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“Nosey Nell,” I tease her.
“Damn right. And this is payback. You were all up in my business with Deacon when we first got together. Hell, you still are. You’re convinced we should name our firstborn after you.”
“I mean, I did get the two of you together,” I tell her. She laughs, as does Brooks from his spot next to me as he guides his truck into his driveway.
“Is that Brooks with you? You’re still with him?”
“Mmhmm. I just told you that I was.”
She squeals. “Okay, well, call me when you get home. I don’t care how late it is. I need to know everything.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes! What kind of question is that? Now I want to know even more. I mean it, Palmer, you better call me.”
“Yes, Mom,” I jest.
“Tell Brooks I said hi.”
“Will do.” I end the call, dropping my phone back in my purse. “Ramsey says hi.”
He nods. “You ready for this?”
“Let’s do it.” Together we exit the truck and make our way inside.
“Make yourself at home,” he calls over his shoulder after kicking off his shoes and walking toward the kitchen.
Shrugging, I do the same and follow along behind him. He’s already reaching into the refrigerator and pulling out what we need. “What can I do?”
“There’s a pot beneath the island. Grab it to boil the rice. I’m going to go fire up the grill.”
“Got it, boss,” I joke, doing as he asks. “Do you always grill?”
“Usually. Even in the wintertime. I just pull the grill to the edge of the garage and open the door. Grilling is faster and easier for such a large quantity.”
Over the next fifteen minutes or so, he explains what we’re making and his process. “I’m going to go put these on the grill.”
I move to the stove and watch as the rice boils and the broccoli steams. “He needs a rice cooker,” I muse.
“Had one. I wore it out,” he says from behind me. He grabs the spoon and moves in closer. One hand lands on my hip while the other dips the spoon into the pot with boiling bags of rice and pushes them under the water.
The heat of his body pressed to mine reminds me of last weekend when we were dancing. I’ve thought about that night more times than I care to admit this past week. I work on keeping my breathing even. What would be more embarrassing than Brooks realizing that him being near me causes my breathing to turn labored and my heart rate to spike? Yeah, I need to keep that on lockdown.
“I think this is just about done.”
Is it just me or is his voice huskier than normal? “I’ve got this, Kincaid. I know my way around a kitchen. I’ve just never meal prepped before,” I sass, attempting to hide my desire for him.
He squeezes my hip. “The chicken is almost done.” The words are barely out of his mouth before he steps away, and I miss the warmth of him instantly. Shaking out of my Brooks haze, I get busy removing both pots from the stove and draining them. Brooks enters the patio door and places a huge plate of grilled chicken on the counter.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“I’m going to cube this chicken. Can you take the containers and add a spoonful of rice and a spoonful of broccoli? Oh, and this.” He walks to the cabinet and pulls out two cans of black beans. “Can opener is in the top drawer to the right of the stove.”
“This all smells really good.”
“Thanks, it’s the seasoning. It’s your dad’s, actually.”
