Page 32 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

“I mean, it never happened again. But it felt like the end of the world, you know? Felt like I’d never get back to her again.

We didn’t have phones or anything,” I add with a small laugh.

“The first few days, I really believed that my mom was going to fix it. But she didn’t.

The family I was with ended the placement because the wife got pregnant, and Sloane’s foster family had been askin’ for me anyway.

Guess Sloane pestered them enough to make it happen. ”

Her smirk matches my own, the thought of my sister hassling those people bringing some levity back into the moment. “Of course, she did.”

I push out of my chair, rounding the counter to join her in the kitchen. “Sloane’s my family. Evie and Beau are my family.” You feel like my family, I think but don’t dare say. “I just…don’t want to open that door again. Those feelings aren’t somethin’ I want to relive.”

I crowd the space behind her and she leans back against me, the sweet, vanilla scent of her curls igniting a warmth that travels down my spine.

I’m starting to crave it—crave her. I haven’t spent a day apart from her this past week, and the thought of coming home to her is already embedded in my mind on a loop.

“I get it,” she says, her voice a low hum against my chest. “The future is so much more exciting anyway.” She peeks up at me, her plush lips curved in a timid grin.

We haven’t talked about what we’re doing.

All I know is that between class and rehearsals, Gen’s been making time for Sloane.

And, conveniently, hanging out with Sloane transforms into spending time with me.

Sometimes Sloane hangs around, like last night when we all watched The Substance ; or tried to watch.

Their combined commentary was even more entertaining than the movie.

Most days though, Sloane slinks out and leaves us alone.

A silent co-conspirator, the way we were as kids.

And I’m grateful. Because something about this feels tenuous and impossible and I don’t want to fuck it up by defining anything.

“Should we try making your cake again?” I ask her, my chin resting on her head, letting the normalcy of her in my arms flood my memory bank.

This is the sort of thing I always want to remember: her twisting and looking up at me, the desperation in her hazel eyes adorable and distracting, they way I want to grip her hips and spin her around, pin her against the counter, taste?—

“ Please .” The single worded plea is more of a moan, and I distract myself by stepping back, inspecting the kitchen.

Peering into the sink, I spot a single mixing bowl and a whisk.

Next to the sink: a box of cake mix with two cracked eggs barely shoved inside, the egg whites running down the side.

“We did buy three more just in case,” she adds in a hopeful tone.

“Not necessary. Jean’s not getting box cake on my watch,” I smirk, moving to grab the butter and sugar and pulling the standing mixer out from the cabinet.

“I thought it would be easier ,” she whines, watching as I microwave the butter. “Why are you doing that?”

“We’re gonna combine that with the sugar. Usually I’d let it sit out and soften, but you can heat it up for a few seconds instead.” The appliance beeps and I nod toward it. “Go ahead.”

Gen’s arms cross in protest as her eyes roll, the defiance I used to call frigid now heating me up from the inside out. I stand behind her, let my hands sink into the curve of her waist, and walk her toward where I’ve got everything set up.

“Pretty sure you’re the one who told Jean you’d make him a birthday cake.

” Her pouty mouth twists into a reluctant smile as she gives in.

I’d make this cake for her in a heartbeat, really, but I want to guide her through the steps, watch her master something new, catch the satisfying glint in her eye when she realizes she did a damn good job.

“Regretting that now,” she mumbles, but I hear the commitment in her voice.

In the few months that I’ve gotten to know Gen—the real Gen, not the caricature everyone draws up in their mind—I’ve realized that she loves her people.

And at first, that pissed me off because I could only see her unwavering devotion to Will, but now I see it with my sister.

I see it with Jean. I think the people around her don’t even give her the chance to give it, never give her a minute to warm up and reveal what’s really behind the mask.

She shows up, and she listens, and she understands, more than anyone I’ve ever met.

“So add that.” My hand shadows hers, barely doing anything as she adds the butter, adds the sugar, and turns on the mixer.

I tell her that our goal is to get it light and fluffy, and she nods in earnest, concentrating on the bowl.

When she stops it, the mixture actually perfect, I say so, and her shoulder ticks up as she confidently hums her acknowledgement.

We make our batter like this: I direct her, nudge her, and she takes it all in stride, trusting me, trusting the process, her satisfaction steadily growing until she pours the batter into the pans.

“ That is going to be delicious.”

Pride beams on her face, and I fucking love it.

It’s just a cake, but seeing her own her wins, watching her know that she killed whatever she was doing—it’s like a drug.

It’s so different from the way I perceived her before; before, I thought she was hanging on, trailing, shadowing him .

But I wasn’t paying attention. Because if I had, I would’ve seen this all along.

Wrapping my arms low around her hips, I coast my hands down the small of her back and let them rest on the perfect swell of ass wrapped in the tight spandex of her leggings.

“No doubt about it,” I tell her just before my lips claim hers.

Hints of chocolate from the batter she couldn’t stop herself from tasting swirl with the cool mintiness of her as I explore her mouth in a slow, simmering kiss.

She pulls my bottom lip through her teeth, rakes her nails against my scalp, and my hold on her tightens, one hand still gripping her ass as the other melds her waist .

Our kiss suddenly breaks, and when I open my eyes, hers are slightly panicked.

“What about frosting?”

The ferocity of my feelings for Gen slam into me, and I can’t breathe for a second.

She’s stolen it, it feels like, and I need her here so she can supply the air, so I can keep breathing.

Being with her is like getting into bed after a long day and knowing you can just escape into the solace that is sleep—except this is a person .

A person has me feeling this whole, this safe, this content, this relieved.

Like she is here, and it’s going to be okay.

And the truth of it—I feel it in my bones, looking at her right now.

I know I love her. I know that now, I need her.

She tilts her head, the sun filtering through the window reflecting on the high points of her face, her brow impatiently ticking up. I love when she does that.

She bites her lip. I love when she does that even more.

“You bought box cake, but no icing?” I tease her.

“I wanted to challenge myself a little .”

Yeah. I love that, too.