by Emma Hart
I get up, this time more slowly. My legs are definitely awake again, so I leave the carnage of the flat-packed entertainment unit on the floor behind me and cross into my kitchen.
Not only do I need to unpack, but I also really need to go grocery shopping, because I turn up a grand food haul of bread, cheese, tomato soup, peppers, onions, and paprika. Okay, so there are a few other things too, but I’m seriously wondering where in the heck that paprika came from.
I’m not sure I ever bought that. Then again, Carly went shopping with me, and she way overestimates my culinary ability.
I do the best I can do in this situation. I go to Google and search What can I make with soup peppers bread and cheese? As I scroll through the search results, I lean back against the kitchen counter. I keep searching until I find something I think I can manage.
Red pepper and tomato soup with grilled cheese. That has to be easy, right? Especially since the recipe is calling for the soup to be made from scratch and I’m cheating with my store-bought tins. I have a blender. I can’t see what can go wrong here.
Okay, I’m lying. There are at least five things that could go wrong, but I’m not going to think about those.
I take a deep breath and nod. I’m going to do this. I’m going to modify this soup and I’m going to do it well.
I’m getting good at this self-pep talk thing. Maybe I’ll do it if I ever go back to college. I might actually graduate then.
I set about getting the red peppers, my cutting board, and my knife. I also pull my blender from the corner of the counter top and dust off the top. Eh, it’s clean. It’ll work.
When I’ve chopped it, I throw the pepper chunks into the blender, put the lid on, and turn on the machine. It whirs to life almost deafeningly, making me jump. Sheesh.
“What the hell are you doin’?”
I scream.
“Jesus!” Cain laughs loudly. “It’s just me.”
I turn off the blender. Then I grip the edge of the counter and flatten my other hand against my chest. “Holy shit. I think I just died and came back to life.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Someone’s taking a ride on the drama llama today.”
If only he knew.
“You scared the life out of me.” I press my hand harder against my chest and breathe deeply. “Jesus. You didn’t knock, did you?”
“Nah. I figured you knew I was coming this time and you’d be fully dressed.” He grins, his green eyes sparkling back at me. “Thankfully, you are. What are you making?”
“I’m flavoring soup.”
“Flavoring soup,” he replies flatly.
“Flavoring soup,” I confirm, reaching for the cans.
“I’m not even going to ask.” He shuts my front door behind him and stretches his arms above his head, making his muscles flex. “Right. Where’s this damn unit?”
“Hm?” I shake my head and grab the soup cans. “It’s the mess on my floor.”
I pour the soup into the blender, over the mush of pepper and onion, and wrinkle my nose. Boy, this better work. If not, it’s literally just grilled cheese. I put the lid on the blender and turn it on, mixing everything together for around two minutes.
“Oh no,” Cain says the moment I turn it off. The horror vibrating through his tone is comical. “You bought this from Ikea, didn’t you?”
“Um, yes?” I pull off the blender lid and turn around. “Is that a problem?”
He groans and leans back against the sofa. “I hate Ikea, B. You know that.”
“Yeah, but their stuff is nice. And cheap. I like cheap.” I pour the soup into the pan already sitting on the cooker before filling the blender with water.
“But it fucking sucks to put together,” he moans, sitting up on the sofa and looking at me. “It’s the worst damn furniture in the world.”
I roll my eyes and turn around to face him. “You’re a freaking builder by trade. I’ve seen you build houses. How the fuck can you be stumped by Ikea? It’s basically created by a bunch of blond men with no sense of humor, eating meatballs around a large table.”
His eyebrows go up, his lips twitching. “That’s a little…stereotypical.”
“Well,” I say, pointing a metal spoon in his direction, “I ain’t ever seen a black-haired Swedish man.”
“That’s like saying, ’I’ve never seen a great white shark, so they can’t exist.’”
“Obviously they exist. I’ve watched Jaws.”
“It could have been computerized,” he reasons.
“Carry on and I won’t feed you,” I threaten him.
He laughs. “Then I won’t build your unit.”
I still, reaching for the bread from the bread bin. “Touché, asshole. Touché.”
His laughter, still ringing out, trickles across my skin, teasing the hairs on my arms into standing on end. Tingles shoot down my spine, but I somehow manage to suppress the full shiver that wants to wrack my body.
I have to start fighting back my attraction to him—not to mention my feelings. I know people always say you can’t fight what you feel, but I can sure as hell hide it. I’ve been doing it for so long that now, I need to start hiding it from myself.
“I bet you don’t have beer.” His voice is right behind me.
I jump again. “Will you stop freaking scaring me tonight?” I turn my head back to face him, and when I thought his voice was right behind me, I meant a foot away.
Not literally right there where there’s barely an inch of air between my mouth and his.
Not literally right there where I could slip and kiss him.
Not literally right there where I want to accidentally slip and kiss him.
“It’s not my fault if you’re on edge,” Cain says in a low voice. His green eyes flit to side to side as he searches my gaze, making me swallow. “Why are you so jumpy?”
My heart skips although I know it shouldn’t. “Because you keep scaring me.”
“Hmm.” He puts his hand on the fridge without moving away. “Do you have beer? That’s about the only thing that’ll get me through Ikea furniture.”
“I always have beer,” I answer him, taking the chance to lightly shove my hand into his shoulder. “There are bottles of Coors in the drawer at the bottom. The bottle opener is in the drawer. Hey, can you get me the cheese?”
“And now breathe.” He laughs again, taking a step back.
Finally.
“Can I please have the cheese?”
He opens the door, pulls out the cheese, and hands it to me.
“Thank you.” I take it from his hand and pause. His knuckles are all cut open. They’ve scabbed a little in the middle of each cut, but I can still see the bright red of semi-dried blood. “What happened?”
Cain glances at his hand then back up at me. “Nothing. Accident at work.” His jaw twitches as he grabs a bottle of beer and shuts the door.
I throw the cheese on the side and grab his hand before he can move away from me or hide it. He tugs back against my grip, but I tighten my fingers around his wrist and gently pull his hand toward me. I tilt his hand so I can see the cuts better.
“Sssshit,” he hisses, wincing as I bend his fingers.
“Sorry.” I grimace. “Cain, what did you do?”
“Accident at work. I told you that. It happens when you’re building a garage and a brick falls on your hand.”
“Riiiiiight. If a brick fell on your hand, your fingers would be broken. Not cut up and bruised.” I look up at him through my eyelashes, absently stroking my thumb across his hand where the skin isn’t broken. “What really happened?”
An exasperated yet helpless sigh escapes from between his lips. He sets the cold beer bottle on the side and wipes his hand on his jeans. “Nina stopped by at work today. I was in the workshop building custom bookshelves for Mrs. Mayfair’s new library. Let’s just say the conversation didn’t go too well, and the particular shelf I was working on has a sizable dent in it.”
“Cain!” I j
erk his hand even closer to me and really look at it. “You punched a solid wood shelf?”
“I considered punching thin air, but I didn’t think it would be as satisfying,” he drawls, sarcasm dripping from every word.
“Goddamn it!” I slap his other arm. I’m not letting go of his damn hand until he realizes how dumb that was. “You can’t just punch things when you’re pissed off.”
“Gee, Brooke, thanks for that. I sure needed that advice six hours ago.”
“Do not use that shitty tone with me!” I stomp my foot on the ground. “She made you so mad you punched something? Jesus, Cain! That’s not healthy! I don’t care if it’s not all the time or if she’s the sugar plum fucking princess when she’s not pissed off at you.”
He deflates. He holds my gaze for a heartbreakingly long second before he looks away. “I know.”
“When are you gonna break up with her, huh? You’re not happy. I know you better than anybody and I know you’re freaking miserable right now. When are you gonna wake up and see that she’s not good for you?”
This is no longer about how I feel. This is about how he feels.
And I can see it. It’s written in the darker than normal shadows beneath his eyes. It’s chipped into the downturn of his lips, and it’s swimming in the depths of his green gaze, darkening it more than eyes like his should be.
“Cain?” I say softly.
He brings his gaze back to me and says simply, “Your underwear is on the floor in front of your laundry basket.”
TEN
LIFE TIP #10: Being a hot mess is hard work. Really, really hard work.
I purse my lips and stare at him. “Stop trying to distract me.”
“It’s not a distraction,” he replies, his lips turning up at the edges. “Your panties really are on the floor.”
I jerk my head to the side, in the direction of the laundry basket. My eyes widen as I catch sight of my neon-orange panties lying haphazardly on my white tiles. “Oh, shit!” I drop Cain’s hand like it’s on fire and dart around the little island to where they are.
Cain falls back against the fridge, laughing hard.
I snatch up my pretty much luminescent undies from the floor and shove them deep into the ‘color’ section of the laundry basket. You know what else belongs in that section? My goddamn cheeks. I think my body temperature just rose by around, oh, one hundred degrees.
I can’t believe I didn’t notice that they didn’t go in the basket when I threw them in there this morning. Or rather, attempted to throw them in there. That’s what I get for pressing the snooze button on my alarm too many times. That literally was karma at play.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed. Why did they have to be dirty panties? Why couldn’t they be clean? Or brand new with the label on? Dear god. How am I supposed to handle this?
“Well,” I say out loud, forcing myself to turn around and face Cain. “That was awkward.”
He rubs his hand across his mouth, still clearly laughing behind it if the crinkling at the corners of his eyes is anything to go by. “It was? I think it’s hilarious.”
“You would. You’re not the one whose dirty undies were on show!”
“To be fair, it’s not like I haven’t seen your underwear before.” He raises his eyebrows. “Although I suppose they were clean.”
“Oh my god.” I press my hands against my cheeks so he doesn’t see the renewed blush from his words. “On second thought, I don’t need you to build my entertainment unit.”
I don’t need a TV. I’m clearly entertainment enough here.
He laughs again and pushes off the counter. Unexpectedly, he wraps his arms around me and squeezes me. “Jesus, Brooke.” His voice rumbles across my skin, making me plant my face into his solid chest. “If I left every time you embarrassed yourself in front of me, we wouldn’t be friends anymore.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” I say into his t-shirt.
He squeezes me again, still chuckling. “I needed that laugh today. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I wriggle out of his hold before he releases the thing I just did—the fact my heart is beating overtime, slamming itself against my ribs every other second. “Now that I’ve brightened your day, we’re going back to your hand.”
“You’re still blushing.”
“And you’re bleeding.” I give him a disapproving look as I grab his hand. “You should really wrap these. Knuckles are awkward.”
“They’re the body part equivalent of you.”
“Awesome. I’ve been reduced to ten bumps of bone.” I sigh and release him. “I hope I unpacked my first aid kit.”
“Whoa now,” he says, backing up. “The last time I let you do first aid on me, you jabbed me with scissors!”
I open my mouth to argue that, but I, um, can’t. Not really. I did jab him with scissors. Sharp ones too. In my defense, he moved when I was trying to cut the sticky tape to keep the wound pad thingy on.
“Stay still this time then,” I finally settle on. “No feeding if you’re bleeding.”
He blinks at me, his long, dark lashes, casting shadows over his upper cheeks. “You rhymed that on purpose, didn’t you?”
“No,” I answer, rifling through the drawer. “Aha!” I pull out the little, green bag that holds my first aid kit. “Sit down, asshole.”
He does as I say. “Your bedside manner needs some work.”
I smile. “And that’s why I sell holidays and not surgery.”
“People don’t sell surgery.”
“Tell that to the insurance companies.” I snort, unzipping the kit. I pull out everything I think I need to wrap his hand and set to work.
He winces as I clean the wounds with anti-septic wipes, but he doesn’t yell or scream at me, so I figure I’m doing good. He does watch me with a little trepidation crossing his features as I cut the bandage to size, but I make it through that without stabbing him with anything, so he relaxes when I wrap it around his hand.
“You know I’m only letting you do this because I’m hungry, don’t you?” Cain says when I’m done. “I’m going to take it off the second I leave here.”
I shrug. “I know, but it makes me feel better. Besides, I don’t want you bleeding all over my furniture.”
“I knew you had an ulterior motive for being so caring.”
“And here I thought I’d gotten away with it.” I sigh, but smile right after. “Okay, let me make food now.”
“You’re not going to poison me, are you?”
“No, but you’re still going to answer my question from before you oh-so-conveniently noticed my underwear.” I raise my eyebrows, looking at him pointedly. He’s not fooling me—I know he saw them before he mentioned it and was saving it for a moment just like the one he said it in.
“Shit,” he mutters. “If you’re going to cross-examine me, I get control of the TV controller.”
“Um…” I throw my hands in the air as he throws himself over the back of my sofa and grabs the remote. “Why do you get to control my TV? Friends is on!”
“Friends schmends,” he replies. “Look, see—Homicide Hunter is on.”
All right. Young Joe Kenda is kinda yummy.
“Fine,” I fake-snap. “But I’m soooo tearing you a new asshole.”
He salutes me from his position on the sofa. He’s lying down, a cushion beneath his head, and his feet crossed at the ankles while they rest on the back of the couch. He looks way too at home right now.
I’m not sure I like it.
Not to mention, I think as I cut the cheese for the grilled cheese, I kinda wanna jump on him. Not sexually, just to be annoying. I’m really good at being annoying, especially to Cain. It’s definitely a skill I’ve perfected over the years.
I put the cheese between the bread and put the sandwiches into my sister’s old George Foreman grill. I close the lid down and put the soup on really low. Then jab a button on the oven timer to set it.
Ca
in’s still lying on the sofa.
I still want to go jump on him.
I’m so going to go and jump on him.
I sneak around the island and toward the sofa. He doesn’t so much as look at me as I slip between the edge of the sofa and the chair until—wham. I drop myself onto him.
He doubles up, sitting, and almost knocks me off him. I squeal as I fly forward, but he shoots his arm out and wraps it around me, yanking me back. As he lies down again, he drags me with him.
“Uft,” I groan when we drop back together. “What are you doing?”
“Shhh. He’s interviewing the husband.” Cain doesn’t even look at me. His eyes are fixed firmly on the TV, just like his arm is around my midsection.
I can’t move. Literally. My back is against his stomach, my head on his chest, and my legs at some uncomfortably awkward angle somewhere between on and off the sofa.
Kinda like how dogs sleep.
“I need to stir the soup.” I wriggle is protest and try to roll over.
“Shut up, Brooke.” He prods me in the side with his finger.
I jerk away from him. Well, kind of. “Don’t do that!”
“Don’t do what? This?” He pokes me again, this time a little further down.
Right in my freaking ticklish spot.
“Nonono!” I squeal, scrambling like a drunken iguana to get away from him.
He’s much stronger than me though, and he retains his grip on me as he tickles me over and over again. I can’t move away from him, so I twist this way and that until I finally free one arm and manage to roll onto my stomach.
On top of him.
I’m on my stomach.
On. Top. Of. Him.
We both freeze.
My fingers twitch where they’re resting against his hard chest, but his are completely still at my waist. My heart thumps a little too hard against my ribs, and I inhale as if it’ll hide the franticness of the beat.
Cain’s eyes, that were so dark not so long ago, are bright, still shining with his evil laughter. They search my gaze for something—I don’t know what, but something—and his lips part the barest amount.
It’s so cliché, but if the TV wasn’t going, I’d swear time had stopped, that the world had briefly paused on its axis for this moment between us.
