Page 33 of Wild for the Knight

I was trying to figure that out myself, cutting the chicken into cubes so it’s easier and I don’t have to listen to a bunch of people cut the food. Utensils scraping across the plates? No, thank you. “I was going back and forth between chicken alfredo or garlic butter chicken with oven-baked mac and cheese,” I say as I go back to cutting. “Any input?”

The silence that follows has me raising my head to look at Zeke, who is now accompanied by Andrews. Tate is still standing to my right, leaning against the counter. “What?” I ask as I meet each of their gazes.

Andrews rubs his hands together in excitement, “Whoever you marry is going to be one lucky man.” I blink a few times before my head falls forward with a defeated sigh.

“What’d I say?” I look up at him through my lashes and crack up. Men are so oblivious.

“You insinuate that because I can cook more than one thing, my future husband will be lucky.” I place the knife down and put my hands on either side of the cutting board. “Am I only as good as my cooking, Andrews? Is that the only thing I bring to the table?” I watch as his eyes widen, as he stammers, trying to backtrack. Wilson starts to laugh from where he’s leaning against the wall in the living room, which sets off a chain reaction for the rest of us.

“I’m just messing with you. I know my worth.” I wink as I go back to what I was doing, “But really, Alfredo or Garlic butter?”

Tatum hums, but before he can answer, Monroe yells, “ALFREDO WITH BROCCOLI!” I smile to myself, that’s one of the things Hannah and I used to make all the time in college. When the five of us went to check on her in Alabama, we made it for the guys, her mom, and brother. They said it was ‘the most enjoyable way to eat broccoli.’

I point the knife in his direction, “Done.” He gives us his signature celebration, a heel click and a fist bump to the air before he hops over the back of the couch and turns on some racing video game. The rest of the guys file out of the kitchen to join him, well, all of them but Tatum.

Without me having to ask, he grabs a pot from under the counter and fills it with water before placing it on the stove. He adds olive oil and salt, then turns the burner on. “What do you need me to do?” I study him as he stands in front of me. His grey joggers fit him perfectly, as does the plain black, waffle knit Henley he’s rocking. His freckles are more apparent from the time we’ve spent in the sun, they dot the bridge of his nose and cheekbones. Something I’ve never truly appreciated, but I think they might be my favorite part about him.

They make him look young and innocent. He’s twenty-six, and innocent isn’t a word in his vocabulary. But I like it, I want to map them out. Trace every one of them with my finger. Do they tell a story? An appreciative hum leaves me before I bring my gaze back to the chicken. “I’m good, thank you, though.” He takes the knife from my hand and places it down on the counter, spinning me to face him in the process.

“Come on, Abby.” He breathes. “Let me help.” I don’t know how long we stand there lost in each other, but a throat clearing and the slow rolling boil of the water breaks the trance.

“What’s going on here?” Greyson asks with a twinkle in his eye, letting me know he pieced together more than he should have. Tatum groans before turning to the pot of boiling water and turning the heat down.

“Here,” I say as I hand him the box of pasta, a silent surrender. “They need to cook for twelve minutes. Can you get the biggest pan there is when you're done and coat it with olive oil so I can cook the chicken?” He nods, giving me a small smile of acknowledgment.

“We’re making Alfredo with broccoli,” I tell Greyson. He’s leaning against the bar, one ankle crossed over the other. I watch him for a second as his eyes bounce between his brother and I. The smile that spreads across his face is devious, and I thank the Lord that Hannah picks that moment to come skipping out of their room.

She puts her hands on his shoulder and pulls him down so she can kiss his cheek. The way his eyes light up when she enters the room is one of my favorite things to witness. “Hi, Kitten. Have a good nap?” He asks as he slides his hand around her waist and kisses the top of her head. She nods and places her hand on his chest before turning to us.

“What are you making?” She asks as she takes inventory of what’s lying out. Before long, her brows pull low over her eyes as her lips pull to one side. “Wait, you two are cooking? Together?” Her finger moves back and forth between Tate and I. He nods, and the little lightning bolt wrinkle that appears between her eyebrows when she’s deep in thought pops out. “You don’t let anyone help you cook, except me. On occasion”

She states it in such a matter of fact manner, that I’ve convinced myself that what we’re doing is wrong. I start to reach for my hair to take it out and re-tie it when my eyes lock with Tate’s. He takes a deep breath, holding it for a second before letting it out, a silent acknowledgement that he sees me and my struggle in the moment, while telling me to do the same.

I mimic the movement before I shrug, and look between the three of them. “Turns out, he likes to fight me on everything.” I cut a few more pieces of chicken before I continue. “So, even though I said I was good, he did what he wanted to anyway.” Greyson’s deep rumbling laugh acts as the perfect diffuser to the situation.

“Yeah, sounds about right.” He says as he guides Hannah over to the couch, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her into him. She goes willingly, but not before shooting me one more look over her shoulder. One I can’t quite decipher. One that triggers every warning bell I have.

We move through the kitchen like a well oiled machine, like we’ve cooked together a hundred times and know exactly what the other needs. I catch Hannah looking at us more than a few times, I simply smile back. Once we’ve got enough food to feed the army of professional athletes in the house, we put everything on the bar top, assembly line style. Paper plates go on one end, napkins and utensils on the other. It keeps everything flowing. If you pick up your utensils at the start, then you fumble with them while you’re trying to plate your food. Order, control. It’s a problem.

I hit Tate’s shoulder with my own to get his attention. “Thank you,” I whisper. He gives me a quick nod before walking to the fridge to get the bottles of water out. “Let’s eat,” I call to the rest of the group. The guys fly off the couch at a speed I didn’t realize they could reach off the ice. Greyson jumps in front of them with an uncharacteristic scowl on his face.

“Ladies first, you animals,” Greyson says with an eye roll.

There’s a chorus of groans and ‘Sorrys’ thrown around before they step back and let Hannah go first. She loads a plate up, then extends her arm to me. She’s challenging me. She knows I can’t stand when someone plates food for me. There’s no portion control. The ratio of protein to carbs is almost always off. And I’m mean when I don’t have adequate protein because I get hangry. Her eyebrow arches, daring me to be difficult.

I take it from her and force a smile, even though it feels more like a grimace. “Thanks, Han.” This is her retaliation for me leaving. She told me she heard me leave last night, but I dismissed it. I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t know how to let her in on what’s happening now without telling her the entire story. And right now certainly isn’t the time.

I grab a bottle of water and head to the dining room, this table was one of the reasons Monroe picked this place. It fits twelve. The nine of us fit with room to spare, which is saying something because five of the nine are mountains of muscle. They all dig in, while I stare at my plate. She did this on purpose. There are exactly two pieces of chicken on my plate.

When I look up, I catch her watching me. I quickly twirl the pasta around my fork and take a bite. It’s good, cooked perfectly. Her attention shifts from me to Monroe when he starts asking about wedding plans. Her animated way of describing things brings a level of familiarity back to the derailed train.

I startle a bit when a leg bumps against mine. Turning, I follow Tatums line of sight, right to my plate, which now has probably half a cup of chicken on it. He didn’t make a show of it, it’s like he saw directly into my mind, and solved the problem without me even having to ask.

“I told you, I pay attention.” He says out of the side of his mouth. His voice is heavy with unspoken truths. Truths we’ve been running from for far too long, ones that are becoming impossible to ignore.

I don’t say anything, I’m too busy fighting to keep the smile off my face as I glance around the table. Everyone is too caught up in what Hannah is saying to notice. Everyone except Greyson. He’s watching us both with that knowing look of his. Let’s hope he’s smart enough not to say anything in front of Hannah.

Once his brother's attention refocuses on his bride to be, I reach under the table and give Tate’s thigh a brief squeeze. His quad tightens under my hand, muscles shifting as he adjusts his position. I pull my hand back, and we both go back to our plates like nothing happened. When Hannah finishes explaining the wedding arch they picked last week, she turns to me with a smile still on her face. One that falters when she notices the additional chicken on my plate.