His green eyes watch me, the same curious expression he wore last night, and I can’t even hear the branches outside blowing against the house because my pulse pounds in my ears.
What is he staring at?
Locking my jaw, I grab the plate off the island and spin back around, scooping the pancakes onto the plate. He’s still dressed in jeans, but these ones are clean, and he looks showered, although his hair is disheveled like he just got up. I guess Jake doesn’t hold him to the same standard he holds Noah and me with his five-thirty wake-up calls?
His eyes burn my back, but after a moment, I hear the fridge open and close and then feel him approach my side. Is he going to apologize? What if I hadn’t been a step-cousin? What if I’d actually been blood when he decided to ignore my protests last night?
Slowly, I clear the griddle and dole out four more scoops of batter as he pours himself a glass of juice, but even though my eyes are on my task, all I can see is him next to me. He smells…
Like leather. Like musky bodywash. He must’ve just showered then. Last night it was…rain, trees, firewood, and sweat. He smelled like the woods. Heat pools between my legs at the memory.
I shake my head. For Christ’s sake.
“Leave the juice out,” I tell him.
But he doesn’t listen.
He turns around as if he didn’t hear me and takes the juice, sticking it back into the refrigerator.
“You like blueberry?” I ask. “Buttermilk?”
I don’t give a damn what he likes. I just want him to make me go upstairs and pack my suitcase.
“Chocolate chip?” I keep going, pushing us both. “Pumpkin? Whole grain?”
He picks up his glass of orange juice and strolls over to the table, gulping it as he goes on like I don’t exist.
I tighten my fist around the spatula as I flip the pancakes, breathing hard through my nose.
“How many would you like?” I drone on. “Three? Four?”
I glance over to see if he’s nodding or shaking his head or holding up fingers to tell me how many he wants, but he just sets his glass down on the table and pulls out a chair.
I pull out the plug of the griddle and add the fresh pancakes to the pile on the plate, grabbing the syrup and forks. The front door swings open and the floor creaks with footsteps as Jake and Noah come barreling in. How do they know when breakfast is ready?
I carry the pancakes to the table, setting the plate down in the middle as Noah grabs a glass of milk and Jake washes his hands. Both immediately over to the table.
Steam from blueberry pancakes wafts into the air as the guys sit down, and I twist around to pick up the plates off the island, my anger still rising.
I set a plate down in front of Jake, one down in front of Noah, and the last down in front of me, feeling Kaleb’s eyes on me, because I didn’t give him one.
I don’t cook for you.
Noah and Jake must realize something is happening because they stop moving. I glance up, seeing their eyes move between Kaleb and me, and I know Noah can guess the tension between us, but I don’t know if Jake knows yet. Noah probably didn’t talk about last night for fear of getting his brother in trouble.
Without blinking, though, Kaleb picks up the plate of pancakes in the middle of the table, doles out three to Jake, three to Noah, and then pauses only a moment, holding my eyes, before dropping the plate back onto the table, right in front of himself and taking the rest of the pancakes. Picking up the syrup, he pours it on his stack without leaving any for me.
Prick.
Noah clears his throat, but I can hear the laugh, while Jake sighs, taking his plate and setting it down in front of me. Reaching over to the island, he takes another one and uses his fork to pick a couple of pancakes off Kaleb’s over-loaded plate.
“You both met already, I see,” Jake grumbles.
But no one responds as the boys start eating.
“This looks good, Tiernan,” Jake says, trying to ease the tension. “Blueberry pancakes are the only thing your father and I—”