don’t like chicken.”
“What are you talking about? You love chicken. You have nuggets all the time.”
“That isn’t nuggets.”
Oh, this was going to be a fun night.
I leaned against the counter, chin in my hands. “Yeah, Charming. Those aren’t nuggets.”
“Well…” He stared at the package of frozen breasts. “They’re the inside of the nugget. You like what’s inside the nugget.”
Sebastian grinned, missing a front tooth. “I like what’s outside better.”
“But I know you like chicken.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I’ve watched you eat it for Mom.”
“Na-uh.”
“Yes-huh. You’re in the lava.”
Lachlan edged back onto the rug. I hopped from the counter and played along, dropping a paper towel to the floor so I could poke through the pantry without getting lava’d.
For a man who hired a private chef, he had a ton of pre-packaged food. Unfortunately, it was the same junk found in a college dorm, and it should have stayed there. I tossed Lachlan a blue box guaranteed to please a kid. He thunked it on the island.
“Here,” he said. “What about mac and cheese?”
Sebastian shook his head. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
“It’s yucky.”
Lachlan stared at the box. “It’s cheese and butter. How can that be yucky?”
“It’s orange.”
I bit back a laugh. The kid was lucky he was cute or he would have starved to death by now.
Lachlan tapped his fingers on the counter. “You don’t eat orange foods now?”
“Nope.”
“Little man, I watched you eat an actual orange. Yesterday.”
His little shoulders shrugged up to his ears, but he didn’t bring them back down. “That’s different.”
“So you won’t eat mac and cheese?”
Sebastian didn’t seem as distressed as his brother. “Can I play on your phone?”
“Let’s feed you first.”
Now he groaned. “But I’m bored.”
Lachlan returned to the fridge. “And I’m hungry. But I don’t have much. I’m cutting now, not eating carbs or sugar.”
Ew. I scrunched my nose. “Sounds like a boring dinner date.”
“For you, I’d cheat.” He winked. “Besides, you’d help me work off the calories after dinner. Couple special exercises.”
Sebastian tilted his head. “What kind of exercises?”
“Yeah, Lachlan,” I said. “How did you plan to exercise?”
“A vigorous game of tag.” He pointed at me. “And I’d be chasing you. A lot.”
“Sure I couldn’t outrun you?”
“I’d love to try.”
“I’ll play tag!” Sebastian slapped Lachlan’s arm. “You’re—”
He caught the rug-rat before he bolted out of the kitchen. Sebastian groaned, but Lachlan plunked his butt on the stool.
“Want a salad?” Lachlan asked.
“No.”
“Why? It’s good for you. Lots of vegetables.”
Sebastian faked gagging, cupping his throat. “I don’t like veggietables.”
“Th
at’s crazy, little man. You gotta eat your veggies.”
“Why?”
“So you can grow up big and strong.”
“Why?”
“So you can play football one day.”
Sebastian’s toothy grin matched Lachlan’s. “Why?”
“So you can make lots of money and be a tight-end like me.”
“Why?”
Oh, this could go on all night. “Show him your muscles, Charming. That’ll convince him.”
Lachlan nudged Sebastian. “She wants to see how strong we are. Show her your muscles.”
They both grunted, flexing their arms and curling their biceps with a roar.
“Very impressive,” I said.
“I got nothing on the little man.” Lachlan pointed at the kid. “How about spaghetti?”
“Yeah!” Sebastian forgot himself and actually agreed, though he was careful to warn his brother of his preferences. “But not the stuff from a jar.”
“What?”
“The sauce from the jar. It smells like Uncle Bowie.”
I hid my smirk. “And what does Uncle Bowie smell like?”
“Bad,” Sebastian said. “Like Lachlan’s stinky feet!”
Lachlan sighed. “It’s true. Genetic condition.”
“Your feet or Uncle Bowie’s smell?”
“Wanna give me a foot rub and find out?”
“After you make us spaghetti so we don’t die of hunger.”
Lachlan shrugged. “With what? All I have is a jar of the smelly feet sauce. What about a grilled cheese, Bast?”
“I want spaghetti.”
“Of course you do.” He looked at me. “Do you know how to make spaghetti?”
“Uh…” I checked my phone, typing in a generic search for any homemade marinara sauce. “Maybe we can fake it.”
“Let’s get this straight right now,” Lachlan said. “No woman has ever faked anything with me.”
“A bold claim.”
“Help me make the spaghetti, and I’ll prove it.”
“I don’t know…” I paused over a recipe that didn’t look too complicated. “That’s a pretty big favor.”
“You should know I’m a very gracious host.”
“That I seem to remember.”
Sebastian groaned and tipped over his salt shaker. “I’m hungry. Can I have the sketti please?”
“Coming right up, little man. Right, Elle?”
“First time for everything,” I said. “See if you can’t find garlic and an onion.”
His personal chef deserved a raise. Lachlan found a heavy yellow onion and a head of garlic from his pantry, and I returned with two cans of tomatoes.
Sebastian amused himself on Lachlan’s phone as we stared at the ingredients on the cutting board.
“We need to chop this onion,” I said.
“Can’t be that hard.”
“Where are your knives?”
An excellent question. Lachlan rubbed the scruff on his chin.
“Well…” He opened a couple drawers and peeked in a cupboard. “Here’s the thing. I just moved in here. Like, the day before training camp.”
“And?”
“Well, I haven’t spent a lot of time here.”
“And?”
“My chef brings his own knives.”
“You don’t have your own cutlery?”
“Um…” He searched through the drawers before pulling a bag of plastic utensils. “Here!”
Fantastic.
I tested the knife on the onion. No dice. Literally. The little teeth of the butter knife wouldn’t cut through the skin.
Lachlan pulled a plastic fork from the bag. “Lemme try. You’ll need some muscle.”
He gripped the onion in one hand. With the other, he launched for the flesh, stabbing through the onion with the tines of the fork like a meth-head vampire-slayer aiming for the kill.
“Muscle?” I ducked out of the way as a hunk of dripping onion hurled through the air, smacked the fridge, and tumbled to the floor. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Nah, I’ve got it.”
He stabbed again, pulverizing the inside of the onion. The bulb shredded, but it spit. A glob of onion juice spurted directly into Lachlan’s eye.
He sputtered, clutching his face. “Jesus—”
I interrupted him. “There’s a child!”
“Crickets.”
Sebastian laughed. “I don’t want to eat crickets!”
Lachlan blinked with a hiss. “We’re about to eat you for dinner if you don’t stop laughing, little man.”
“Na-uh.”
Lachlan grumbled as I took over onion-duty. “Sure, I’ll stuff you in a stew. Tuck you in a pot and turn up the heat.”
“You wouldn’t eat me!”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” He broke off a chunk of garlic in his hands. “You’re too scrawny, and I got a big appetite.” He stared at me, a hungry smile growing. “You can have the spaghetti. I’ll eat Elle.”
“You’re so bad.” I aimed our onion-shredder at him. “Don’t start.”
“Start what? I just want a little nibble.”
“Don’t.”
“Just a taste.”
“Hush.”
“How about if I give you a little lick?”
Sebastian shouted, leaping over the counter. “Run, Elle! Before he eats you!”
Lachlan loved the chase. He growled and dove for me. The onion made a terrible weapon, and I didn’t have a chance to bolt. Sebastian shouted for me to follow him into the living room.
I didn’t make it.
Lachlan was very quick when an opportunity to eat presented itself.
He grabbed me before I darted from the kitchen and captured me in his arms. Strong arms. Arms that pinned me against his chest, so close I could only stare into his brilliantly green eyes.
“Got you.” He whispered. “And I’ll devour you whole.”
I clocked him with the onion, but he didn’t let me go.
“Do you surrender, or do I have to start nibbling?”
My breath trapped in my chest. I didn’t answer. Sebastian scuffed his way back to the room, covering his eyes.
“Gross! You’re gonna kiss her!”
Among other things if I gave him a chance. I pushed away, but Lachlan leapt for Sebastian instead.
“Not if I kiss you first!”
Both boys screamed and tore through the house, leaving me with a fork, an onion, and absolutely no plan as to how I was going to cook a dinner without proper utensils.
I held the onion with a tea-towel as Lachlan chased Sebastian through the kitchen three times, circling the island before launching into the living room, crashing into the couch, and knocking over a table.
Lachlan called for a truce, Sebastian tossed a pillow, and the war was on.
Lachlan grabbed the kid and carried him, struggling, onto the patio and toward the pool. Sebastian shouted Uncle from the edge of Lachlan’s diving board.
I’d managed to pulverize half of the onion, sawing through the rings with the tines of the fork and crisscrossing enough pulp out to make a serviceable sauce.
The boys returned as I stared at the garlic. Lachlan peeked over my shoulder, close enough to kiss. He didn’t.
I think I was disappointed.
“This has to be minced,” I said. “Any ideas?”
Lachlan motioned for me to wait and hurried off through the house, Sebastian in tow. He returned with a razor from his bathroom.
“Seriously?” I said.
“It’s clean. I changed the blade.”
“Oh, good. Otherwise this would be weird.” I aimed the razor at the bulb of garlic, meticulously skinned thanks to time, patience, and fingernails. The razor peeled off the garlic in thin strips, and I shrugged. “This will work. What’s next?”
Lachlan found a pot and set it on the stove. He lit the pilot and cranked the hea
t. “Oil in the pot.”
“Have any?”
“Plenty.”
“Not baby oil.”
“Oh. Then I’m not sure.” He rooted through the pantry and found a bottle of olive oil. “Aha.”
I indulged his grin and watched as he uncapped the bottle, danced with the container to the stove, tilted it with a flourish—
And promptly poured the oil over the stove top instead of in the pot.
“Whoops.” Lachlan nearly dropped the bottle. “Get a towel?”
I sighed. “You’re like a mini-tornado in the kitchen, you know that?”
I handed him a towel, and he sopped up the mess. “But you think it’s cute.”
“Yep. You’re like a helpless little puppy.”
“But you like puppies.”
“I like dinner more.”
“I promised you food, we’re getting food—”
Lachlan turned away from the stove just long enough for Sebastian to shout. The oil soaked towel rested over the gas-lit burner and immediately singed, blackened, and then pop! Erupted into flame.
“Whoa!” I nearly dropped the shredded onions and garlic. “Lachlan!”
Sebastian’s fire safety lessons kicked in. He shouted from the middle of the kitchen. “Get out quick before the smoke gets thick!”
Lachlan grimaced. “Sit, Bast. I’ve got it.”
He really didn’t. I backed away as he flipped off the stove and beat at the rag with a second towel—which also promptly licked the flames and singed.
“Smother it!” I said. “It’s got oil on it!”
“A fire that is small is soon to be tall!”
Lachlan grabbed a pair of tongs from the drawer, picked up the burning rags, and rushed around the kitchen searching for an appropriate container. I slammed a second frying pan on the counter just as the smoke detector buzzed, his phone started to ring, and the first-round draft choice of the Ironfield Rivets nearly scorched his multi-million dollar hands.
“Stay low and go!” Sebastian dropped to the floor and started crawling away.
Lachlan stuffed the burning rags into the pan, popped the lid on, and pointed to his brother.
“Not a word of that to Mom.”
Sebastian’s eyes got big. “Stop, Drop, and Roll!”
I screeched, batting at an ember on Lachlan’s vest that nearly torched through. He swore, ripped the vest off, and stomped out the lick of flame.
He turned off the smoke alarm with a code from his phone and breathed deep.
