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“Positive. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”
“You’ll definitely have to teach me, considering I don’t know what the fuck mincing is.”
I laugh at the look on his face. “Don’t you trust me? You look like you’re worried that mincing is some form of torture or something.”
His expression softens, his eyes losing just a little bit of all that emotion. “I trust you.”
It takes my breath away just a little. I hope he can’t hear it when I say, “Good.”
“You know, I am useful at some things. Like laundry, for example. I have a load going right now even.”
The urge to make a dirty joke about his load comes and goes quickly, a remnant from past-Nolan who dominated locker rooms and diner booths with his cocky grins and quick wit. I sometimes wonder if that part of me is still inside somewhere. If it is, now isn’t the time to let it come out and explore.
“You’re plenty useful, Maison,” I assure him, looking up from the cutting board to meet his eyes. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
He makes a psh sound and changes the subject, asking me a question about the marinade to try to distract me. I’m in the middle of explaining oil-based marinades when I catch movement in the corner and look up to find Casey spying on us.
I fight a wince. I really like Casey, but he’s very team-Carter and that’s the last thing Maison needs right now.
I paste on a bright smile, hoping to control the interaction from the beginning by exuding calm and happy emotions. “Hey!”
Casey eyes Maison before looking at me and matching my smile with an attempt of his own. “Hey. What are you making this time?”
“It’s just the marinade for the chicken we’ll be having tonight. It has to soak for a while.”
“It smells delicious.”
I can feel Maison moving next to me, hating myself for hoping that he’s going to excuse himself.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he brings Casey a peace offering in the form of a mug of coffee and asks him point-blank, “Is he okay?”
Everyone here knows he is Carter. Casey doesn’t have to ask. “He’ll be fine. He’s strong.”
“Just because he’s strong doesn’t mean I like that he has to be,” Maison counters.
I watch as Casey’s eyes narrow just like they did last night before he ripped into Maison at the dinner table. Before I can think of a way to turn the conversation, Casey says, “Maybe he wouldn’t have to be so strong if you just let him breathe.”
Fuck.
Maison’s shoulders stretch with a deep breath. “I’m not the villain here, Casey.”
“Neither is Travis.”
They stare at each other, having some sort of standoff. I stand helplessly beside the show, heart pounding as I wait for someone to break. Maison can’t handle another break. He can’t handle breaking someone else either.
“Oh, wow,” I say, not sounding casual in the fucking least and also not really caring. “Look at the time. Maison, I think the laundry needs to be switched, yeah?”
It takes a few seconds, but then Maison turns his gaze to me. His entire body softens like he’s able to exhale the moment he’s freed from Casey’s anger. His lips even twitch like he wants to give me a smile. “Yeah. I’ll go switch it. Don’t do the garlic yet, though. You promised to show me how the fuck you mince it, remember?”
I grin at him, thankful he’s not upset at the obvious redirecting I just did. “No mincing without you. Promise.”
He gives me a final, lingering look that feels meaningful in a way I’m not prepared to interpret before disappearing around the corner where the laundry room is. I relax just long enough to see the way Casey is looking at me before tensing all over again. “Don’t start.”
“I said nothing.”
“Your face said plenty.” I sigh, turning away from him to get back to the marinade—minus the garlic, of course. I change the subject. “I’m worried about them.”
