Page 37 of Cruel Debts (Killers of Port Wylde #4)

THIRTY-TWO

TRINITY

I dragged the paintbrush across Asher's smooth skin, giggling at the shivers that ran down his spine from the sensations. "Asher, you've gotta hold still." The second pass of the brush had him shivering again, and I frowned and sighed at the crooked line he caused. "Well, dammit, now it's uneven."

"It doesn't have to be perfect, Trinity," Asher muttered, staring over his shoulder at me. "What are you even drawing?"

Asher sat shirtless at the island, his back to me as I multitasked by attempting to cook some food and paint his back at the same time. But something I hadn't informed the guys about was that my cooking skills had never gotten better over the years. Not only that, but they somehow got worse.

I was determined to prove that I could survive on my own, though, on more than just ramen noodles and takeout.

Keehn would be ashamed at how little I'd managed to learn, and when I found him, I wanted him to know I'd been okay on my own.

I didn't want him to feel guilty for walking away for whatever reason.

I needed to prove to him I was grown and capable.

So far, I was failing miserably.

"Oh, shit!" I dropped the paintbrush to the floor and didn't even pay any mind to the splattering paint as I raced over to where the skillet on the stove was steaming angrily.

Forgetting that the pan was hot and my fingers were only covered in a thin layer of skin, I reached over and grabbed the handle, swearing when the heat burned my wrist.

I didn't pull back, though. I twisted it and reached for the spatula, even as I recognized that the whole pan of food was a waste.

"Who the fuck is out here killing things on my stove?"

Hawke sauntered in with a shit-eating grin on his face, eyeing first Asher's still form at the counter, and then mine at the stove. He took one look at my mess and sighed, shaking his head.

"I don't know why you'd even bother trying when you know damn well everything you touch turns to shit." He snatched the spatula from my hands with a grimace and promptly tossed all the ruined food in the trash. "Good lord, what even was that stuff? It didn't resemble any food I've ever seen."

I had to bite back the smart-assed retort sitting on my tongue and attempt to be less of a bitch. He was right. It was terrible. "I was attempting to cook some chicken and vegetables in curry garlic sauce." I looked in the bottom of the trash can and sighed. "I didn't think it was that bad."

Asher snorted. "It was so bad, a starving street dog wouldn't have eaten it."

"Rude." I sniffed the air and straightened my shirt—Asher's shirt, actually—in indignation. "I was trying, okay?"

"Well, try less," Hawke said with a wince. "Jesus, you charred the pan, Trinity." There was nothing but sadness, disappointment, and disgust in his eyes as he tossed the pan itself into the bin with a sigh. "Gonna have to buy a new one now."

"I'm sorry." God, why did Hawke have to make me feel like a child? It was just a pan, for fuck's sake. "Are you going to keep yelling at me all night?"

"No." He pulled another skillet out of the cabinet and put it on the stove, pulling a few things from the cabinet as he mumbled. "If you want something to eat, let me know, and I'll make it for you."

That was an awfully nice gesture from him. I was instantly suspicious. "Why are you being so nice to me, Hawke?"

"I'm not being nice to you. I'm saving my kitchen from the destructive force of a McCoy who can't cook.

" He turned to glance at me over his shoulder, shooting me a knowing look.

"Don't sweat it, though, McCoy 2.0. Your brother couldn't cook when he met us, either.

I had to cook for him or he'd starve some days. "

That was news. I'd never been aware that Keehn couldn't cook.

For as long as I could remember, he always made me things when I was hungry or too picky to eat what the family chef would cook on our parents' orders.

He'd pull ingredients from the pantry and feed me late at night when I couldn't sleep.

He made us after-school snacks when he started sports, and I started cheering.

He'd send me things he found while he was deployed in other countries, and remind me to eat, no matter what it was.

To hear that Keehn hadn't been able to help himself once upon a time was wild to me. Unfathomable.

"I need to learn, so I can do this stuff on my own when I'm gone from here."

A reminder that this wasn't permanent, though whether it was a reminder for me, or them, I wasn't sure. I didn't want to know. Probably a little bit of both.

Asher huffed and left the room, mumbling about taking a shower to get the paint out of his hair, leaving Hawke and I alone.

Hawke, who was currently standing over the sink, cleaning fresh veggies, staunchly ignoring me now.

Who hated my guts. Who I was relatively sure had some suppressed desires about me.

Who I'm pretty sure jacked off to the sound of Asher fucking me against his wall.

Who still pretended he didn't want to see me naked, when he almost had.

I mean, it wasn't like that outfit at the club covered much.

And realistically, he'd been looking, or my name was now Mud.

"You going to stare a hole into my back, or do you wanna learn how to cook?"

He didn't even turn around. He hadn't seen me since he washed those damn vegetables. How did he know?—?

"You only get quiet when you're thinking, and concentrating, and I can feel your eyes in the back of my skull. Offer for education is only open for another three seconds. Two. One?—"

"Yes, okay, I'm coming, hold on." I stomped around the island and planted myself on his right, which I hoped was the direction he needed to go in the least. Or maybe I wanted him to be inconvenienced.

Making him unhappy pretty much guaranteed a good time for me, and a bad one for him.

And since he still acted like he hated me, then I didn't care what pissed him off.

I did, but I wouldn't let him know that.

"Here, hold the spatula for me," he demanded, stepping back so he could put it in my hand and shove me in front of the skillet.

I stood there like an idiot, staring at the warming oil in the bottom of the pan, nothing in my head except that I was almost one hundred percent sure I didn't ever belong in front of a stove—now or in the future.

A homebody, I was not. A cook, I definitely wasn't.

You'd better marry someone rich enough to pay for a full house staff, so your shortcomings don't shine through.

Daddy had always been so realistic about my prospects for the future. I wasn't Keehn. I wasn't special. So he hadn't bothered to try. And if mother failed in teaching me how to be a woman, well, that was on her, and in no way a reflection of his own parenting.

He made it clear that my only option was marriage, preferably one that benefitted the whole family.

"Okay, we're going to put the sliced chicken in the pan first, after we season it." He waited until I was watching before dusting the chicken I'd already cut with a little bit of the basics. I made a mental note to cut my salt in half next time I attempted to cook.

"Season it, then cook it, right."

The chicken slid off the cutting board in his hand and right into the hot oil in the pan, and the sizzling it made was almost enough to have me cowering. Oil popped, bubbles rose to the surface, and the smell of cooking meat permeated the air.

I eyed the concoction with distrust. "Are you sure it's not going to burn the house down?"

"It won't, if you don't overfill it. Now, come here." His arms opened, and he gestured to the stove, blocking me in with his body against the back of mine. "Take your spatula and stir it around, let the oil coat it, let it cook on both sides."

I flipped the first piece and nearly got the oil on us, too. "Shit, that was close?—"

"Hold still, woman," he growled, irritation lacing his words as his arms moved alongside mine, his hands covering my smaller one on the handle of the spatula.

"Look, when you flip it, don't slap it down like that in the grease.

It'll burn you, and grease burns suck." His wrist moved both our hands, and I watched in amazement as he shifted the chicken over and turned it on its head, gently, letting the meat slide from the surface instead of flipping it like an angry pancake. "See? No splash."

All I could see was that Hawke was very, very close to my neck, and I wanted very, very much for him to put his lips on it. Or to lean over me, and let his whole body ride up against mine.

Hawke might hate me, and I might pretend to hate him, but god, everyone knew the best sex was when you fucked like you hated each other.

Sex with Hawke would be explosive. Hot. Intense.

Raw.

"Earth to Tee-Bird. Wake up, unless your plan is to kill us both by burning to death on the stove."

I returned to my senses and turned my attention to the skillet. "The chicken's cooking pretty well. What's next?"

Hawke's smile bled into his words. "Now, we add the veggies, and some sauce. And we turn the heat down and wait."

"Turn the heat down?" Why would you turn the heat down on the food if the goal was to cook it? "What does that do?"

Hawke's eyes were a window to his soul. And right now, his soul looked very much like it was tortured and trying desperately not to run out the door in the other direction, far away from me and my stupidity.

"Because if the pan is too hot, it burns the food.

You need it at a lower heat for a little longer, so it can cook all the way through and still be tasty. "

Duh, Trinity. You've seen Keehn do this a million times. "I knew that."

Hawke rolled his eyes and laughed, using the spatula to stir the food. "Of course you did, Tee-Bird."

There was that nickname again, too. The one he hadn't called me since college. Well, since college orientation, at least.

I didn't want this to end, but I couldn't get in too deep.

I just had to remember this was temporary, and I'd be okay when it came time to leave.

This was only the calm before the storm.

Men like Asher, Hawke, and Liam were great for a little while, and then they weren't, and the two sides were like night and day.

It wasn't a good idea to get attached.

This was never meant to be forever, anyhow.