Right now Mariah and I are spending a lot of time together.We’ve got to talk about something, and she seems as interested in spilling the details of her past as I am about pouring out the agony of mine, so my brothers’ bullshit is usually a pretty safe topic.
And one with enough stories to keep her entertained for the next five years.
Did I also maybe spill a little of my brothers’ shit to make Mariah less likely to find them appealing?
Anything’s possible, I guess.
“I like you.” Tobias takes the seat next to Tucker, eyes locked on my chef as he settles in. “Tell me more about what an asshole Trevor is.”
Mariah’s eyes jump to me before returning to Tobias. He’s putting her on the spot—trying to get her to talk shit about our family just because he wants to stir Trevor up—and she doesn’t like it.
Neither do I.
Moving from where I’ve been standing at the edge of the room, I join Mariah on her side of the island, standing close as I stare my brothers down. “Don’t try to drag her into your bullshit.”
Tobias doesn’t look surprised by my stance. If anything, it seems to amuse him. He leans back in his seat, smirking. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Ty. We’re not trying to make her pick sides.” He leans forward, eyes never leaving my face. “Especially since it’s pretty obvious whose side she’s on.”
I know what he’s insinuating. I didn’t miss the way Mariah took on my brothers in my defense. But like so much else, I’m choosing to ignore it.
Because if I don’t…
“Don’t give him a hard time, Toby.” Tucker leans close to Tobias, lowering his voice. “I have a feeling you won’t get any cookies.”
Mariah shifts from foot to foot beside me, looking uncomfortable with the situation. On reflex, I lift my hand, preparing to rest it on her back to provide reassurance. To let her know I’mright here with her and not gonna let any of these fuckheads ruin her day.
But then I remember there’s a whole line of very observant fuckheads watching my every move, and I drop my hand back to my side.
I shoot each of my brothers a glare before issuing a warning. “None of you are going to get any fucking cookies if you can’t act right.”
Trevor crosses both arms over his chest, leaning against the wall. “Well that’s just mean.”
I glance down to find a small smile curving Mariah’s lips. Her caramel colored eyes meet mine and I nearly stop breathing. It happens every time she looks at me like this. Like I did something to make her happy. It’s like a fucking drug. And can’t stop myself from continuing to chase it down, looking for another hit.
But normally we’re alone. There’s no one to notice the lengths I go to for that smile to be aimed at me. Now we’ve got an audience. One who doesn’t miss a fucking thing. Including the opportunity to give me shit.
The timer on the oven starts to go off, and Mariah turns to pull the tray of finished cookies from the oven before replacing it with a second, unbaked sheet. The racks she uses to cool baked goods are lined on the counter behind us, so her back is to my brothers as she goes to work removing the cookies with a spatula. That means I’m the only one who sees the four of them giving each other meaningful looks. Communicating their thoughts without words.
And like so much else that’s going on right now, I don’t fucking like it. So I turn away. I don’t care what they think about me. I don’t give a shit about their theories on my behavior toward Mariah. All I care about is that they don’t try to steal her attention from?—
She lifts one of the warm cookies between us, voice soft as she brings it to hover in front of my lips. “Want to taste?”
Desperately, but I’m going to have to settle for a cookie instead.
Opening my mouth, I let her feed me, biting off a chunk of sweet, gooey, buttery goodness. I don’t mean to groan, but it’s honestly the only response something this fantastic deserves. I chew it way longer than I should because I don’t want to give up the taste, but eventually I have to swallow it down, licking my lips for any lingering hint of flavor.
Mariah gifts me with a smile that reveals the slight dimple in her left cheek. “Good?”
I can’t look away from her face. From the happiness that is so often there. The kind of happiness that hasn’t been in my life for years. “Perfect.”
Mariah leans closer, voice conspiratorial as she whispers, “You want me to tell them they can’t have any?”
I’m so distracted by her closeness. By how easy it would be to reach out and touch her—to kiss her—that it takes a second for her offer to sink in.
I can imagine the looks on my brothers’ faces when she tells them they can’t have any of her cookies, and it’s almost worth it.
But then I imagine the looks on their faces when they get to taste the miracle she just mixed up, and decide it will be the best kind of torture for them to know she’s here with me. Making cookies. Baking cakes. Laughing at my jokes. Sitting close to me on the couch at night while we share popcorn.
All while they’re sitting alone in their houses, with nothing but their work—or a horny poodle—to keep them company.
