by Kristy Marie
For the first time since I arrived, I feel a real smile emerge. I love cooking. Just the thought of it brings a wave of calm over me. Cooking has always been my happy place and to be in my element in this extraordinary kitchen is like home. Jess and I would always wake up Sunday morning grumbling over the top of coffee until I was caffeinated enough to mix batter. Magically, Jess’ bad mood would dissipate, and before we knew it, we were moaning and humming over a stack of buttery goodness.
Straightening, I turn to the guys, “Are the others coming?”
Vic stares at Mason and they exchange a look before Mason addresses me, claiming, “They went for a run with the major.”
A run? Didn’t he run enough last night? I don’t ask Mason though because that would make it seem like I care what Cade is doing.
And I don’t.
“Oh. Okay, well, let’s get to cooking. I’m starving,” I say instead.
I show my new students how to sift the flour. How to measure the right amount of buttermilk and the proper technique to pouring the perfect circle on the skillet. Both guys work in silence, absorbing my instructions, and I feel all kinds of proud when Mason plops a perfect golden pancake onto a plate.
“Nailed it,” he says smugly, his lips twitching with a smile. I hover over his shoulder and stare at his masterpiece. “Can I eat it?” he asks me, already picking it up and shoving half into his mouth. I slap his shoulder and move to his right to take a peek at how Vic is doing with his pancake since they have deemed him the worst cook of the bunch.
I’m not prepared, and I can’t stop the sharp inhale that I suck down the wrong way. I erupt into a coughing fit.
Mason asks, “Is that Mickey Mouse?”
Vic throws the pan and the perfect Mickey Mouse pancake into the sink and storms out of the house.
Mason and I stand in the middle of a silent kitchen, watching as the screen door bounces against the hinges where Vic slammed it on his way out.
“I’m sorry,” I stutter out to Mason. I don’t know what I’m apologizing for, but I can take a guess that Vic is not as cooking challenged as they thought but rather chooses not to cook.
Mason makes a soft noise beside me and puts his arm around me, offering comfort. “We didn’t know,” he admits. With a few pats to my back, he turns off the stove and gives me a pained look. “I need to call Anniston.”
I nod, knowing this is a big deal and they need Anniston’s advice on how to handle the situation. “I’ll be back to help you clean this up.”
I wave him off, about to tell him that I can take care of it when Hayes and Tim come in with matching concerned expressions.
“What’s up with Vic?” Hayes asks.
Mason shakes his head and pushes past him. “Ask B. I gotta go call Ans.”
Hayes grabs a bottled water from the fridge and tosses one to Tim who catches it and takes a seat on one of the bar stools. Hayes takes a look around at the mess that is now all over the kitchen counters and asks the same thing Mason did. “Is that—”
I cut him off, answering before he can go any further. “Yep, Mickey Mouse.”
An audible gasp floats through the air and Hayes breaks it with a tortured sigh and mutters, “Holy shit.”
I don’t understand the significance of all of this, but I can feel it. Whatever I just discovered about Vic is huge. Hayes does something on his phone and keeps muttering that he can’t believe it. Needing something to do, I grab a cloth off the counter and wipe up the spilled flour along the floor.
“What happened?”
I freeze at the sound of Cade’s raspy voice. “And what the fuck do you have on? I told you to put some fucking clothes on, not take more off.”
Anniston’s text flashes in my head as the thought of throwing this flour-crusted rag at Cade’s beautiful face overwhelms me.
Push back.
Standing, I toss the rag into the sink and not at his face like I want to, and turn to face him. Cade stands in the doorway, dripping with sweat, his shirt clinging to his pectoral muscles like a second skin. His nipples are hard as they strain against the fabric of his t-shirt. Hair that is wet and ravaged from the combination of his sweat and hands sticks up in the sexiest way as if someone yanked him down to his knees by those chestnut locks and he fucking enjoyed it. The urge to run my fingers through those waves is borderline insane, but when Cade grunts out a distasteful sound, I get my horny self together and respond properly. “I have fucking clothes on,” I challenge the mountain of a man glaring at me like if he had Cyclops’ powers he would burn me where I stand.
“Those are not clothes, Brecklyn.”
Oh, it’s like that, is it? How does he even know my full first name? Did Anniston tell him? Oh God. What if she told him my last name? Will he remember it? It’s been five years so hopefully he won’t. And hopefully Anniston didn’t feel the need to disclose it.
Cade waits for my response, hands on his hips like I fucking owe him an explanation.
Push back.
“It’s called a romper, Major Jameson. I suggest you Google it if you’re confused on the current fashion trends.” I want to add dick to the end of my statement but I refrain. I also refrain from admitting that I chose the shortest romper that my ass likes to eat, and that I personally would have rather kept my shorts and t-shirt on, but I don’t.
Because he deserves it.
And he started it.
Cade doesn’t answer me, and I’m not sure I want him to since I can literally hear his teeth grinding as a muscle in his jaw works, flexing back and forth in censored rage. With my head held high, I match his hard stare, my arms crossed. I’m not about to show weakness to this man.
“Okay, children, let’s not argue fashion decisions.” Hayes breaks our standoff, stepping in between us and giving Cade a slight shove through the door. “We need to talk,” he tells Cade, who still hasn’t torn his eyes from mine.
Hayes pushes at his chest again, trying to get his attention. “Major?”
Cade still has his hate glare locked on me, and well … I’m fucking tired of his shit this morning.
I flip him off and mouth asshole at him.
I swear he growls and tries to push past Hayes, who now realizes his major is about to lose his calm, and orders a red-faced Cade, “Your office. Now.”
I try hard not to smile and stick my tongue out like a child when Hayes yanks on his arm, pulling him from the doorway.
I fail.
Cade and Hayes have been locked in his office for twenty minutes. The kitchen is clean, no thanks to Mason and his empty promise. He’s been MIA since he ran out of here claiming he needed to call Anniston.
The whole house is eerily quiet.
I don’t like the silence or the tension I feel like I created. I wish I would have known cooking was Vic’s trigger, but from the reactions of the guys, they didn’t know either.
Killer, Mason’s dog, whines at the back door to be let out, and I open it when no one else comes out. I’ve seen Mason let her run loose in the pastures so I’m sure it’s okay. The question is: Where is Mason? Shouldn’t he be around?
I step outside with Killer, watching her dart around and chase a random squirrel. The air is thick with moisture but the sun beating down on my back feels heavenly. You know what the McCallister Jameson Foundation needs?
A pool.
A humongous pool where I could lounge in a chair and watch five chiseled bodies do the breaststroke the entire length of said pool. What is Anniston thinking not having a pool?
Killer barks, darting for the pond down the hill, and I take off after her not wanting anything to happen to her. Not that she isn’t capable of taking care of herself. She’s a trained military dog, for goodness’ sake. Death and battle are her specialty. She’s probably killed a man or two. Make sure nothing happens to her … yeah, right. She should make sure nothing happens to me.
I’m panting, sweat running down my forehead when a beautiful sight pulls me to a stop.
&
nbsp; Skipping rocks, along the edge of the pond, is Vic.
A military green t-shirt stretches along his back, his tan cargo pants stuffed into his boots. Vic is the man you see on all the billboards enticing you to join the Marines. He was bred for the military, with his short hair, strong jaw, and unforgiving eyes. Along the water’s edge, he stands tall, his towering body looking larger than the trees in the distance.
Killer plants herself beside him, watching the rocks skim along the water’s surface. He reaches down at her arrival and grazes his hand along her head, between her ears. I slow, taking measured steps until I come to a stop on the other side of Vic. Bending at the knees, I lower myself to the ground and draw my knees to my chest.
Side by side, we stare out into the horizon, Vic skipping rocks, Killer snapping at the dragonflies, in comfortable silence until Vic breaks it with his raspy confession.
“He was six.”
This feels remarkable. Something that will forever be a memory for me.
I don’t respond, and Vic keeps going. “He was such a picky eater. My wife and I tried everything.” Vic pauses, watching the water ripple. “We were taking him to Disney World that summer, and I told him that if he didn’t eat, he wouldn’t be big enough to ride the rides.” With a faraway gaze as if he’s locked in a memory, Vic chuckles to himself. “We started making everything into Mickey Mouse to encourage him to eat. Fruit. Vegetables. Even his sandwiches were in the shape of Mickey ears.”
A tear falls onto my hand and I want to tell Vic that I don’t want to hear the rest of his story. My heart already feels as if it’s been wounded and he hasn’t even gotten to the climax of his story yet. But something tells me he needs to purge, and he’s chosen me to confide in. So I suck up my feelings and stay strong for him even if my chest squeezes painfully.
“They deployed me two months before we were set to leave.” A shaky breath vibrates out of Vic and then he clears his throat, dropping the bomb I’m not prepared for. “Kai, my son, was killed a week later in a house fire. He gained six pounds that summer. He was big enough to ride most of the rides but I never got the chance to tell him.”
His throat works as he swallows down the emotion he’s keeping contained in his massive chest but not even staring at the water stops the silent heaves that rack through his body. “They think I can’t cook.” He turns, giving me his eyes which are bloodshot and watery. “I can. I just don’t have a reason to anymore.”
I nod, wiping at the tears that drip down my cheeks. My hands shake, and I want to reach out to this broken man. This father who can’t bear to cook because it reminds him of his dead son. My voice quivers. “You don’t have to,” I promise, barely getting it out. And I mean it. Vic makes a low sound in his throat and then picks up another rock, launching it into the water.
He sighs. “Yeah, I do. It’s time.”
He tosses another rock and I sit quietly next to him absorbing everything he’s admitted. I came here under the notion that I was teaching guys who didn’t know how to cook some basic skills. Now I realize it’s so much more than that. Vic just admitted that he knows how to cook but that it pains him to do so, and with a desperate plea in his voice, he knows he needs to do this to move on. I don’t know if I can handle that type of responsibility, but for Vic, I’m going to try.
After a while, Vic breaks the silence and shocks me again. “Let me teach you my recipe for buttermilk pancakes,” he challenges me with a smile. His face is strained when he extends his hand and offers me not only a hoist up but an agreement.
A pact.
Between me and him. Helping him through this painful transition.
It will be my honor.
My privilege.
And ultimately, a bond that will never be broken.
I clasp my hand with his and let him haul me to my feet, and with a voice more confident than I feel, I challenge him back. “Let’s see what you got.”
I can’t tear my eyes away as she stands on her toes and wraps her arms around Vic’s neck. They stay that way, locked together, and I know she’s not going anywhere now. Whatever happened in the kitchen this morning probably had something to do with Vic’s past. But by the way Vic curls into her, taking her comfort, I am certain she knows what caused his outburst this morning.
Bonds like those are unbreakable.
I should know. It’s what anchors me to Anniston. No one understands my faults and my demons like she does, and no matter what happens, I will never let our friendship go.
Breck and Vic separate, and I notice Breck wipes at her eyes. Is she crying? I’m curious about what they were talking about, but I won’t ask. I can respect Vic’s privacy. When he wants to share with me, he will.
“You think he’s alright?” Mason takes the spot next to me and gazes out the back door, watching Vic and Breck throw a ball to Killer.
I don’t know if he’s okay or not, so rather than answer him, I ask what I need to know. “What did Anniston say?”
In my peripheral, I see him shrug his shoulder. “She said she would call him later.” Knowing Anniston will call him makes me feel a little better. I won’t be surprised if she comes home early to be with him.
“Do you think we should still shoot today?”
I debate Mason’s question for a minute and then decide that keeping our routine will be consistent, and I know firsthand that when your life seems to be spiraling out of control, having consistency is like a life raft that you can hang on to.
“Yeah, we’ll give him a few minutes and then go.”
But Vic doesn’t need a few minutes. He and Breck are walking toward the house and Mason and I immediately scatter like two chicks eavesdropping in the bathroom stalls. Mason darts up the stairs, and I round the corner and slide into my office, taking a seat at the desk like that was my intent all along.
Laughter filters through the house as Breck’s sweet chuckle glides across my skin and goes straight to my dick.
“Are you saying my pies were dry?”
“No, I’m just saying they could have used a little more butter to flake the top.”
Vic? A flaky top? What in the ever-loving fuck does he know about cooking? He burns cereal.
A hearty, throaty sound rings closer to the kitchen and I imagine Breck’s head thrown back, her sparkling gray eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Well, Chef Vic—wait, is Vic short for anything?”
There’s hesitation from Vic, like he’s deciding if he wants to let Breck in, to let her get to know the real him, or keep some of his secrets and his distance from her.
A throat clears and then, “It’s Vincent.”
Breck, unaware of such a monumental disclosure continues on with her annoyingly happy tone. “Well, Chef Vincent, I’m eager to learn your secrets. Please enlighten me on the art of the perfect pie crust.”
Vic’s chuckle fades, and I feel sure they turned for the kitchen. I fiddle with my phone, no longer able to hear what they are saying from my position in the office. I’m stunned. Vic knows how to cook? Why hasn’t he been cooking? Why have we been choking down shit that looks like something Killer barfed up? Was it all a joke? And what did Breck do to change his mind?
So many fucking questions and I can’t get any answers because I’ve been hateful and avoiding Breck. As mean as I’ve been to her, I doubt she’ll even grace me with an explanation, let alone a secret she shares with Vic.
I pull up Theo’s number and type out a quick text.
Vic knows how to cook.
In my haste to purge the long-standing charade Vic had going, I fail to anticipate the response I get out of Theo with that text. He doesn’t disappoint.
Have you been taking Anniston’s birth control pills again?
It was one time!
Anniston gave one to me, claiming it was anti-anxiety medicine to calm me down before I threw out the first pitch at the Atlanta Stadium for a Memorial Day baseball game. Instead of Xanax, it was one of the sugar pills in her monthly pil
l pack. Either way, Theo won’t ever let me live it down.
I’m serious, I respond.
So am I. You sound like a chick. Who gives a fuck if he cooks?
I’m at a loss and let my head bang against the desk, laughing. Von Bremen has a way of making you feel like an idiot.
Because he never has before, I argue, booting up my laptop.
Well, you haven’t had sex in a million years either but I doubt we’ll gasp and send out a group text when some no name finally pops your cherry.
Before I can respond, another text from him comes through.
I take that back. We’ll probably throw a party for the poor girl. She’ll need some comforting after that major flop of an experience.
You’re an asshole is all I respond with.
And you’re hormonal. Get laid and stop fussing over Vic and his cooking skills. He’s allowed to have secrets, Jameson.
In a way, Theo is right. Not that I need to get laid, but that Vic is entitled to his secrets. I certainly have mine and appreciate that none of the guys try to weasel them out of me. Thankfully, Theo isn’t one for a heart-to-heart chat so he never asks or acts like he gives a fuck.
I send Theo the finger emoji which he returns with a GIF of two girls kissing that I may have saved to my phone for later. I get to work on my computer, catching up the budgets for the foundation. I don’t want to seem obvious hovering around the kitchen to see what Vic and Breck are up to.
Before long, two hours go by and the kink in my neck is all the convincing I need to call it a day. I stand, stretching the muscles in my back and arms before I lumber out into the hallway.
The house is quiet.
I poke my head around the corner, chancing a look into the kitchen. The counters have been wiped down, and the dishwasher is humming. No food is left out and I find that rather disappointing. Not that I would ever mention it to Breck. If I’m hungry, I can make myself something to eat. I don’t need her to do it.
I wander through the halls, looking for any sign of the guys, when a faint singing stops me. It’s coming from the gym. I creep closer, the humming getting louder. I peek through the crack where Breck has left the door ajar, and my mouth fucking waters at the sight before me.
