Page 62 of The Bad Brother

Stop making it more than it is.

Stop, right now, before you get hurt.

Stepping into the kitchen, I round the corner just in time to watch Jensen slide what looks like a grilled cheese sandwich from the frying pan onto a plate. Looking up at me, he smiles. “How was your shower?”

“Hot.”

When I say it, he winces slightly before laughing. “I deserved that—are you hungry?”

I’m about to saynobut my stomach answers for me with an embarrassingly loud gurgle.

“Right.” Laughing again, he turns away from me to pull a large ceramic bowl from one of the upper cabinets. “Sit down, I’ll make your plate.”

“No…” Embarrassed, I shake my head. “You don’t have to?—”

“It’s already done,” he tells me while he ladles what looks and smells like tomato soup into the bowl. “So, park your ass on that stool and eat your fucking sandwich.”

Despite his rough tone, I don’t feel threatened or scared. I feel seen. Taken care of. Something I’ve never felt before—not once in my entire life. I’ve felt spoiled. Pampered and catered to but never like someone stopped to really look at me and figure out what Ineeded. What would make me truly happy.

Dropping myself onto the closest stool, I watch while he sets the bowl of soup in front of me and offers me a spoon. “Is this you on your best behavior,” I ask, remembering the promise he made me last night.

“This is me, making sure you eat something besides granola bars and coffee, Peach.” When I don’t take the spoon, he slides it into my bowl before turning away from me to retrieve the plate of grilled cheese.

“How’s your shoulder?” I ask while I watch him move around the kitchen. Think about what we were doing in it less than twenty-four hours ago.

Fuck… that’s it—you can do it, Sloane. Be a good little peach and come for me.

“Still holding up.” He shoots me a quick, over the shoulder look. I can see the outline of the bandage covering his stitches under the thin fabric of his shirt. “Cade helped me clean and re-bandage it before we opened tonight.”

When he mentions Cade, I give him a sour look. “I asked him not to tell you I was home.” Feeling betrayed and pretty irritated about it, I reach for my spoon to swirl it through the bowl of soup in front of me.

“Cade saw you?” Setting the plate of sandwiches on the counter between us, Jensen frowns, his gorgeous, mismatched eyes narrowing slightly. “He knew you were here?”

Okay—so maybe Cadedidn’ttell him. “Yeah—” Stopping long enough to take a bite of soup, I give him a shrug. “I ran into him on my way upstairs.”

“And you told him not to tell me you were home.” Still frowning, Jensen lifts a grilled cheese from the stack and tears it in half. The cheese pull alone makes my mouth water. Leaning across the counter, he dips it in my soup bowl before taking an angry bite.

“You looked really busy,” I say, suddenly defensive for some reason. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

He gives me an exasperated look like maybe I’m not as smart as he thought. “I seem to remember telling you, just this morning, that I don’t care what I’m doing. I want?—”

“You said goodbye,” I remind him while I reach across the counter for the other half of the sandwich he’s eating. “You said you wanted me to saygoodbyebefore I left. You never said anything about hello.”

For a second, all he does is stare at me.

“Huh.” Sounding half confused and half surprised, Jensen glares at me while he chews.

“Huh?” I mimic him while dipping my half of the sandwich into my soup. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I don’t know what the hell you’re doing tome, Peach.” Tossing his half-eaten sandwich onto the plate, he turns away from me and makes his way to the fridge. “Flowers,” he mutters to himself while he yanks it open. “I picked fuckingflowersthis morning.” Head stuck in the belly of it, he rummages around, the clink of cold glass accompanying his words. Straightening, he turns to glare at me again, a pair of longneck beer bottles scissored between his fingers. “Why the hell would I do that?” he asks while he slams the refrigerator closed. “I’m not apick her flowersguy.” Gesturing toward the stove with his empty hand on awhat the fuckscoff, he looks at me like I have all the answers. “And I’m not amake her agoddamnedgrilled cheeseguy either.” Setting the amber-colored bottles on the counter between us, he shakes his head while scowling at me like this is all my fault, somehow. Like I did something to him. Gave him some sort of incurable disease he has little hope of surviving. “So, what the fuck am I doing here?”

Stung more than I have a right to be, I feel the tears I’ve been fighting off for hours start to crowd and sting my sinuses. “I don’t know,” I tell him, dropping my sandwich into my bowl without taking a bite. “I don’t know what you’re doing and I don’t know why you’re here.” Standing on wobbling legs, I shake my head, desperate to get away from him before I burst into tears. “What Idoknow is that I didn’t ask you to pick me flowers and I didn’t ask you to make me agoddamnedgrilled cheese—you did those things on your own. I also know that I’ve had a very long,veryshitty day and I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to help you figure out why.”

Turning away from him with every intention of going upstairs and quietly crying myself to sleep, I don’t make itmore than a handful of steps before I feel a rough hand close over my shoulder and spin me around.

“What happened?” I’m suddenly staring up at him, his grip on my shoulder shifting and tightening around my upper arm. When I don’t answer him, he gives me a short, rough shake. “What happened, Sloane? Did someone?—”

“No—notsomeone.” Reaching up, I shove his hand away from my arm. Instead of retreating when I’m free, I close in on him to drill a fingertip against the hard, muscled wall of his chest. “You.You’rewhat happened.”

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