Reckless

The thick smell of cumin and chili powder wafts through the air, making my stomach growl. After one more stir, I tap the wooden spoon on the lip of the Dutch oven and place it in the “I love my spicy Mexican” spoon rest. That dumb thing still cracks me up, years after Brady gave it to my sister.

Cooking is the one thing I’m decent at, but only because I’ve had a shitty social life this last year. Though having a man-free diet made me turn to the next best alternative—actual food. While my friends were out partying, I was watching the Cooking Channel, doing my best to whip up those recipes, and trying not to feel like a loser.

I peer over my shoulder at Kat, who’s sitting at the kitchen table. “Hermana, are you sure you want it this spicy? I thought you had a lot of heartburn.”

Her lips tighten briefly and she blinks, once, twice. Miss Poker Face has the audacity to smile and shrug like she hasn’t a clue what I’m talking about.

She’s obviously hiding something.

Whatever. She’s been acting weird the whole day. Maybe I should chalk it up to a hormonal imbalance. If her feet weren’t so swollen, she’d insist on making dinner, but I talked her into kicking back and relaxing even though she’s going to be a back seat driver.

“Did you put in the Ro-Tel tomatoes?” she asks, eyeing the pot suspiciously.

See. Backseat driver. “Yeah, and when you’re hanging over the toilet later tonight, puking your little heart out, don’t blame me.”

She gives me that strange smile, the one that tells me she’s keeping a secret and thinks I’m clueless.

The front door slams shut and the stomp of boots coming through the living room echoes closer. Izzy comes racing around the corner with her arms open wide.

Three, two, one.

I turn back toward the stove as the sound of her feet stop, which tells me she’s gone airborne, followed by a grunt as she throws herself at her father. She might be seven, but she’s a total Daddy’s Girl.

“There’s my angel.” His voice rings out in the small kitchen. “And here’s my other angel.”

A minute later, the sound of smacking makes me smile and shake my head. Without looking, I know Brady has Izzy in his arms, and he’s leaning down to plant a wet one on Kat.

“Too much kissing,” Izzy jokes, and I snicker to myself. That kid is my mini-me, much to the chagrin of my sister.

Stirring the pot again, I give them a moment to be lovey-dovey. It makes me strangely emotional to be around them. They’re this perfect family unit. Every day, their house is filled with warmth and love. Even though I try to tell myself I don’t want this, that I don’t want a husband or kids because I know I’m a fuck-up, when I’m around Brady and Kat and little Izzy, I do want the happily ever after so much it makes my chest ache.

Damn Jamie for making me think that was possible.

I clench my jaw.

When I think the love fest is over, I turn around.

“Something smells good,” Brady says, setting his daughter down. “Ethan still coming over for dinner?”

“Mr. Ethan’s coming over?” Izzy grins.

What the… What?

My sister cringes and laughs awkwardly.

Crossing my arms, I squint. “Something you want to tell me, Katherine?”

We never discussed what happened at Ethan’s two days ago. What was the point? It was clear from everyone’s expressions in the living room they heard my argument with Ethan—his mom, his brother, my sister, the kids.

Although, to be honest, I’m not sure what we argued about. It was more about how Ethan made me feel. Like I wasn’t good enough. Like I was putting him out with my very existence. Like he took one glance at me and found me lacking.

The part of me that’s always screwing up wonders if I was being overly sensitive. That maybe Ethan’s just a crabby ass in general, and I was reading into things that weren’t there. Wouldn’t be the first time.

I know Kat was disappointed in me for how I reacted to Ethan. She gets quiet when she thinks I’m being a dick. Like I’m in timeout and she wants me to think about what I’ve done. It’s annoying as hell. And for the last two days, she’s been really quiet around me. I’m typically not one to shy away from saying what’s on my mind, but I have to be careful with my sister. She’s so hormonal that she’ll start crying if I’m too blunt, and I’m never prepared for her tears.

Kat waits until I drag myself to the kitchen table to level me with an innocent smile. “Did I forget to mention that Ethan is joining us for dinner? Must’ve slipped my mind.”

My brother-in-law chuckles and kisses the top of her head. “I’ll get Izzy cleaned up for dinner while you guys work this out.”

“I’m clean, Dad. I wasn’t rolling around in the barn or anything.” She huffs out a breath, but runs off wash her hands in the bathroom.

Motioning toward his wife, he gives me a crooked grin. “Don’t be too hard on her.”

I roll my eyes, and he laughs.

Once Kat and I are alone, my shoulders slump. “What are you doing? You know Ethan and I are like oil and vinegar.” Really, I can’t explain why I felt so defensive around him. It didn’t help that he was so handsome. Muscular and rugged from working on the ranch. Tatted up and shirtless with his Levi’s hanging low on his hips. Dripping wet with water and temptation.

All the more reason to stay away.

“Oil and vinegar are a great combo on salads.” When I give her a blank stare, she holds up her hands. “Just give him a chance to say his piece, okay? You don’t have to agree to work for him if you’re still not feeling it after dinner, but I think it would be nice to clear the air.”

“I get that you’re in this nesting period and want everyone to hold hands and sing campfire songs while you gestate, so I understand why you want this. But why does he need to clear the air? It’s obvious I’m not who he wants taking care of his kids.”

Tilting her head, she shrugs. “Maybe he was having a bad day. Everyone has them. I just know you shouldn’t write him off because he was grouchy. He’s a single dad doing it all by himself, Tor. He has a lot on his plate, but if you give him a chance, you’ll see he’s a good guy. That he’s trying his best.”

Fuck. When she says it like that.

My sister. Always the peacekeeper.

“Fine. But just because I don’t stab him at dinner with the blunt edge of my fork doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to this, so don’t get your hopes up.”

“You know me,” she chirps. “Zero expectations.”

For some reason, that doesn’t make me feel better.