6. Sullivan

Chapter 6

Sullivan

I'm in the kitchen, and it's a war zone. Not because I'm bad at cooking—well, not totally—but because I'm trying to do everything at once, and I'm beginning to suspect I might have bitten off more than I can chew. But hey, how hard can it be to boil a few potatoes, toss a salad, and get the steaks ready for the grill for a cozy dinner with Romi? Right?

I've got the apron on complete with a goofy phantom pattern, courtesy of last year's Christmas, and the playlist is a tangle of classic rock and cheesy love songs.

Angus is lying with his back against the sliding glass door, letting the late afternoon sun warm him like he doesn't have a care in the world. Which, for the spoiled rotten Rottweiler, he pretty much doesn't.

I'm about to season the steaks when there's a heavy knock at my front door. It can only be one person who'd hammer like that and not think twice. Sure enough, in strides Sinclair, my dipshit big brother, who also doubles as the town sheriff. Typical. The man's practically an institution around here, mostly because he makes interrogations feel like pleasant chats over coffee and doughnuts.

"If it isn't the elusive Bachelor of Midnight Falls!" he calls as he crosses into my kitchen, eyes roaming over the culinary chaos I've unleashed. "Why haven't you been picking up your phone? Did you already manage to fuck everything up?"

I groan inwardly, realizing the family grapevine somehow moves info faster than an illegal drag race. "Let me guess who told you about Romi." I roll my eyes at the asshole. "Sterling."

"Of course." He laughs, plopping himself onto a barstool in the corner. Angus ambles over for a little pat from my asshole brother before heading back to his favorite spot in the house. "Our brother can't keep a secret to save his life except for where he hides his secret stash of candy."

The timer pings, reminding me the potatoes need to be removed from the heat, and I mutter something about family privacy being a long-lost art as I grab an oven mitt. "Great, are you here to help or to criticize?"

"Depends," Sinclair says with a grin, eyeing the mess I've made of my kitchen. "I'll help you get everything prepped, but I'm not touching that pile of dishes." He gestures at the stack of dishes filling the double sink and overflowing onto the marble countertop.

"Whatever." I ignore the fucker and turn back to the steak and veggies I'm about to marinate. "I don't have time to deal with your stupidity today."

But Sinclair just chuckles, rising to inspect the scene I call organized chaos. "From the looks of this kitchen, I believe you."

I glare at him, pointing a spatula in his direction. "You're not helping. Help or get the fuck out."

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Alright, alright." He rolls up his sleeves and opens my dishwasher. "If you ever tell my wife I know how to do this, I'll kill you in your sleep," he grumbles and gets started loading the various cooking utensils in the dishwasher. "And I'll get away with it. Angus would prefer to live with us anyway."

"Only because you give him all the treats." I roll my eyes and smile despite myself. "Don't worry, it'll be our little secret."

"That means you don't tell Sterling or Adam," Sinclair adds, and I nod my head in agreement. He might be a jerk, but he isn't a dumb jerk. "You know the Midnight family network runs faster than the speed of light?" He's not wrong and I'm completely desperate.

"Whatever," I mutter, ready to agree to anything to get some help. The kitchen begins to look less like a battlefield after Sinclair and I engage in a coordinated cleanup effort. It's surprising what two brothers can accomplish when they pause their banter and put their heads together. We work side by side, wiping down surfaces, tidying up the stray pots and pans, and ensuring no trace of spud splatter or seasoning chaos is left behind.

Sinclair is washing the last of the pans when he asks, "What did you get for dessert?"

"Fucking hell." I almost smack my goddamn forehead at the fucking oversight. My mind races. In the flurry of prepping, I'd completely overlooked a final note for the meal. "I didn't even think about dessert," I admit, drumming my fingers on the countertop.

"No worries." He shakes his head, adding, "Big brother will take care of everything." Sinclair sighs like a disappointed parent. "I'll swing by the bakery and grab something while you finish straightening up the house."

With a decisive nod and a parting jibe about ‘powering down the kitchen from DEFCON 1,' Sinclair heads out the door.

The moment he's gone, I survey the area, plotting my next move while my dog snores annoyingly across the room.

Time slips by faster than I anticipate, each moment filled with dusting, adjusting, and picking apart thoughts of how tonight might unfold.

I'm pacing the floor when the front door swings open and Sinclair struts in, sweet victory radiating from the bakery box he holds aloft.

"Behold! The pièce de résistance." He places the box carefully on the counter. "It's some kind of raspberry dark chocolate torte," he announces. "I bought one to bring home to Amelia." He wiggles his eyebrows. "I'm hoping she'll show her appreciation later tonight."

I gag dramatically. "I don't need to hear all the specifics."

"I don't care. I'm taking Angus with me." He chuckles and heads for the door with my dog on his heels. "I do want the specifics, so I'll bring your dog back tomorrow and get all the details."

"Yes, Dad," I call to him as he leaves with my traitorous canine following happily behind him.