Page 27 of Property of Booker

After a brief hesitation, she drops onto the stool, the last remnants of panic finally fading from her expression. It’s a minor triumph, but I’ll take what I can get. A playful smirk touches her lips as she looks at the food. “I don’t think that’s actually edible,” she teases.

Tossing my hands up in the air, I harrumph, “I suck at this.”

“Here, step aside master chef, let me help you,” she says as she walks around the counter and bumps my hip with hers. “You sit, I’ve got this.”

I do as she directs and watch her work her magic and fix what I screwed up.

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

Kendall

I take the runny eggs and place them back in the skillet and finish cooking them. I watch as Booker and Kolter banter, Kolter giving Booker hell for screwing up a simple task. Booker leans back, looking like a relieved man who just dodged a bullet. “Finally, someone with actual talent takes over,” he quips, propping his boots up on the footrest of the stool.

Kolter chuckles from across the island. “Seriously, Booker, how are you even functioning if you can't scramble an egg without it turning into a failed science experiment?” A grin spreads across my face—considering the intense environment he was raised in, it’s wonderful to see him engaging in playful banter with Booker. There is an innate quality about the man that instantly sets you at ease, helping you escape that heavy sense of impending doom.

I toss a spatula in the air, catch it, and wink at my son. “I honestly don't know how the club doesn't starve if this is the standard around here.”

Booker points a finger at me, feigning hurt. “Hey, I survive on coffee and adrenaline. Real cooking is just a suggestion.”

“It's a suggestion that results in charcoal toast or runny food,” Kolter adds, his giggles getting louder.

The smell of sizzling butter fills the air, and for the first time in forever, the kitchen feels light. I flip the eggs with a quick, practiced motion. Booker watches me, but his eyes keep flickering over to Kolter, soaking up the kid's laughter like he's afraid it's going to evaporate. “You see that, Booker?” I joke, sliding the plates toward them with a flourish. “That is what we call skill. Try to take notes.”

“Notes taken,” he grunts, though he can't stop that small, genuine smile from tugging at his lips. He picks up his fork and takes a bite, his expression shifting from amusement to genuine surprise. “Okay, fine. Maybe I do need to hire you as the official club chef.”

Kolter mimics his movement, eyes lighting up after his first bite. “This is way better than the burnt toast and runny stuff you tried to make.”

“Har, har, har,” Booker chuckles deeply. He reaches out to playfully ruffle Kolter’s hair, prompting my boy to offer a bright, genuine smile. “I think I'm being bullied in my own house,” Booker jests, shaking his head. The banter bounces back and forth, and the heavy shadow that usually hangs over us seems to lift just a little bit. It's ridiculous and noisy and simple, and I love every second of it.

After we scarf down our breakfast, we work as a team to clean up after ourselves. I move to grab the skillet, but Booker’s hand beats me to the handle. He catches my eye, and for a second, the air in the kitchen gets heavy in the best way possible. He stands close enough that I can smell the sandalwood and something uniquely him clinging to his shirt. “I've got it, Kendall,” he says, his voice dropping into that low rumble I’ve started to crave. “You’ve done enough heavy lifting for one morning.”

“You're just scared I'll find another reason to roast your cooking skills,” I quip, though my breath hitches as he steps into my personal space.

Kolter watches us from the side, a wide, mischievous grin plastered on his face. He isn't looking at the floor or the walls anymore. He's looking right at us, his eyes bright with excitement. “He's definitely trying to impress you, Mom,” Kolter pipes up, his voice light. He actually giggles, looking from me to Booker like he's watching a movie he’s been waiting to see.

Booker doesn't even break eye contact with me. He just smirks at the kid. “Is it working?” he asks, his gaze burning into mine.

I feel a flush creeping up my neck. “Maybe a little bit,” I admit, watching his smirk turn into a full, genuine grin.

“He's a keeper,” Kolter declares, crossing his arms and nodding like he just solved a math problem.

I laugh, and the sound feels foreign and wonderful. “Slow down there, kiddo. We're just cleaning up dishes.”

Booker leans in, his chest brushing against my shoulder. “We're doing more than that,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.

I smile, feeling lighter than I have in a decade. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” he says, taking the soap from me. “I think we are.” My mouth suddenly goes dry, and I lick my lips to add some moisture to them, Booker’s eyes following the movement.

Kolter hops off his stool and grabs a towel, looking like he’s trying to audition for the role of a normal kid. He starts drying a plate with overly enthusiastic motions. “You guys should totally go out,” he blurts out, his voice practically vibrating with excitement.

I nearly fumble the clean dish I’m holding. “Kolter, take a breath, sweetheart,” I laugh, feeling the heat rise into my cheeks.

Booker lets out a soft, deep rumble of a laugh. He looks at my son, and the usual tension in his shoulders vanishes. “He’s got a point, Kendall. This kitchen is usually a disaster zone. A change of scenery might be just what we need.”

Kolter pumps a fist in the air. “See? Even he wants to take you out.”