Page 55 of What We Break
"Taste it." I hand him a fork. "It should be al dente — firm but not crunchy."
He fishes out a piece of penne, juggling it between his fingers because it's hot, blowing on it frantically. "Ow. Ow. Okay." He pops it in his mouth, and his face scrunches up in concentration like he's taking an exam. "I think it's ready? Maybe? It's not crunchy. But is it firm enough? What's the firmness threshold here?"
I laugh and taste it myself. "Perfect. Now drain it — but save about half a cup of the pasta water first."
"Why?"
"In case the sauce needs thinning."
"See, this is why I need you. I would have just dumped it all down the drain and then wondered why my sauce was too thick." He's already reaching for the pot, then stops. "Wait. Which one's the colander?"
"The one with the holes."
"Right. I knew that."
Reid follows my instructions, moving carefully like he's handling explosives. When he successfully drains the pasta without burning himself or dumping it all in the sink, he grins at me like he's just performed surgery.
"I did it. Did you see that? Flawless execution."
"You drained pasta."
"Flawlessly." He sets the colander down with a flourish. "I'm basically a chef now."
"This is fun." I toss everything together, hiding my smile. "You take orders well."
He grins, leaning against the counter to watch me work. "I've had a lot of practice. But I can tell you for sure, you're the prettiest drill sergeant I've ever had."
I could get used to this. "Careful, all these compliments might go to my head."
"Not compliments, Laine. Facts."
The look in his eyes says he means every word of it. And somehow that's harder to handle than a line. A line I can deflect. Sincerity just sits there, warm and heavy, daring me to accept it.
Cheeks hot, I focus on the stove. The sauce is perfect — rich and complex, with that hint of chocolate adding depth without being obvious. Reid makes another appreciative sound as I finish combining everything.
"This smells incredible," he says.
It really does. I never really thought about the fact that when I actually had my own place, I'd be alone there. No one to eat with. No communal kitchen full of other nurses arguing about whose turn it was to buy coffee. Just me, cooking for one in my quiet apartment, eating on my couch with a book propped against my knees. Turns out living alone has some downsides.
"Do you want to call Blake in?"
Reid's face lights up. "Are you sure? If you don't want?—"
"Reid." I bump his shoulder with mine. "I'd like to get to know your best friend. Besides, I made more than enough for the three of us."
"Okay, but fair warning — he's probably covered in sawdust again. The man is basically fifty percent wood shavings at this point."
"I'll survive."
Reid smiles again, softer this time. "I'll go get him. Make yourself at home."
He practically bounces out the back door, and I find myself smiling at his retreating back. This man and his enthusiasm. It's impossible not to get swept up in it.
A few minutes later he's back, followed by Blake. And this time, without the nerves from a few hours before, I let myself take him in.
Tall. Broad shoulders that fill the doorway in a way that makes the kitchen feel smaller. Dark hair sticking up everywhere, sawdust caught in it like he's been rolling around on the workshop floor. There's a dark smudge of wood stain on his cheek and his t-shirt has seen better days. He's got that slightly unfocused look of someone who's been concentrating on something for hours and hasn't fully returned to the real world yet.
He's also objectively hot. The kind of hot that catches you off guard — where Reid has this classic high school quarterback thing going, Blake is darker. Broodier. The guy who hung out in the smoke pit between welding and automotive classes. Someone comfortableworking with his hands, comfortable in silence, with that edge ofI don't care what you think of methat probably drove every girl in a fifty-mile radius absolutely insane.
