Slow Grind (Men of Mornington)

“You might want to keep that handy in case the hospital calls.” He sits down next to me on the bed. “I’m guessing you and your mum still aren’t getting along?”

“She pretty much blamed be for him being sick.” I look up at him, suddenly needing reassurance. What if she’s right? What if this is my fault? I haven’t been firm enough with him. I should’ve not taken no for an answer when he didn’t want to take a rest or have some painkillers. I should have seen the signs he was getting sick before he became so bad. She has to be right; she hovers, and she would have seen it, and she would have acted.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop it,” he orders as if he can read my mind. “This isn’t your fault, and your mum was wrong to even suggest that. You’re doing a great job looking after him. And let’s face it, your brother isn’t the easiest person to reason with.”

“Funny, he says the same about you,” I joke.

He narrows his eyes, a grin on his lips. “Good to see you can still make light of things. Try not to let her get to you. She’s just worried about Max, like we all are. She’s just really bad at mothering. She always has been, it’s nothing new. Please, don’t let her upset you like this.”

“I know.” I glance at my phone and see it’s barely eight o’clock. My stomach rumbles; I haven’t eaten anything all day.

“Do you feel like something to eat?” I ask, and Drew gives yet another crooked grin. Of course he does. “Like, food, Andrew,” I say sternly.

“Can you even cook?”

“I can microwave,” I respond with attitude.

“How about I take it from here, then? I’m no chef, but I won’t have to use radiation to make a meal,” Drew teases, and I can’t help but laugh a little.

I shrug my shoulders and wave my arm for him to get his ass in the kitchen. He moves effortlessly through the small space, almost as if he’s been doing this for years. The age difference between us obvious. I’m not even a Uni graduate yet. I’ve spent the last four years eating cup of noodles and whatever could fit inside of a microwave or get delivered. Drew, on the other hand, has his own place with a real kitchen; of course he can cook. How else would he survive? While I’m sitting back and enjoying the show—the intoxicating show of a man preparing a meal for a woman—Drew starts to growl about something.

“You good?” I ask, peeking over the breakfast bar, trying not to notice how sexy he looks with bare feet poking out of the bottom hem of his jeans.

“I was trying to get this plastic thing off the soy sauce and the fucker exploded on me.” Drew turns around and the front of his shirt is covered in the brown, watery substance. Withholding a chuckle, I step into the kitchen.

“I don’t know cooking, but I do know laundry. Give me that shirt before it stains.” He sets the bottle on the counter, grabs the shirt by the back of the neck and pulls it over his head and I have to look away. It’s too much. The man kisses like a god, cooks, and looks like he just stepped out of a magazine with his grown-out hair, scruff and bare chest and feet. I can’t deal with him. He’s a walking fucking org

asm.

With the shirt in my hand, I turn to the sink and begin washing out the soy sauce with cold water and dish soap. After I scrub the spot with my knuckles, I rest it on the counter to dry and make sure the stain’s gone before he runs it through the washing machine.

“If you tell me where you keep your shirts, I can go grab you one. Or I could just go rifle through your room.”

“Don’t worry about it. This is just about done. I’ll get it in a minute, once you’re fed. Unless me shirtless is bothering you?” He turns toward me and waits for my answer, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“Uh, no. No, I’m not bothered,” I stutter. Yeah, I’m bothered. Hot and fucking bothered. Damn him. He chuckles and turns back to his cooking.

While Drew finishes up dinner, I search out the plates and silverware. If this food is as good as it smells, I just might pass out. I’ve never really been a fan of stir fry, but that could be changing soon.

The food barely sits on the plate long enough for me to enjoy it. I know it’s going to give me a stomach ache eating this fast, but I needed the nourishment. I needed the distraction from the extremely shirtless Drew. I let my fork hit the plate with a clatter and quickly excuse myself for a shower, which I take just as fast as I ate. When I get out, I step back into the bedroom to find one of Drew’s shirts waiting for me. The girl who used to love this boy squeals as I let the cotton hit my slick skin. This is so much better than wearing the one I stole from a sleepover at Emma’s when I was eleven. So much better!

Once I pull my damn hair up in a messy bun, I rest backward and close my eyes for a second, taking everything in from the day: reconnection with Emma—sorry, Em—the guys dancing, Max getting sick, and winding up in Drew’s bedroom wearing only one of his shirts. Within a moment or two, I’m happily in dreamland where I’m not Aubrey Rosewood, Max’s little sister, but just Aubrey.

*****

Waking up suddenly, I sit bolt upright in my bed. I glance around, my heart racing. Only it’s not my bed. It takes me a few minutes to remember I’m at Drew’s. In his bed. Lying back down, my hand creeps over to the other side of the bed, and for a moment I imagine he’s there, instead of the cold sheets.

I sit up again, panicking. Max. He’s sick and in the hospital, and I’m too busy swooning over Drew to remember? Again, my mother’s words haunt me. Was I too busy swooning over Drew to realise Max getting sicker? Have I somehow made this whole situation worse? I throw the sheets back, disgusted with myself, and grab my phone off the dresser, checking it for messages. When I see there are none, I plug in the hospital number and press call. I wait anxiously for someone to answer, pacing the room.

“Intensive Care Unit, nurses’ station.”

“Hi, I’m just after an update on my brother, Max Rosewood?”

“I think the doctor is in with him at the moment. Can you hold?”

“Yes, thanks,” I mumble. I run my hand through my tangled hair and stifle a yawn. Pulling the phone away from my ear, I glance at the clock. It’s three in the morning. I’ve only had three hours of sleep, but it was three hours more than I was expecting to get.

“Hello, with whom am I speaking?” The male voice startles me out of my thoughts.