“Getting out of town for the weekend isn’t a bad idea,” Becca mused. “I mean, of all the places to go after an epic breakup, Vegas is an excellent choice.”
“The breakup wasn’t epic. No one threw glassware,” Marlee mumbled.
Broken glass was a requirement for “epic”?
There was the time Marlee and her senior-year boyfriend had called it quits, and she and the girls had covered his prized ’69 Chevy Camaro Super Sport in toilet paper. Eli had thought that was pretty epic. He’d also been the one to explain to the police that his sister and her friends were not, in fact, perpetual rule breakers. Then he’d been the one to threaten to take away all their mascara if they ever pulled shit like that again.
“But you wanted to throw something,” Kellie said. “I know you wanted to. Right at his head.”
“Not really.” Marlee dropped to the sofa beside Eli. “We grew apart.”
The side of her thigh touched the fabric of Eli’s jeans, her warmth seeping straight into his skin. In the good way when one actually likes someone and doesn’t mind their thighs touching.
“I mean,” Marlee continued, “at this point, Idothink a quick divorce would be easier than cancelling it all, but Scotty’s right, things between us haven’t been awesome for a long time. I just hadn’t realized it yet. Not out loud.”
One thing about Marlee? She was a toucher. Always had been. So it wasn’t a shock to him when she dropped her hand against his and pulled her calves underneath herself. No, that wasn’t the shock. The shock was that he liked how at ease she was with him. How her hand felt on him. It was one of those endearing Marlee things that helped make her everyone’s friend. Everyone loved Marlee. He wasn’t that kind of person. He had his friends, but he didn’t have the gravitational pull of Marlee.
It’s not that he was standoffish. But he wasn’t obtuse. He worked out a lot of frustration at the gym. He was six-foot-four, and the amount of space he took up—he’d been told—could sometimes be interpreted as intimidating. Hell, Sadie had told him just that morning she needed to use him as their bouncer if Scotty did anything stupid.
“Let’s do this,” Kellie suggested. “Finish packing up the basics, grab breakfast, and figure out what comes next.”
“When’s the last time you ate?” Eli asked Marlee as gently as he could. He may not be able to swing a hotel room, but he did have the skill set required to whip up a decent meal. “You know what? Never mind. Don’t answer that. I’ll make breakfast.”
“Awesome.” Kellie held out her knuckles for a fist bump.
He met it.
Becca started taping together boxes. “It’ll be just like when we were kids.”
His gut twinged at the thought. Not that he’d minded helping his parents out when he was a teenager—he was the oldest and, in their family, that meant it came with the territory—but his mom had gotten sick, and his dad had worked crazy hours, and that meant Eli had taken care of his four little sisters and, by default, their friends. The stress of that year still raised his blood pressure, and he’d sworn he would never repeat it. Would never put himself in another situation where he was solely responsible for anyone’s well-being.
“Marlee, you should help Eli.” Becca was already headed upstairs with Sadie. “And by help, I mean you should do nothing and let us all take care of you.”
“I’m not going to let you guys do it all.” Marlee started to stand.
Eli caught her hand and pulled her back to the couch. “We’ve got our orders.”
“I’d like pancakes.” Kellie followed Becca up the stairs. “Pancakes are my favorite.”
Eli headed to the kitchen and pulled open the Sub-Zero refrigerator that blended in with her maple cabinets. He drooled only a little at the brands and the luxury of Marlee’s appliances. The La Cornue range just begged to be fired up. Petted. Appreciated for the work of art it was. As a professional, a kitchen like this practically made his fingers itch to bake something.
But he wasn’t there to eye-fuck her appliances. He stuck his head in the door of the fridge and paused. One jar of pickles. Two tablespoons of ketchup left in a plastic squeeze bottle. A couple of Styrofoam takeout boxes.
This was like the biggest middle finger to a brilliant appliance that he’d ever seen.
“We usually order in, it’s just easier,” Marlee said from behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder to where she peered into the refrigerator, her palm resting against his upper back.
He denied his body’s desire to lean into her hand. To dive into the perpetual kindness in her eyes, the soft look she got when her gaze focused on his, the way her little touches didn’t bother him—when they would have from anyone else.
His attention turned back to the pickles and away from her continual touch. This would absolutely not work. Channel Ten News had called him a genius in the kitchen. A master of turning nothing into something. One of the national cooking shows had even approached him about doing one of their segments that relied on a chef being able to turn a pot of coffee, whipping cream, and a pork loin into a three-course meal.
He could not, however, turn a jar of pickles—he reached for it and turned it over in his palm—nix that, a jar ofexpiredpickles, into a breakfast worthy of Kellie’s fist bump.
“We’re going out to find ingredients.” He stood, closed the door, and set the jar on the countertop next to the stainless-steel sink. “Then, as part of your getting over Scotty, I’m going to teach you to cook.”
“I’m already over Scotty,” Marlee insisted, but the light didn’t quite reach her eyes.
