Page 37 of The Wedding Fake
“Wonderful.” Mom set a bowl of peppers, onions, and squash in front of me. “Cut these, please. Thin strips for a primavera. Peppers and onions can be mixed together, but keep the squash separate.” She turned her attention to Emily and Nora. “Emily, please start the water for the pasta and pull out the sauce. I made it yesterday. Nora, you can help me with the meatballs.”
I brought the bowl of vegetables to the cutting board, glad for the work. I enjoyed cooking. It was one of the few times I could shut off my brain and lose myself in the repetitive actions of cutting and stirring.
There was a knock at the front door and I set down the knife, a bolt of excitement shooting through me that I tried to suppress. Excitement was a bad emotion to feel at the thought of Hudson.
It was also a totally wasted emotion, since before I could take a single step away from the cutting board, a loud “Hello” resounded through the foyer. Ethan’s hello. Followed almost immediately by Grant’s voice. I groaned quietly.
Nora and Mom set about fussing over the brothers, Nora with a kiss for Ethan that suggested she did feel excitement at his arrival and Mom linking her arm through Grant’s and guiding him to the sink. “Wash up. You can get to work helping Claire,” she told Grant.
“I’m doing just fine, Mom,” I protested, despite the fact that the bowl of vegetables had been very large, and I actually could use a second pair of hands.
“Nonsense. Grant’s a doctor. He’s sure to have great knife skills,” Mom replied.
“I’m also a doctor and you’ve relegated me to boiling water,” Emily said wryly, pulling a strand of dry spaghetti from the box and biting into it with a snap.
Mom shot Emily a look. I was rarely on the receiving end of this particular look, but I knew it to mean, Don’t be difficult. “I’m sure you’re wonderful in surgery, but everyone knows you can’t cook worth a lick, Emily,” Mom said. Nora tittered.
“How’s it going?” Grant asked, sidling up next to me.
“I’m good, thanks,” I replied brusquely. He was close enough that our shoulders nearly touched, but my spot was tucked into a corner, leaving me no room to maneuver away.
“I feel like we barely got a chance to talk yesterday,” he said, picking up a zucchini and chopping off the stem. I made a noise in reply that neither confirmed nor denied his assessment. Undeterred, Grant continued. “Hudson seems nice.”
“He is.”
He continued to cut neat coins off the zucchini, moving slowly, his brow knit in concentration. “Are you two serious?”
Grant's directness caught me off guard, and I stammered awkwardly. “We—we are. Serious. Sure. We are.” It was wildly unconvincing.
Grant held my gaze for a moment, nodded once, and then resumed cutting.
17
HUDSON
I drove with a ball of anxiety in my gut. I’d texted Claire twice now and hadn’t gotten a response, and I wasn’t sure what to think. Our previous text chain had been casual and joking. Had I stayed at my parents’ house too long? Was she upset? My parents made a special early dinner for me, and Claire seemed perfectly fine, but now I didn’t know what to think.
Hudson: I’m pulling up at the house
I parked on the street because the driveway was filled with cars, then waited for a text reply I feared wouldn’t come. It felt awkward to walk in the house. After all, Mrs. Davis hadn’t given me any indication I was a welcome guest.
But a minute later, when Claire still hadn’t replied to the text, I was left with little recourse. By the time I reached the door, I could hear voices inside. I knocked and waited, but nothing. I glanced around, trying to decide if I should walk around to the back again, but I could hear people inside. I knocked once more, and once more, there was no reply.
Cautiously, I opened the door. The sounds that had been muffled from outside were now loud and cacophonous and fully recognizable. A noisy family laughing and joking and making dinner. My gut twisted. This was what my parents’ house should’ve sounded like—full of voices and laughter and probably the squeals of Lawrence’s kids. I shook my head, pushing the thought down because it hurt too damn much.
Following the voices, I walked into the kitchen, my eyes scanning through the crowd of parents and siblings until they landed on Claire. Her dark hair lay in a luxurious curtain of silk waves down her back, even as she bent forward to chop vegetables. Grant stood next to her, so close their elbows touched as he made slow cuts into a yellow pepper.
Claire didn’t belong to me. On the contrary, she’d made it clear she didn’t trust me and wasn’t interested. But still, I’d kissed her. I could perfectly remember the feeling of her body, her mouth, her tongue as it swiped against mine eagerly, and those memories converged as a single hot, needy desire to claim her, right here and now.
I knew I should push those feelings down, but the sight of Grant, grinning down at her, made the baser instincts rage in my chest, and I swept forward into the kitchen, caging her body in with an arm on either side of her. “Hey, babe,” I said, letting my lips touch the shell of her ear. The position left Grant little option but to move over, and the man took a step to his left.
I barely noticed him, because I was too aware of Claire. Her body. The way she melted into my embrace—muscles relaxing into my touch, head tilted toward the spot where my lips brushed over her skin—and the small mewl of desire that escaped her pink lips.
And then the moment passed. And Claire seemed to remember her brain didn’t want any of the things her body did. “You’re back,” she said, her body stiffening in my arms. I slipped away, giving her more room, then looked at Grant, who was still frowning openly. Good. Let that fucker frown, I thought. I considered demanding Grant hand over his knife, but decided to go with a more subtle option to get Claire away from the man. “Babe, why don’t you let me take over? I’m pretty quick.”
“You sure?” Claire asked.
My eyebrow ticked up. “You know cooking is one of my favorite hobbies,” I said, knowing full well she had no idea this was true.