Page 48 of Nick

Unable to resist screwing with him, I turn to him with wide eyes. "No, it's true. He came out the kitchen with a butcher knife, yelled at us about ketchup and stars and called us heathens, then marched straight out the front door and into the bar across the street."

"Stars," John mutters. His eyebrows raise dramatically. "Michelin Stars? Where was this?"

"Some place in Paris. We were pretty drunk, and I remember most of the portions were way too small. And the sauces were weird."

"Huh. You drove a Michelin Star chef to drink. That actually makes me feel a little fuckin’ better."

"You're welcome!" I say cheerily. John glares at me, and I laugh as I very carefully, very slowly, chop the mushrooms. The little fuckers are slimy and the knife is really big. "Shouldn't I use a smaller knife for this?"

"No."

I groan and go back to it, John watching me like a hawk as I slice. He growls at me to get me focused, and I stare hard at the cutting board, but my ears and brain are focused on Bree and Jonas. She's a natural teacher, her voice calm and soothing, guiding Jonas through dicing onions. Jonas is sniffing.

"They're so pungent. Why do people eat these?" he mutters. I want to shove my face in his and see if he's tearing up, but I stick to my chopping like a good little student.

"When you cook them, they add such amazing flavor. They get sweet and so yummy."

"My eyes are leaking," he mutters, and I glance over to see him shoving his glasses up on top of his head. Bree shouts 'no' as he reaches up and rubs his eyes.

It takes a second, but Jonas's yell of pain is so worth it. "My eyes," he screams, hands flailing in the air, eyes squeezed tight. Tears drip down his cheeks.

Bree's trying to be soothing, hand on his shoulder as she guides him to the sink, but her eyes flash to mine, and they're filled with laughter.

I'm seeing that look on her face more and more. She's healing.

And I'm falling.

So fucking hard.

She guides Jonas to the faucet, running cool water over his face as he leans over the sink. Her hand rubs slow circles on his back as she talks to him calmly, reassuring him he'll be okay.

"What happened?"

I turn and smile at Janey as she enters. She's usually at these dinners, but she likes to give Jonas one on one time with John first. Or maybe she's taking alone time. "He was cutting onions and rubbed his eyes with onion fingers."

Her lips twitch, but she makes a low sound and moves to him, taking Bree's place. Bree catches my eye, and something she sees glues her feet to the floor. Her smile slowly dies as she stares at me.

Just fucking friends asshole. It's way harder than I thought it would be, but I manage to hide what I'm feeling, and grin at her. I throw in a wink and it seems to do the trick. She shakes her head and laughs, heading for the chopping board and the onions left there.

It's not her problem that my feelings are changing. Fuck changing. Have changed. In my eyes, the woman is perfection. But I know I'm not what she needs. I can't be. She doesn't need some damaged asshole attaching himself to her. She needs a friend. That's all. Just a friend.

I keep reminding myself of that as we finish prepping dinner —with only a small fire right near the end— and it mostly works. I tease and laugh, I joke with her. I nudge her with my elbow. I pull out all the friend moves I can think of. As she relaxes more and more, teasing me back, whatever weirdness is between us evaporates away.

When I catch myself watching her slide another bite of pasta into that lush mouth of hers, I force myself to turn away and pay attention to the other people at the table. John's here of course, sitting next to Abby. Those two are a strange pair. She seems to be here a lot, but it doesn't really seem like they're friends. More like two people occupying the same space. It's a weird dynamic, but they're both weird, so if it works for them, who am I to judge?

Jonas has his head down, shoveling large bites into his mouth. Janey's looking on with a mixture of humor and awe.

"He's done that his whole life," I tell her.

She smiles and shakes her head. "I made a romantic dinner the other night. Steak, potatoes, the works." She laughs, eyes crinkling in the corners. "He didn't look at me once after I gave him his plate. He kept his arm wrapped around it the whole time, like he was afraid I was going to steal it."

I wince. "Yeah. That's our fault. We had a few lean years near the beginning. Ransom had a rule you couldn't have seconds until you cleared your plate. It fucked us up. We would rush through the meal, just to get seconds. And if the pot was empty but there was food on someone else's plate...well things got hairy."

"But you don't do that," she says, pointing to Jonas.

"I'm easily distracted. Jonas's extreme focus is a superpower, but also a curse."

She rests her chin on her hand, fork dangling as she studies her husband. The look of intense love, mixed with ownership and familiarity, makes me really fucking jealous. Which is stupid. Didn't I already decide I don't want that?

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