Page 60 of My Brother’s Best Friends Entanglement

"Rhys."

"Alexia." He doesn't look up from the card reader.

"These are my groceries."

"They're house groceries." He nods at the bacon, the toilet paper, the dish soap, the yoghurt.

But at least half the items on this belt are for a dish I'm making for someone else, and it feels wrong to let him pay for it. There's no way to say that now without making things more awkward than they already are.

I'll pay him back later.

Outside, he's got the bags before I can argue, and we walk out into the last of the light together.

"That's me," I say, pointing at my car, reaching for the bags. He shakes his head and walks me over anyway. When I start to open the boot, he says, "It's alright, I'll put them in my car. I'll grab them out when we get home."

I let it go. I'm expecting him to walk away when he turns back.

“There's a hot pot place. The new one down the road. Apparently it's pretty good. I thought you might want to try it."

I can't be hearing right. "You want to go with me?"

"I do." He says it so simply I almost feel silly for feeling so much about it.

For half a second I want to say yes so badly it's embarrassing.

Then it flashes, unbidden: the other side of the bed, still dented from his body, but empty, the door already shut.

I can't go back there.

Run, Alexia. Run.

"Actually," I say, "I have plans."

He blinks once, and whatever he was opening himself up to closes back up so fast I can practically hear the door slam.

"Of course." Flat again. Contained again. Same old Rhys. "Go on. I'll take these home."

He's gone before I can answer, long strides eating up the car park like he's trying to put real distance between us.

And I stand there and let him.

FOURTEEN

Marcus

I wake up from my after-work nap on the couch to the scent of cardamom and cinnamon thick enough to coat my tongue, and for a second I wonder if I'm dreaming of a spice kitchen.

Then the clanging in the kitchen registers, and I realise someone's baking. Alexia, if I had to guess. Zachary should be at work, and I can't remember Rhys ever touching the stove since we moved in. I pad through the house, following the smell, wearing only a pair of shorts. I'd showered after work, heated up a lasagne I froze last week since no one else was home, and fallen asleep on the couch with my phone on my chest.

As guessed, Alexia's the culprit, messing up my kitchen. She's at the sink with her back to me, hair knotted up, wearing a long striped shirt over black shorts. She's scrubbing a mixing bowl, scowling, muttering something about baking being only for masochists. Flour dusts her cheeks. Measuring spoons and cups are strewn across the bench. I'm not sure how one person made such a mess.

I lean against the doorframe and watch her work, moving things from bench to sink and back again, somehow making an even bigger mess.

I should go help. But then I'd have to stop watching her move that body around.

"Stop staring. It's creepy," she says, without looking up from the sink.

I chuckle. "How do you know I'm staring?"