5. Asher

FIVE

I wonderedwhether I should text Beckett. There was little chance Jordan would share any news with me, although I had no clue why he would keep it to himself. But Beckett was probably swamped with messages anyways. I didn't want to add to his plate.

Caden. I could text Caden. Unless that came across as nosy. Asking about a famous winger via his nephew's boyfriend was something a paparazzo would have done. I decided not to bother either of them just now.

We quickly hauled our luggage to our separate rooms. I left the balcony door open to air the room out after months of disuse, then came to the kitchen to find something to eat. In the meantime, Jordan had apparently showered. He entered the kitchen with wet hair, a pair of knee-length shorts that revealed his muscular calves, and a loose, sleeveless T-shirt with long oblong cutouts for arms. His ribcage was partially visible when he moved his arms, and the short hair that covered his armpits made me pause and blink. Had he tried being any sexier, he would have failed. Or he would have had to take his clothes off.

I swallowed the knot that appeared in my throat.

The soft dusk glow poured into the house, further subdued by the white curtains covering all the downstairs windows.

"Are you cooking?" Jordan asked. I couldn't tell whether he was trying to sound relaxed. His vocal cords were tense as hell and his voice came out tight, almost accusatory.

The annoyance that flared in me wasn't all because of Jordan. But he played a part in it. "No," I replied stiffly. Perhaps he knew I couldn't cook if my life depended on it. Perhaps he was intentionally rubbing it in. Nothing surprised me anymore. "It's just a grilled cheese." The words tumbled out of my mouth awkwardly and I turned away from him. Couldn't he have worn something with short sleeves? It was like he knew — God forbid! — and intentionally added another thing I needed to be careful about.

My muscles were in a perpetual state of tension around my stepbrother.

He exhaled in disappointment. Had it been an open wound, Jordan's sigh would have been rock salt rubbed into it.

"If it ain't good enough, don't eat it." I forced the words through my tight throat. I pulled the fridge door open to search for cheese, then glanced at Jordan. He stood on the other side of the kitchen island, stiffening and straightening.

Pure irritation passed over his hard face and Jordan moved heavily toward me. I knew he wouldn't, but the heaviness of his steps made me imagine getting throttled by him. It wasn't the worst fate. And then heat rose into my cheeks, so I leaned closer to the fridge. "Move a little, will you?" Jordan didn't touch me, but the weight of his presence felt like getting shoved to the side. He examined the overstuffed fridge and exhaled. "Is there any pasta up in that cabinet?"

"I'm not your little helper." I leaned against the counter near the sink and crossed my arms.

Jordan shot me an exhausted look. "No. You're definitely not." He picked several items from the fridge. A slab of bacon, fresh mushrooms, shredded parmesan, two kinds of tomato sauce, and the list went on and on.

"Can I just make myself a sandwich? I'm starving." I cocked my head and pleaded sarcastically.

"Half an hour won't kill you," Jordan said. "And I need the work surface."

I sealed my lips and stalked out of the way. The kitchen opened to the backyard where the small terrace led to the path toward the forest and the lake on the other side. Directly above us were our bedrooms, sharing the same view.

The sound of Jordan browsing through the kitchen cabinets was short and swift. He methodically discovered everything he needed, although I refused to look over my shoulder. Then I caved in and glanced at him. His wet hair stood in messy spikes, his lips pressed into a thin, angry line, and his big muscles bunching like he was lifting weights and not a jar of dried mushrooms.

"You can sulk," he said without looking. He must have felt my gaze. "Or you can wash these and get dinner sooner."

Get dinner… Like I needed someone to cook for me. I was perfectly happy with sandwiches, cereal, and quick-fried chicken accompanied by rice and steamed vegetables.

I chewed my lip as I unfolded my arms and returned behind the counter. A bowl full of fresh mushrooms waited by the sink while Jordan diced an onion on the cutting board. Silently, I turned on the faucet and rinsed the mix of fresh mushrooms for the chef.

If I were hard-pressed to do so, I would admit he was an interesting sight to behold this evening. He didn't move particularly quickly through the kitchen that was not so familiar to him anymore, but he had a lot of confidence. His knife work was impressive. Then again, I was clumsy with knives so everyone impressed me if they could cut a carrot into reasonably even bits. The sting came from witnessing yet another thing at which Jordan was superior.

Such a perfect boy, I thought bitterly. "What else?"

Jordan poured olive oil into a large pan. "Fill half of that pot with water, add a good pinch of salt, put the lid on, and put it to boil." He tossed the diced onions into the pan after a moment and it sizzled in the now hot oil. He stirred the pile of onions with a wooden spatula while I did the kitchen lad's work.

The scent of sea breeze followed Jordan wherever he went, even with the scent of caramelized onions growing stronger. His cologne turned my legs to jelly. I was conflicted between holding my breath and leaning into him until my nose pressed against the crook of his neck.

I did as I was told, then stood still while Jordan cut cherry tomatoes into quarters. He popped one into his mouth, then handed me a fresh cucumber to wash. He didn't look into my eyes. I took the cucumber and turned the water on, my breaths shallow and a simmering heat descending into my groin. His back was turned to me while I held the thick, long vegetable in one hand and rubbed it clean along its length with the other. I hurried with it, dried it with a kitchen towel, and then handed it back to Jordan.

My gaze slipped from under my control. The tightness in my chest and the tingling deep in my stomach brewed. I looked at the side of his torso, bare when his arms moved forward, and his hands busy slicing the cucumber for a salad. His ribcage was defined so much that I could easily distinguish each connecting muscle along his side. His bare arms were like hills and valleys of athletic leanness. He was all sculpted to perfection. And while his shorts disguised it well, I had seen him in a pair of boxer briefs plenty of times. I knew what he was packing. It wasn't a leap of imagination that led me from the cucumber to my stepbrother's body.

"Are you okay?" he asked in a low, partially interested tone, eyes still on the cutting board. His slicing work slowed down.

I lifted my gaze from his skilled fingers to his long, dark eyelashes. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You were starving a minute ago," he said with the greatest care to keep his tone neutral. "And now you're frozen in one spot."

Careless. I was careless. It forced my feet to move immediately. "I'm waiting for further instructions." It was a lame attempt at throwing some of the blame back at him, but he was unfazed.

Jordan simply looked at the dancing lid on the pot of boiling water. He didn't need to tell me what to do next. I should have been doing it already.

I swallowed a sigh and grabbed the pasta he had already measured in a bowl. I added it to the boiling water and replaced the lid.

"Tsk," Jordan said as he scattered fresh mushrooms around the pan of sizzling bacon and onion. "It'll boil over. We don't need the lid anymore." And when I placed the lid on the counter, Jordan gave me such a pointed look that I wanted to slap him. Releasing a sigh from the top of my lungs, I bent down and thrust the lid inside the dishwasher. Down there, my gaze touched on Jordan's bare legs. His calves were properly defined for a hockey player and hair covered his legs in an even manner. It wasn't too dark or thick, but he was far hairier than me. I could barely grow some hair down my shins, and even that was invisibly pale. I didn't mind it, though. It made for a fun slice of fantasy to imagine my smooth legs tangled in his. The contrast made me want to smirk to myself.

I straightened quickly once the job was done, but turned away from him at the first sign of pressure in my pants. "Do you need anything else?" I asked in a slightly hostile tone, perhaps. It was better than risking staying near him and getting caught sporting a hard-on in the kitchen where my mother cooked a billion dinners and his father serenaded her.

Jordan sucked his teeth.

"Imana shower," I slurred and hurried away before he could stop me.

I rushed upstairs and into the bathroom, slammed the door, latched it, and exhaled as my chest shuddered. We were cooking together for God's sake. Why the hell was everything he did so erotic? What the fuck was wrong with me?

My cock throbbed as sweat broke out all over my body. The small bathroom window was wide open, facing the backyard and letting the heat of the day in. I was so uncomfortable in my clothes and in my skin. Sadly, it was only my clothes I could peel off. And I did, carelessly and messily. My shirt fell in one corner, my shorts in the middle of the bathroom, and my briefs by the shower cabin. I shut myself in and turned the water to cold. My cock was so painfully upright and hard that I avoided touching it. Instead, I stepped under the rain shower head that was mounted to the ceiling and punched the gradient beige and brown tiles when the icy needles pierced my skin and muscles.

"Fuck," I grunted. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." I didn't know which part of this whole clusterfuck made my chest feel like a void of desperation. I didn't know where to direct all the anger I held so tightly.

Did I hate my stepbrother? Truly?

Did I hate myself even more?

Was this water just too cold?

It did what it had to do. My fight-or-flight instinct took over my body for a few heartbeats and redirected my blood flow into my head rather than my treacherous dick. And as my erection passed — I was too stubborn to let myself indulge when it wasn't fully on my terms — I focused on showering.

My hair was darker and my eyelashes thicker and seemingly longer when I stepped out of the shower. Water dripped everywhere and I grabbed the edge of the sink to lean against. I felt weak. Weak in my muscles and in my soul.

I was a young man with a young man's needs and urges. How would I survive these days with Jordan, out here, with nobody to witness my fucked up desires? How would I resist it when all I wanted was to fall on my knees and show him one thing I could do better than anyone? Because I could. He wouldn't last a minute in my mouth. I knew it.

I knew it in my dreams and fancies.

When I looked at the mirror, it mocked me. The sneer on the face of my reflection begged to be shattered to pieces. I knew, for once in my life, what my choices were — what they had always been. I could want him, or I could hate him. There was nothing else. I had been shifting between the two since I had first laid my eyes on him.

And I wasn't ready to decide.

I knew I couldn't have him, so wanting him was useless. But I couldn't give it up altogether. And for all the hate that filled me whenever he broke my heart in passing, Jordan had a sweetness to him, not just excellence.

I hurried into my room, naked, and picked out my clothes for the night. A pair of dark brown shorts that weren't even knee-length and a Russian-collar hemp shirt a shade closer to beige than white. I rolled up my sleeves and concealed two-thirds of my skin behind the buttons, leaving my chest slightly bare. In the last year or so, I had accepted my body as it was. I even grew to like it. I would never be big and strong like Jordan, but plenty of people found beauty in a lither athletic figure like mine. I had also discovered that it was my Adonis complex that drove me to my dissatisfaction with my body, not any true lacking on my part.

When that looked fine, I slipped on three casual bracelets ranging between black and dark, leathery brown to my left wrist, and then strapped my wristwatch to my right. It reminded me of the time Jordan had informed me that wristwatches were worn on the left wrist, to which I had replied he could stuff himself because I wouldn't justify my left-handedness to a smug prick.

I slipped on a pair of sandals with tight leather straps and soft soles. They were in the Greco-Roman style with straps reaching above my ankle and they were far superior to any old flip-flops. And when I ran my hand through my drying, naturally wavy hair, I realized I was dressing up to impress.

Fuck.

But the sound of cutlery from downstairs told me I didn't have time to dress down, so I simply hurried downstairs to join Jordan for dinner. Not that it would be the first time he ate without me. Jordan always assumed the worst about me — like I wouldn't join him — and he acted accordingly.

Tonight was either an exception or I was punctual. I passed into the dining room where the atmosphere was breathtakingly romantic. So much so that the hairs on my neck stood. What was he doing? What was he thinking? I frowned. "What's all this?"

The table that normally seated six people was covered with a white tablecloth. The two chairs on each side of it had no purpose and nothing before them. There were scented candles with flickering flames in the middle of the table. A bottle of wine stood next to the big bowl of pasta Jordan had prepared. The colorful salad had bits of feta mixed with cucumber and cherry tomatoes. It was a full-blown dinner.

"Dad and Eileen must have left this after a romantic dinner or something," he explained with a small shrug, looking at the candles rather than me. "I figured, what the hell, why not light them?"

"Oh." Did I let disappointment enter my tone? I thought not. Silently, I walked to the far end side of the table and helped myself to a serving of Jordan's pasta. His plate was already full. "And the wine?"

"It was on the booze shelf," he said. "Want some? But only one glass. You're twenty. I'm not getting you drunk." I rolled my eyes and Jordan hesitated, then decided not to say anything else. He picked up the bottle, took off the wrapping, twisted in the corkscrew, and pulled the cork out with effortless ease. As I watched him, I realized how differently we perceived everything around us. I was dressed for a goddamn date and I hadn't even realized it until it had been too late. Jordan was dressed for a quick bite with his annoying little stepbrother before he fired up the gaming console and zoned out. I saw the candles as this grand romantic message; Jordan lit them up because it was easier than removing them from the table. I saw his careful pouring of red wine as an aphrodisiac; Jordan probably just wanted to avoid a crimson splatter on the white tablecloth.

I slid my glass over to him and waited for my share of wine.

We ate in deafening silence. Every scrape and scratch of my fork against the plate was like an assault on my ears. Every mushy, soft chew of creamy sauce and pasta was embarrassingly loud. Every audible swallow made me want to fall through the ground. And when I washed it down with wine, my face only grew hotter. "This sucks," I said.

"What's wrong?" The obvious hurt on his face squeezed my heart.

"Not the food," I corrected. "It's very tasty."

I only complicated the confusion by saying that. "Then what is it?"

"This awkwardness," I said stiffly. "We lived in the same house for years. And we live in another one now. And we're here in the middle of nowhere, stuck together…" I lost my train of thought. I scoffed and sighed. "It's delicious." The words were a surrender. His dinner was great and I should focus on that. I stabbed a shitake with my fork, dragged it through the sauce, and put it in my mouth. I lifted the napkin from the table, wiped the corner of my mouth, and then exhaled.

"I don't know what to tell you," Jordan said. He was probably feeling like he was above all this shit. No surprise there. "Whatever I say, you just bark at me."

"Bark?" I asked, eyes wide in surprise.

"There you go again," Jordan said, his controlled voice cracking with annoyance. "You take everything the wrong way."

"Maybe you're the one saying everything the wrong way." I looked up, but his gaze had already returned to his wine. He drank a little and ate again for a long while. I did, too. I chewed on the pasta and on my words. And when I finally looped back to the present moment, I had to surrender. "Maybe it's both of us. Maybe it's just not meant to be."

"What is?" Jordan stabbed the last few macaronis and lifted them off his plate. He popped them into his mouth and released a pleased little sigh. He should be proud of himself for his cooking skills. Just another goddamn thing he excelled at.

"This." I wagged the fork between us. "Maybe this is as good as it gets."

He exhaled through his nose and pushed his chair back from the table. "Why does it always have to be bad, Asher? It's like you're looking for flaws in everything."

This was why. My big stepbrother had to spread his wisdom everywhere all the time. If he could see anything from his moral high ground, he would notice a guy who had spent years hurting after him and hurting with guilt over his feelings. "Are you saying this is good, actually?"

Jordan shrugged. "It's not all bad. We're…not enemies."

I barked out a laugh. "And that's the best that can be said of us." I finished my dinner, washed it down with the rest of the wine in my glass, and pushed the plate and glass away. "Never mind. Dinner's over." We were free of each other's presence once again. "Thanks for cooking."

"My pleasure," Jordan said flatly while I collected the dishes and carried them back to the kitchen. I was rinsing them when Jordan approached the kitchen island. "I was gonna play some Neon Slam Dunk on PS. Do you want to join?"

And sit next to you where we had once sat through the entire lecture on my sexual health when all I had thought about was feeling you inside of me? To feel your warmth on my skin while we pretend we're friends?I cleared my throat. "I'm pretty beat, actually. Maybe tomorrow." My murmurs faded with Jordan turning away from the island and walking toward the stairs.

Something akin to a missed opportunity unraveled in the pit of my stomach. Maybe I should have said something else. Maybe I should have sat through the pain and discomfort of being so close to him. Who knew what we would have ended up doing?

And maybe it wasn't too late.

I finished loading the dishwasher and headed upstairs to tell him I'd changed my mind. Just as I reached the top landing, I heard him cursing under his breath.

My heart sank.

Jordan walked out of the bathroom with a pissed-off expression and eyes ablaze in annoyance. "Couldn't you at least wipe the floor after dripping all over the place?"

"Jesus," I snapped. "Give me a break, Ma. It'll dry itself."

"With this humidity? It's a swamp in there." He shook his head disappointedly. "This is why, Asher. This is why we can't be normal."

"What the fuck did you just say?" I demanded. My testosterone levels spiked with adrenaline. It was like a sudden injection, a surge of power, and a longing for conflict. I walked up to him, unbothered by his size or the angry glare. "It's all my fault? That you're a fucking know-it-all who has to use every chance to teach me a lesson?"

"Do you think I want to teach you how to clean up after yourself, Asher? I've got better things to do than worry about the things you do in the bathroom that distract you from showing some basic courtesy."

What the fuck was he suggesting? I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off.

"Is this about the drills? Because I told you already, we don't play the same way, dammit. Your style's totally different, and when you copy me, it just goes wrong." He crossed his arms on his chest calmly.

"It's not about the goddamn drills, Jordan. It's about your superiority complex." I pushed myself to the tips of my toes, my sandals squeaking.

The calm air around Jordan remained in place as he slowly exhaled through his nose. I felt the heat of his breath on my face. We stood too close. I shouldn't have had that wine. My body was conflicted and confused. I was still running hot with anger, but I also wanted him to throw me against the wall and trap me under his muscles.

He blinked coolly. "If you don't want to be treated like a child, then stop acting like one. Wipe up the goddamn floor."

My mouth opened in shock and I snapped it shut immediately after. I took an abrupt step back from him. No. Of course, this wasn't a prelude to some dirty hate-fucking. He was simply an asshole. And I was wrong. Not that I would tell him that, but I should have fucking mopped the floor. "Use the other bathroom if it bothers you," I hissed, then moved forward, bumping into his shoulder with mine.

When I shut the door of my room, I waited for Jordan's footsteps to disappear into the living room downstairs before breathing again. Every part of me felt like it had been touched by a hot iron rod. My muscles were stiff, my breaths shallow, my chest tight. My dick was hard again, which annoyed me more than it amused me.

He was so full of shit. It wasn't fair. He shouldn't have lit those goddamn candles. He shouldn't have poured me that wine. He shouldn't have talked about the things I did in the bathroom in my private time. I hadn't. But if I did, I would be well within my right. And there would be nothing to feel guilty about.

It would vindicate me, in fact; keeping his contemptuous look firmly in front of my closed eyes, peeling off layer after layer of his clothes, using him for my sinful pleasures. What other good did I ever get from him anyway? This, at least, I was entitled to.

I held my breath as my left hand slid inside my tight briefs.