Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(66)

“Who does all this food prep?” he asked, popping up from the fridge door with far too many boxes balanced in his arms. What was he making, gourmet chow mein?

“Eve.”

“The rainbow girl? Really? She’s …” He put the boxes down and waved his hand in a way that conveyed Eve’s chaotic vibe perfectly. “If I’d had to guess one of your sisters, I would’ve said—what’s her name, Danielle?”

“Danika,” she corrected automatically. Being around him was so incredibly easy, she forgot how strange their relationship was sometimes. How he didn’t know basic things about her, like her sister’s full name, but he knew she loved Smudge and didn’t trust and wanted to be brave.

She wished he knew more. Wished he knew everything. Wished she could share it all with him. That wasn’t a desire Chloe felt often, or at all, but he made everything …

Safe.

“Christ, woman,” he spluttered, interrupting her thoughts and bringing a smile to her lips. “Why do you have a kitchen drawer full of fancy pens?” He shut the offending drawer in disgust and turned toward another. “Where are your spoons?”

“Red. Don’t. I don’t want you to cook for me. And that’s not—”

Too late. He’d opened the next drawer, which was full of her spare medication. But he didn’t gawk at the countless colorful boxes, old painkillers she’d abandoned because they made her mouth too dry to talk, or because she’d gotten used to them and upgraded like an addict grown accustomed to the hit. He didn’t ask about them, either, or slam the drawer shut and give her a part-pitying, part-worried look like her mother would. Instead he shook his head and said, “You got everything in this kitchen but cutlery, Chlo.” Then he turned to the next drawer, discovered the spoons, and carried on as if nothing had happened.

Funny. Chloe was used to seeing her life and her illness as normal, but she wasn’t used to other people acting the same way.

“Now,” he said, popping the lid off one of the boxes and grabbing pre-sliced peppers. “If you really don’t want stir-fry—because, let’s face it, you are a weirdo—this is your last chance to tell me.”

“You are not cooking for me.” There; that sounded firm, reasonable, and mature. Kind of.

“Why not?” he asked just as reasonably while he rifled through her cupboards.

“Because you’re not a bloody home helper!”

He turned to look at her. “Chloe. Language.”

“Oh, for—”

He interrupted, his tone serious, his words quiet. “Stop worrying, okay?” His search of the cupboards abandoned, he crossed his arms over his broad chest. Her gaze absolutely did not catch on the shift of his biceps or the raised veins on his strong forearms. Well, it did, but only for a second. “You think this is a big deal because, no offense, you’ve had a lot of people in your life who claimed to care about you but didn’t act like it. That’s not me. I can cook, and right now, you can’t. So I’m doing it for you because that’s how people should behave; they should fill in each other’s gaps. Don’t think about it too hard.”

She nodded slowly, staring at her clasped hands for a minute as inconvenient, mushy emotions flooded her. Then she released a slow, shaky breath and finally said what she’d wanted to say for a while, but hadn’t been able to force past her clenched teeth. “Thank you.”

“No worries,” he said easily. And she didn’t even wonder if he meant it. There was no doubt in her mind that he did.

Red found a wok and opened more boxes; poured oil into the pan and yanked out what seemed to be every seasoning she owned. Then he ran a hand through his hair, rolled his eyes as if at himself, and said, “You got a hair tie?”

“I never know where they are,” she admitted. Except for the one currently in her hair, which she tugged free and handed to him.

“Thanks.” Bright blue paint stained some of his nails. His fingertips grazed hers. Her body lit up inside, reacting as if he’d offered to rip off her clothes and do her on the counter—not that she wanted him to, because she really wasn’t feeling very well, and it would be murder on her lower back. She sternly informed her nipples of these pertinent facts, but they gestured rudely at her and continued to tingle like a pair of slutty batteries.

Meanwhile, Red somehow managed to remain gorgeous while wearing a man bun.

When the kitchen filled with the sharp sizzle of cooking food, she spoke again. “So, you like to cook?”

“I like to cook for other people,” he said. “Cooking for myself is okay, but it’s not exactly the same.”

Something about that revelation filled her with equal parts relief and disappointment. “I see.”

Though his focus was on the food, he arched an eyebrow, amusement dancing over his expression. “What do you see, Button?”

“You run around making dinner for everyone.” She’d meant that to sound teasing, but it came out a little bit … not.

His smile widened as he shot her a look. “Jealous?”

She snorted. “Pardon me? Of course I’m not jealous.” When had she become such a shameless liar? Her dad would be so disappointed in her new habit of casual deceit.

“That’s good. Be weird if you were jealous of my mother.”