Page 38 of Renegade Rift

What I still don’t understand is why, despite everything,Ford is helping me.

Lower lip caught between his teeth, Ford concentrates on the gluten-free quiche recipe, oblivious to the fact it’s going to be a rubbery mess thanks to all the protein molecules he’s destabilizing in the eggs by over whipping them. I have to admit, it’s almost endearing to watch him try, though. It’s more than Tyler ever did.

The stray thought echoes in my mind. I’m not sure when I started actively comparing the two brothers. Maybe it was when he paid the debt he had no business paying. Or maybe when he took the time to look up how my autoimmune disease affects my everyday life. One thing is for certain: They are not the same.

After another minute of his mindless beating, my little chef heart can’t stop itself from intervening. “You’re going to ruin the eggs.”

Ford lifts his chin and glances up through his thick lashes. “Hmm?”

“The eggs,” I explain. “If you keep beating them like that, they’ll be tough when they cook.”

“Oh, shit.” He drops the fork. It misses the side of the bowl and clatters to the counter. A few choice curses follow as Ford grabs a paper towel and frantically cleans the mess.

“Here. Let me.” I abandon the stack of books I’ve just organized andjoin him at the kitchen island. Taking the bowl of eggs, I dump it into the sink and pull six fresh eggs from the open carton.

Ford steps back, allowing me the space to work. “I’m pretty sure I’m the one that promised you breakfast.”

“Considering I haven’t had a home cooked meal like this in months, I’m happy to help make sure it’s edible.” That is, if you don’t count the takeout and ready-to-heat meals he sent to my apartment.

I absolutely don’t. Home-cooked meals come from taking single ingredients, combining them with heart, and creating something that feeds the soul.

God, it’s been so long since I’ve even considered the space food once held for me. It’s so different now that my diet is restricted. The meals that once inspired my love of cooking are things that now would leave me rotting in bed for days, unable to move.

Ford chuckles, not privy to my inner revelations. His eyes capture my every move. Cracking the eggs. Whisking them gently. Gradually adding the heavy cream.

“Did you learn to cook from your dad at the restaurant?” he asks.

“The basics, yes. But how to expertly whip an egg?” I ask, gesturing toward the bowl. “That I learned at culinary school.”

“You actually went?”

I snap my gaze over my shoulder, brows raised. “You sound surprised.”

“I vaguely remember you mentioning to Mrs. Chari that you loved chemistry because it was like cooking and that someday you wanted to become a chef.” His eyes soften, carrying what I can only describe as a hint of awe and pride beneath the surface. “I just didn’t know you actually followed through with going to school.”

My eyes widen. The memory feels like a lifetime ago. I completely forgot Ford and I shared a chemistry class my sophomore, his senior year. I was the youngest one in the class, having decided to switch from homeschooling to public school since neither of my parents was adept in the maths and sciences I wanted to take, and they didn’t like the idea of me taking it at the nearest community college.

It was my favorite class. Chemistry just made sense to me. The building of molecules is so similar to blending food within recipes. Stripping down flavors and elements to make something beautiful.

An easy smile splits my lips. It’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to think about all that time. Life was so simple then—just dreams and possibility.

It breaks my heart that reality beat them out of me.

My gaze falls, taking with it the joy of those memories. There’s a part of me that recognizes the genuine curiosity in Ford questions, but a much larger part of me demands I protect myself from it.

“Maybe if you didn’t disappear on us, you would have known.” My words come out harsher than I intend, and Ford flinches like I’ve struck him.

“I—why do you do that?”

“What?” I feign ignorance, grabbing the meat and veggies out of the fridge to distance myself.

But Ford doesn’t grant me any reprieve.

“Every time I show an interest in you, in your life, you pick a fight.”

He’s right. But I can’t help it. Every time Tyler took an interest in me, it was only so he could use it against me later. For so many years, I believed it was because he loved me. Until the patterns became clear. Then it was a choice not to see them.

But I can’t tell Ford any of that. I won’t. Because admitting it beyond the confines of my mind makes it real. And I’m trying to move forward. Not dwell on the past. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself.

---