Page 97 of The Storm

“In the scenario where you’re the cook, it’s a pretty safe bet I’ll also end up kissing the cock.”

His head drops forward, and he squeezes the spatula until his knuckles turn white. He groans.

And I feel invincible.

“Go stand far, far away from me and… set the table or something. Make yourself useful.”

My grin widens. I kiss the back of his neck before I go to grab the plates.

Dad wanders in fifteen minutes later. He raises his brows when he sees Nick, but that’s the only sign of surprise he shows.

“Boys,” he says, like us cooking dinner together is something that happens every day. He looks around. “Where’s our long-lost heroine?”

“Taking a shower,” I say as I lay out the forks and knives.

“And your mother?”

Just as he asks that we hear the front door opening. I point toward the hallway, and Dad walks out. Murmurs carry over, muted enough that I can’t hear what’s being said exactly, but I can make out the surprise.

I glance at Nick.

“You know they’re talking about you, right?”

“Yup,” he says tonelessly.

I snort out a laugh, and when he looks up and our gazes meet, his eyes shine with his own special brand of dry humor.

I finish setting the table.

“This was really nice of you,” I say.

“Well,” he says in a measured voice, “somebody did yell at me to put some fucking effort in every now and then. I’m paraphrasing.”

I love my family a lot with full acknowledgment that none of us are perfect. But I truly believe that we all do our best. So him doing this? For me? It feels important.Ifeel like I’m important.

“Thank you,” I say softly. I want to kiss him, but there are too many people around for that. Later, though, I’ll get him alone.

“Hi, darling,” Mom tells me when she walks in. “Oh, Nick. This looks perfect.”

She’s not making it into a big deal, which also means Nick starts to look marginally less stiff.

“It’s not a big deal,” he mumbles just in case, though.

“Claire was always raving about your skills in the kitchen,” Mom says.

That does it. Tension snaps right back into Nick’s shoulders. A part of me is preparing for him to react like he always does, with harsh words and a well-placed disappearing act. But then he closes his eyes for a moment, opens them again, and looks up. The small smile is tight and never actually reaches his eyes, but it’s there.

“It was probably a survival mechanism. You know, compliment the one who doesn’t burn down the house while making grilled cheese,” Nick says.

My parents laugh. We’re all light again.

“Now where’s that daughter of mine?” Mom asks.

Dad says something. I don’t listen. I’m too busy looking at Nick. The way he still does his best to relax and not squirm. Theway his fingers roll into loose fists and then extend like he’s not sure what to do with them. The way he locks and unlocks his jaw.

The way hetries.

So hard.