Page 93 of This Bitter Sweet Temptation
And fuck, I hate to admit she’s right.
I hate that I’m even a factor in this right down to my core.
The longer we’re cuffed together, the harder this gets, the more confusing, and many more shades of fucked up.
I push an angry hand through my hair, hating that it’s coming down to this.
Hating everything about this situation—but especially how she’s willing to throw away what she’s entitled to because of us.
Because of me, she’s ready to walk away with bronze instead of gold. I don’t just mean the money.
She’s willing to sacrifice her pride and legacy for an underhanded cutthroat who sees an easy target.
We spendthe rest of the day apart, but come evening, I throw together dinner.
The kitchen calms the storm in my head when I can’t hit the gym. I figure she needs something to cheer her up, too.
After everything that’s happened over the past week, my mood brightens as I fry up the onions and scallops. I can hear the TV going in the great room as she watches some obnoxious music show.
I’m humming to myself like I’m at home, just Kit and me, settled in our weekly routine.
When she walks in from the great room, my shoulders tense.
“American Idol’s next big thing. Can’t miss it,” she says, voice dry.
“Shit, that’s still going?”
“Mm-hmm.” She walks closer. “What are you cooking?”
“Scallops and mashed potatoes tonight. Side of broccoli.” I taste the buttery scallop sauce, relishing the heat. “It’s spicy. You gonna be okay with that? Or should I fix you some oatmeal instead?”
She accepts the spoon I hold out, the challenge flaring in her eyes. “Seriously? I lived off hot curries and flaming chili ramen packs in college.”
“Nothing new to you, then.”
She blows on the spoon and tests it. Then she grins. “You mean to tell me you spiced this up? The guy who couldn’t handle a habanero?”
“I can hold the line when it’s smothered in red chili flakes, yeah. Sorry if you don’t have any nerves left in your mouth.”
“Oh God.” She shoulder checks me and rolls her eyes. “Classic Holden. Thinking he’s all that because he learned to handle heat. So did that happen before orafterI tampered with your chicken salad?”
“That was attempted murder.” I snort. “You mixed in raw fucking pepper. Nearly wiped out a whole gallon of milk trying to cool my mouth down.”
She giggles.
“Typical Portland boy, born and raised,” I say dryly. “Had to work my way up the ladder. Maybe I’ll take another stab at the habanero in retirement.”
“Where’d you learn to cook anyway?”
“Self-taught. My mom needed help in the kitchen growing up. There were four of us kids and I was the oldest.”
“You guys must be close.”
No question.
“Close enough, yeah. No surprise when my siblings moved out of state and I’m the one who stayed. Good thing, too. Without Kit around, Mom would be bored out of her skull.” I focus on the potatoes so I don’t have to look at her, though I feel her watching me, her eyes drawn to me like magnets. “Also, she needs more help these days. Bad arthritis. My father forgets more every year, something like early dementia, and it’s hard for her to manage alone.”
I don’t tell her how truly crippling it is.
