Page 26 of Gorgeous

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 ratherchoosesnot 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 canfeelit. Whatever I just discovered about Vic is huge. Hayes does something on his phone and keeps muttering that hecan’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 havefuckingclothes 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.

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