Page 34 of Filthy Rich Ex's Brothers

I’m just saying—this obviously isn’t serious, Serena. We can’t… date.

We can’t date. It’s not serious. I need to get that through my thick head.

Travis is probably off wherever he is right now, enjoying a different woman in his hotel bed. There’s no reason I should feel bad about having some fun, too. It’s not like I belong to him. And he certainly doesn’t belong to me.

“What are you thinking about?” Ryan prompts, and I clear my throat, shaking my head, not wanting to talk about Travis. It might be good to get the man out of my head.

“I’m hopingthathas nothing to do with the drink you’re making me,” I say, nodding at the eggs he’s dropped next to a pound of butter. Every ingredient he produces looks like he’s just plucked it from a farmer’s stand, unlabeled and impossibly fresh.

“Oh, no,” he chuckles, sliding the flour and milk to the side. “Thatis for the dream.Thisis the drink.”

For the next five minutes, Ryan tells me about his foray into functional mocktails as he crushes berries and brews chamomile. “My best friend is really into healthstuff, but he doesn’t care about flavor. I really don’t understand it.”

“Like, the kind of guy who forces down a kale smoothie in the morning?” I laugh when I ask the question, but internally curse the fact that I’m back to thinking about Travis.

“Exactly,” Ryan mutters, shaking his head and glancing up at me. “It’s like—newsflash. Things can be tasty and good for you at the same time.”

I accept the drink and turn it side to side, examining how the foam floats at the top and how a single blueberry, impaled on a fancy toothpick, makes it look chic.

Without fully realizing what I’m doing, I’ve pulled my camera out. Standing, I line up a shot of the drink with the Manhattan skyline in the background. When I surface from the pull of theviewfinder, Ryan is wiping the counter and giving me a strange, soft look.

“Don’t smile,” I joke, acting on instinct to harden the moment. “I’m charging you for that.”

He laughs, and I could easily become addicted to the sound.

Chapter 18

Serena

Ryan isn’t just artful in the kitchen—he’s efficient and mesmerizing to watch.

Once I have my drink, he disappears down a hallway, shirking his nice clothes from the cafe opening. When he walks back down the hallway, it’s in a Las Vegas Knights T-shirt and a pair of sweats that make my mouth water.

The shirt clings to his biceps as he works. He uses a medieval contraption to chop butter in a bowl, then folds in dry ingredients, all while spinning between four other pans on the oven, which spit and crackle at different intensities. His kitchen fills with warring scents—fish and vegetables, something sweet and earthy, and somehow also the gentle scent of the chamomile drink under my nose.

“I grew up in Nebraska,” he says, glancing over to catch my reaction. I imagine it’s something similar to how Travis responded to me being from New Jersey. The only thing worse than not being from the city is being from aflyoverstate. “Yeah, yeah, I know that look—but here’s the thing, man, when you come of age in a place like that, everything in the world feels miraculous. First time I saw mountains, I cried.”

I should be more concerned with how charmed I am by him. I can practically feel Georgia standing next to me, eyeing him up and down.

Lillie, meanwhile, would be drooling over his kitchen, his ingredients, the casual way he spoons something into the fish with a flick of his wrist.

“I’d like to see that.”

“Mountains?”

“You crying.”

He laughs, “Just show me a video of a soldier coming home. Or an animal rescue—like, some burly blue-collar worker finds a little duckling and takes hours getting her out of a storm gutter? Waterworks.”

I can feel my face getting ruddy from how much I’m laughing, but I can’t help it. Something about this man makes me feel at ease. Or maybe it’s the chamomile and blueberry.

As he works, we talk. I let it slip that I’m from New Jersey; thenhe’sthe one givingmea face. “Oh, whatever,Nebraska,” I chide, hoping he doesn’t ask me to point out the state on a map.

Ryan tells me about his parents, Edward and Hannah, a roofer and teacher, respectively. He tells me about his three sisters, and I instantly see their effect on him, softening him around the edges like a pebble in a rock tumbler. He’s primed and ready for another woman—sisters will do that to you.

“Here’s the thing—my mom cooked, but she hated it. It was always some crock pot thing you dumped a few cans into—and always, like, a ranch packet and a block of cream cheese—then cooked the shit out of for hours. Stir when you get home from work and plop it into bowls. So, when I got into cooking, my parents had no problem with me taking over that chore.”

“It’s astounding to me that you learned about food inOmaha,” I mutter, trailing my finger over the smooth, sparkling granite.