Neither one of us moves.
The ding of an alarm makes us both jump. He sets the glasses down and turns back to the kitchen. He moves around, opens the oven and fusses over whatever is inside. The delicious scent of something roasting draws me in and makes my stomach grumble in appreciation.
I don’t know what’s going on between us. We have this odd connection I can’t explain. I’ve known him for a little over a year, and most of that time I spent hating him for judging me. But now I have to ask myself, who’s judging whom? I walk into the kitchen and wash my hands. “What can I do? Put me to work.”
He hesitates for a second, then opens the fridge and takes out several vegetables. “Do you know how to make stuffing?”
“I’ve never made it before, but tell me what to do, and I can work on that.”
“We need to chop the vegetables first, all in even sizes.” He grabs a bag of baby carrots, opens it, eats the first one and offers me the bag. I take a carrot and crunch on it while he cuts up a few carrots to show me how he wants it done.
“You work on the carrots, and I’ll wash the mushrooms and celery. I know you’re not supposed to wash mushrooms, but I could never bring myself not to. Wait? Do you like mushrooms?”
“I like everything.” Starving kids are not picky.
“I’ll cut up the onions, they get cooked first.” He chops the onion in seconds and puts them in a pot with a drizzle of avocado oil.
“Avocado oil?”
“It’s better for you. Even better than olive oil, but with a much milder flavor.”
“Tommy said you’re a talented cook.” The more I see Dylan outside Riggins, the more I realize he’s nothing like I imagined him to be.
We settle next to each other with cutting boards and a growing pile of cut-up veggies in a bowl between us. It’s mindless, simple work, but I’m aware of how close we are and how our elbows brush every so often. We fall into silence—the sound of chopping and knives scraping on the wooden boards oddly comforting.
He turns to the stove and stirs the onions. The fragrant smell adds to the already heavenly aromas in the kitchen. “We should put some music on. That’s usually Tommy’s job, but he’s gone into hiding, looks like.”
“I hope it wasn’t something I said,” I whisper to myself, but he hears me.
“What do you mean?” He looks at me, wooden spoon in hand, such a common and yet unfamiliar image I have trouble reconciling the Professor Dick I know with him. Dylan.
“When we were setting the table, I said I loved the dishes, that they were beautiful. He got quiet and said they were your grandparents’ china, and that they were all gone. After that, he went upstairs.”
Dylan nods and goes back to stirring the pot. “He gets a little down this time of the year. But he’s also in the habit of disappearing when there’s kitchen work. Don’t worry. It wasn’t anything you said.”
I nod, not sure how to reply, and add the last of the veggies into the bowl. I take the cutting boards and knives to the spotless sink. Dylan is a clean-as-you-go guy.
He sets the spoon on the side of the pot. “What kind of music do you like?”
“Hmm …” I don’t think anyone ever asked me that before. “Something mellow?”
He smiles and the corners of his eyes crinkle. It tugs at something inside me, like the loosening of corset strings. I can breathe better.
“Something mellow it is.” He pulls a cell phone from his pocket, taps the screen a few times and sets it on a small dock on the granite counter. The first strings of a song filter through hidden speakers in the walls.
“I put Pandora on. Is this song okay?”
I nod. But as I listen to the lyrics, I feel less and less okay. It’s as if the singer can see inside my soul. This song could be my anthem, I too have voices in my head that say I’m not enough. “What’s this song?” I’m sure my voice betrays me.
He walks back to his phone and squints at the screen.
“You Say by Lauren Daigle. You don’t like it?”
“No, the song is beautiful. I never heard it before, that’s all.”
“I can change it if you don’t like it.” He nods his head at his phone. “Why don’t you pick the next song?”
“That’s fine.” I turn away from him and turn on the faucet. I wash the cutting boards and set them to dry on the dish rack. I don’t look at him, but I can feel his gaze on my face as I wash the knives, taking way longer than necessary so I don’t have to meet his eyes. Not yet.
He grabs the bowl and dumps all the veggies into the pan and stirs. Then covers it and reduces the flame. I watch his back and how the ends of his hair graze the collar of his shirt, how his muscles flex and stretch with his every move.
“Ouch.” Damn it. I cut myself.
He’s by my side in a second. “What happened?”
“Nothing, it’s a small cut, I’m fine.”
He turns off the water and grabs some paper towels. He takes my hand in his and presses the folded towel into the heel of my palm where the small cut wells with blood.
“That’s okay. It’s nothing.” I try to pull away, but he holds me in place.
“It’s not nothing. You’re hurt.” His hands are so warm around my mine, and he holds the paper against the cut with such gentleness. Everywhere we touch, my skin tingles.
“Let’s have a look-see.” He lifts the paper, and blood wells again. He puts pressure back on the cut. He’s so close, his face inches away from mine. My hand cradled in his. I’m faint. Not because of the cut or the blood. I’m faint because of him, because of how close he is. I’m drunk by his proximity.
“Come on, let’s take a little walk.” He tugs at my arm, holding my hand still, and I follow him down the hall. He pushes a door open and turns the light on. It’s a bathroom, with sage-green walls and gleaming white tile floors. He guides me backward. “Sit.”
I obey and sit on the side of the bathtub. He reaches under the sink cabinet and grabs a red first aid case, never letting go of my hand, the paper towel still pressed between his fingers and my palm.
He kneels in front of me. Pulls the paper towel away and tosses it into a garbage pail. The cut is no longer bleeding, but it’s stained red and stings a little. He opens the first aid kit and takes out disinfecting wipes, ointment, and Band-Aids. He cleans the cut and bandages it with the accuracy of a surgeon.
I’m in awe of him. My whole life, I’ve never had anyone care for me like this. I’ve never had anyone mend my scrapes and bruises. “Thanks, Doctor Dylan.” I try for levity.
He looks up at me. He smiles and my cheeks burn, heat spreading into my neck.
“I had to mend a lot of scraped knees. Tommy was accident prone growing up.”
“I heard that!” Tommy pops around the doorframe, half of his body leaning into the small space. He makes me jump. I lose my balance and start to fall backward into the tub. Dylan grabs my arms and pulls me back. My body shifts forward. We both fumble to the floor, me half straddling him, the first aid kid tumbling with us.
Tommy cackles and steps back. “And I’m the one who’s accident prone,” he calls from the hall. “Carry on, kids, take your time. I’ll check on the food.” His laugh echoes behind him.
Dylan and I look at each other, the blush on my face burning hotter. We’re a tangle of limbs and scattered Band-Aids. I try to get off him, but I can’t quite push myself up. Not without touching him, not without pushing against his chest for leverage and not with only one good hand.
He holds my waist and tries to lift me up. I press a socked foot into the floor, slip, land on him again. He bangs his head on the cabinet behind him.
“Ouch. You okay?” I reach for his head, my fingertips brush his hair before I catch myself and pull my hand back.
Awkward doesn’t even begin to cover this moment. We’re like two octopuses in a wrestling match. I allow myself to look at him.
“I’m fine.” His lips spread in a smile, then a laugh. His entire body
shakes with it.
I can’t help but laugh with him. “This feels like a game of Twister gone very wrong.”
“Or very right,” he says.
My face is on fire. And other parts of me are on fire too. His muscles flex under me—hard and strong. I need to get off him, but I don’t want to.
He leans back, his shoulders pressing against the cabinets. Gives me a hand. I take it with my good one and push a knee onto the floor. He guides me up. My legs are shaky. The moment we no longer touch, I miss it. I miss the heat of his skin. I miss the strength of his body, and the press of his legs tangled in mine. I want to go back. I want a re-do. I want to be near him again and this time ignore the awkwardness and just feel.
He sits up and picks up the scattered contents of the first aid kit, putting the kit in the cabinet again once he’s done. Not a trace of the last few minutes remains. The moment undone. And yet, his touch lingers on my skin, even as I miss it.
Want it.
Crave it.
Chapter Thirty
The kitchen is getting smaller by the minute. Every time he moves or reaches for something, my body vibrates in anticipation of his proximity.
Jesus! What is this prickly, sweet ache in my chest? My hands itch to touch him again, to have him touch me. The space around us seems to disappear.
We dance around each other, stirring pots, chopping veggies, washing dishes, inches between us and sometimes not even that. A casual brush here, an awkward bump there. We weave around the chemistry of food preparation and overactive hormones.
Dylan grabs a spoon, dips it into the cranberry-orange sauce he’s making from scratch, and brings it to my lips.
“Careful, it’s hot.” His voice wraps itself around me like melted caramel.
I blow into the spoon and take a tentative bite. He tips his hand up. The sweet and tart liquid is an explosion of flavor on my tongue. I close my eyes. Savor it. Savor his nearness. “Oh my God, that’s amazing.”
He’s even closer now, his gaze darkened and locked on my mouth. I swallow. Heat pools low in my belly. I’m aware of his every breath. Lust like I have never felt before swirls inside me. It’s a demanding and hungry beast, and it wants to be fed now. Right now.
The spoon drops with a loud clatter against the tiled floor. We both jump back and freeze.
I break eye contact first and kneel to pick up the spoon at my feet. My gaze traveling down his body. Tracing the wide chest and flat stomach.
Don’t look at his crotch. Don’t look at his crotch. Do not look at his crotch.
I look at his crotch.
Fuck.
Me.
He’s hard.
My face burns, and the heat spreads into my chest.
I force myself to look down and stare at the spoon.
The thumping of feet on the stairs reaches us.
“Duuuude, we need better music. Hey, where’s Becca?” Tommy’s on the other side of the kitchen island.
“Right here!” I wave the spoon like a flag over the island top. “Dropped the spoon.” I pop up, face still burning.
Tommy frowns. “You okay? You look a little weird …”
That would probably be the deranged smile on my face. “Yep. Fine. Got a bit of a blood rush from bending down. It happens.” What the hell? Shut up. I turn to the sink and wash the spoon way longer than is necessary. Take a peek when I see Dylan moving again. He’s messing with his phone. The music changes.
Dylan raises an eyebrow. I smile and nod my approval of his song choice. And so does Tommy. He launches into a full-on act as he sings along with Bohemian Rhapsody and gives a great imitation of Freddie Mercury.
Their attention is no longer on me. Thank God for Queen.
Dylan sits at the head of the table, I sit to Dylan’s right and Tommy to his left, across from me. The table is beautifully laden with the foods I helped prepare. There’s turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, and roasted butternut squash tossed with fresh baby spinach, dried cranberries and pecans. And the cranberry-orange sauce—I can’t look at without a tightening in my belly.
“Finally! I’m starving. Growing boy over here, you know?” Tommy points at himself with a thumb.
The different smells make my stomach grumble. Loudly.
Dylan fights a laugh. “Hungry?”
“I’m no growing boy, but I could eat.”
Dylan picks up his glass and raises it to his brother, but looks at me. “We have this little tradition.” His gaze on me still. “Tommy, you’re first. What are you thankful for?”
Tommy picks up his glass. “I’m thankful for all this food, and for my new friend Becca.”
Dylan laughs. “He’s always thankful for food. Your turn. What are you thankful for, Becca?”
The way he says my name makes my heart jittery. I haven’t had many things to be thankful for. But I’m thankful for this. For now.
“Here. Right now. I’m thankful for this moment.” I raise my glass.
We wait for Dylan’s response. “I’m thankful for …” He looks at me like a bear looks at honey. “For possibilities and what the future holds.” He clinks his glass to mine first, and then Tommy’s. “Dig in!”
Possibilities? And the way he looked at me … what does it mean? Tommy doesn’t seem to think any of it was odd, but then again, he’s more concerned about eating than paying attention to gratitude declarations. Dishes get passed back and forth, and then I’m holding the cranberry sauce, Dylan’s fingers brushing mine.
“I think you liked this one. Have more.” His voice is husky.
Is he flirting with me? Or am I imagining this pull between us? His gaze dips to my lips and back to my eyes again. No. Definitely not imagining it. This is crazy, right?
“You guys done playing tug-of-war with the sauce?” Tommy’s eyebrows wiggle unevenly, one at a time like drunken caterpillars.
“Manners, Tommy. Guests first.”
My face heats, I quickly scoop sauce on top of my stuffing and give the dish to Tommy. His plate piled so full I don’t know how he will fit anything else in.
He makes a well in the middle of the mashed potatoes, and I have my answer.
Dylan shakes his head. “It’s like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.”
I swallow a delicious bite of stuffing. “Oh, he’s eating all right. He raided my snacks yesterday. Left me with crumbs.”
Dylan’s eyes narrow for a fraction of a second before smoothing over again.
Is he mad about Tommy coming to my dorm? He can’t possibly still think I’m sleeping with his brother. Not after all this raw … lust? Attraction? Connection? Whatever this is, I think it goes both ways.
“This food is fantastic. Where did you learn to cook like this?”
Dylan takes a sip of water before answering. “Cooking shows and the internet mainly. There’s only so much mac and cheese from a box and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches one can eat. Can you cook?”
Between my mother’s neglect, not having enough food around for most of my life, and living in a dorm the last four years, I’ve never had much of a chance to learn. “No, not really. I can't cook in the dorms.”
“How about when you go home?” Dylan’s question is so innocent, and yet alarm bells go off in my head.
I don’t want to lie. But I can’t tell him the truth either. “I don’t go home much.” Not a lie. Not the full truth. I never go home.
“No? Why not?” Tommy jumps into the conversation. Half of his plate is already cleared. Where did he put all that food?
I shove a big bite of potatoes into my mouth to buy time. Chew, swallow, get a drink of water.
“You know, the same old story. I don’t get along with my mother. It’s best to stay away.” The truth this time.
Tommy is silent, hurt tinges his gaze, and in this moment I understand his pain. He lost his parents. He’d give anything to be with them again, and he can’t understand me giving that chance up when he has no choice.
He sw
allows. “How about your dad? You don’t go to see him either?”
“My parents were never married. But I get to see my dad this weekend.” Jesus! Why am I babbling my business all over the place? I glance at Dylan. He’s stopped eating and is watching me with keen interest and intelligent eyes. I’m an insect being dissected. Take off a wing, see what she does. I hate being seen like this. But I brought it on to myself.
A different kind of heat bubbles up in my chest. The therapist’s words come to me. Find someone you can trust and talk to them. I’m not about to tell them my whole sordid story. But I can do a test drive on this trust thing. Talk about crap that doesn’t give away all my secrets. Lots of people don’t get along with their families. That’s normal. Expected even. Aren’t Thanksgiving dinners famous for getting families into fights? Breathe, Becca.
I grasp my fork harder, acknowledge the turmoil inside, and let it go. I don’t need the anger right now. There’s no threat here. I take another sip of water.
“My dad is okay.” The truth. It surprises me. My father is okay. Better than okay. He’s a good person. One good parent out of two is good odds. Too bad he was never a father when you needed him. The voice of doubt rears its ugly little head.
“How about—”
“This is dinner, not the inquisition, Tommy.” Dylan interrupts him.
Tommy weaves his fork. “Well, we can talk about me, then.”
I’m grateful I’m no longer in the spotlight. Relief is a warm embrace, and I welcome it. Did Dylan notice my discomfort and stop Tommy’s questions? I think he did. I don’t like that he can so easily read me. I don’t know what to do with the small kindness.
Tommy cuts into the turkey on his plate. “I met someone.”
“You did?” Both Dylan and I speak at the same time.
Tommy laughs. “Down, boys and girls. I said I met someone, not that I was getting married.”
Dylan watches me even more closely. Is he looking for a negative reaction? Perhaps a part of him is still looking for hints of a hookup with his brother?
“I need to know more.” I can’t stop grinning.
Because of Dylan: A forbidden student teacher slow burn romance (Riggins U Book 3) Page 16
