B,
I got your package yesterday. You and Jess are too sweet to me. Classic Batman DVDs? Where did you even find the vintage covers? Christmas in the desert hasn’t been too bad. Major Jameson asked me and Captain Jameson if they could have some beers with me and watch the Batman DVDs. I’m pretty trashed from all the beers but at least the homesickness is fading and I had a nice time. I hope you and Jess are having a great Christmas. Tell Jess she can always send me nudes to perk me up.
#thenewxmensucked #yougavethemtoomanystars #merrychristmasbrat
Private Brannon
Head pounding, I tiptoe down the stairs of the plantation. I couldn’t sleep after Cade woke me, screaming out, “No, Drew!” The gut-wrenching sounds as he struggled to pull himself from the nightmare tore at my heartstrings. Sounds of pure anguish poured out into the hallway for almost twenty minutes before I got up to go check on him.
Just because he was a dick and ignored me for the rest of the day yesterday doesn’t mean I want him to suffer. Well, maybe he can suffer a little, but not like that. I didn’t have to concern myself though, because by the time I put my hand on his door, Hayes stopped me and said he had him.
For two hours, I laid there listening to the rhythmic pounding of the treadmill before it finally stopped. I don’t know if he went back to bed or went outside. Honestly, I was too nervous to check. He sounded like he was in so much pain, and I know from experience, that with pain comes anger. And I’m no one’s punching bag. So I pulled out my laptop and messaged Jess.
Being an insomniac herself, she’s always up late at night. Like a best friend, she didn’t ask me what was wrong or why I was up at the ass-crack of dawn. She just let me vent about the new sucky Netflix series we had high hopes for.
After a couple hours of working on our latest review of the new Marvel movie, she crashed and I decided I may as well get up and prepare the guys breakfast. Anniston said they get up at five-thirty, but she thought they might take the opportunity and sleep in with her being away. Either way, I’ll have their breakfast ready for whenever they decide to come down.
The kitchen is spotless and smells of cleaner when I finally manage to get to it after falling down a couple missed steps on the staircase. Note to self: Fuzzy socks and hardwood stairs do not mix.
The plantation is old, but the inside has been totally updated, and it’s gorgeous. I reach out, running my hand along the smooth butcher block island, a double oven with six burners, basically, every chef’s dream kitchen. Hot damn, B is doing some cooking today! But first, I need some Tylenol. This throbbing headache behind my eyes is bringing me down like a bad hangover.
Before she left, Anniston gave me a tour of the house. Located downstairs is a fully stocked medical office where she treats the guys for minor injuries and illnesses. But surely, as a physician, she keeps regular meds somewhere close by. I believe the exam room stays locked and only one person has a key, and I’ll bet that one person is Cade. No way am I breaking down and asking him where I can find the pain reliever. I’ll suffer before I ask that asshole.
I start with the cabinets, going through each one and coming up empty-handed until I see the two small upper cabinets above the refrigerator. Who the hell can reach that? Well, I guess the guys can pretty easily since most of them are at least six feet. My five-foot-six frame will not cut it though. I grab one of the bar stools and drag it to the counter. Before I put all my weight on the granite countertop, I test one foot. I’m not a beluga whale by any means but I like to eat, so a stick I am not.
The counter doesn’t creak or splinter in cracks with my Superman socked foot bearing down on it so I risk it and put my full weight down, reaching over to the cabinet. It’s still difficult with the refrigerator in the way, but I manage to get the door open and spot meds. I stretch as far as I can, one leg lifting behind me to keep me balanced. Almost … I can just barely get my fingers on the—
“What the fuck are you doing?”
The hateful-ass voice startles me and the bottle of precious Tylenol goes flying to the floor, knocking the lid off and scattering all the tiny miracles of pain relief.
“Damn it! Look what you made me do,” I yell at Cade who is standing in the doorway, sweaty and sexy—wait, no, I mean sweaty and asshole. He crosses his arms, and the look of disgust on his face makes me want to throw the rest of the shit in this cabinet at him.
“Look what I made you do?” he repeats back in a huff. Disbelief clouds his features as he takes a hesitant step in my direction.
You will not look at his bulging arms, I tell myself. You will not—fuck it. They are so damn delicious.
His forearm flexes as if he’s forcefully keeping his arms together. The movement has me spellbound as I envision swiping the tip of my tongue along its ridges.
“What the fuck are you doing, Breck?”
His clipped tone pulls me from my fantasy, and I snap to attention, a hand on my hip. “Why do you keep the damn pain relievers up so high? I mean, it’s not like—”
A very excited voice interrupts my rant. “Holy fucking shit. My fantasy has come true.”
I turn around to see a smiling Hayes licking his lips while his eyes make a slow trail down the length of my legs. “I call dibs,” he taunts at Cade with a playful bounce on his heels.
“Get down from there,” Cade barks at me way too loud for this hour in the morning. Mason appears behind them, wearing a knowing smile.
Embarrassed and feeling like I’m the kid caught sneaking candy before dinner, I push away from the cabinets and carefully inch back to my stool to get down. Now is not the time to argue with Major Pain in the Ass. I’ll just get my two Tylenol from the floor and swallow them down like a lady and make these assholes some breakfast. Cade can kiss my ass with his—fuck! My socks slip on the granite and I nearly take a swan dive off the counter, but I’m a ninja and totally save myself by grabbing the cabinet knobs.
“Dammit!”
I feel him before I see him. Cade swipes me from the countertop and sets me on the floor like I weigh nothing. If it had been in a different setting, I would have felt like a princess being swept off her feet. But alas, it’s just me in a kitchen full of Marines, one who wants me gone, and the only thing that will serve as a memory is the sweat of being in his arms for just a second, lingering on my skin. If I admit that I sniffed him, will you judge me? It’s been a long time. Give me this one moment.
Almost in a trance from the sweet smell of his deodorant, I mutter, “You’re sweaty.”
Cade scoffs and pushes away from me. “Go put some fucking clothes on! It’s not appropriate for you to be in socks and a fucking t-shirt. Men live here!”
I almost laugh in his face and call him on his bullshit. Anniston has never come to the market in a conservative outfit. It may look like I don’t have shorts on under this USMC t-shirt, but I do. So he can take his nun-like attitude and save it for someone who gives a rat’s ass. But I’m a professional, so I take a step forward, cross my legs, and curtsy right in front of him. “Yes, sir,” I say.
The kitchen goes silent until Hayes lets out a snort and doubles over in laughter. A grin tugs at my lips but I keep it contained out of self-preservation. Cade, a face red with fury, is not laughing. Maybe taunting him after a rough night was a bad idea.
“Go. Put. Some. Fucking. Clothes. On.” Each word is gritted out through clenched teeth, and it has the intended effect. Humiliation crawls across my face and I push through Mason and Hayes without letting a single tear fall. I make it all the way to the guest room before the first of many wet splatters hit my shirt.
Fuck him.
How dare he embarrass me like that in front of the guys. I’m dressed. I have on shorts for fuck’s sake!
I rip off my clothing and decide to chill out under the spray of the comforting shower. I’m angry, and yes, my feelings are hurt. Part of me wants to go back to the orchard and call Anniston and tell her I’m sorry. I can’t do this. Cade is not who I thought he would be, and I think that’s what bothers me the most. Bennett got to see a different side of him, and it makes me wonder if it’s just me or if this is who he really is now.
Out of the shower, wrapped only in a towel, I flop down onto the bed, my tears finally gone. I’m going home. I’m going to go downstairs and make them breakfast, and then I’m calling Sue. I didn’t sign up for this sort of treatment. I bring up my email, settled in my decision about leaving, and type in Anniston’s email address. Before I talk myself out of it, I type out my resignation.
Anniston,
As much as I hate to do this after only twenty-four hours, I feel like it’s in the best interest of all parties involved for me to resign from giving the guys any further cooking lessons. They seem to do well on their own, and at this point you would waste money by having me here. I appreciate the opportunity and hope you’ll keep us in mind for any future needs you may have.
Sincerely,
Brecklyn
I hit send, and within a couple of minutes, I get a text back from Anniston. What did he do? The fact that she knows it was Cade causing trouble makes me feel better. For some reason, I thought she may think it was me causing a scene here.
I try to type out a professional and objective response. He’s being a dick. A BIG one. So much for being professional.
Anniston sends a string of laughing emojis and then, He can be. Don’t quit yet. Give him another day to come around. If you still feel like leaving after that, I won’t stand in your way.
Ugh. Why does she have to make me feel bad about it? Okay. Any advice to help me deal with him?
Her response is quick and to the point. Push back.
Hmm. I can do that.
I send her a text back thanking her for the advice then pull out my bag and rifle through the clothes Jess packed for me.
Game on, Major Dick.
Vic and Mason are waiting at the breakfast table by the time I make it back to the kitchen. Showered and changed, I breeze past them and toss them a smile that says what happened earlier means nothing. Clumsy or not, I am not letting Cade’s attitude dampen my morning teaching the two men—who are watching me rather curiously—how to make pancakes.
“Gentleman.”
Mason grins first. “Breck,” he drawls, dragging his finger across the bow of his lips, his eyes dancing with playfulness. At the sink, I wash my hands and say over my shoulder, “I thought we could make pancakes this morning.”
Someone chokes but I don’t look back to see who it is because Mason answers, “Sounds good.”
For the first time since I arrived, I feel a real smile emerge. I love cooking. Just the thought of it brings a wave of calm over me. Cooking has always been my happy place and to be in my element in this extraordinary kitchen is like home. Jess and I would always wake up Sunday morning grumbling over the top of coffee until I was caffeinated enough to mix batter. Magically, Jess’ bad mood would dissipate, and before we knew it, we were moaning and humming over a stack of buttery goodness.
Straightening, I turn to the guys, “Are the others coming?”
Vic stares at Mason and they exchange a look before Mason addresses me, claiming, “They went for a run with the major.”
A run? Didn’t he run enough last night? I don’t ask Mason though because that would make it seem like I care what Cade is doing.
And I don’t.
“Oh. Okay, well, let’s get to cooking. I’m starving,” I say instead.
I show my new students how to sift the flour. How to measure the right amount of buttermilk and the proper technique to pouring the perfect circle on the skillet. Both guys work in silence, absorbing my instructions, and I feel all kinds of proud when Mason plops a perfect golden pancake onto a plate.
“Nailed it,” he says smugly, his lips twitching with a smile. I hover over his shoulder and stare at his masterpiece. “Can I eat it?” he asks me, already picking it up and shoving half into his mouth. I slap his shoulder and move to his right to take a peek at how Vic is doing with his pancake since they have deemed him the worst cook of the bunch.
I’m not prepared, and I can’t stop the sharp inhale that I suck down the wrong way. I erupt into a coughing fit.
Mason asks, “Is that Mickey Mouse?”
Vic throws the pan and the perfect Mickey Mouse pancake into the sink and storms out of the house.
Mason and I stand in the middle of a silent kitchen, watching as the screen door bounces against the hinges where Vic slammed it on his way out.
“I’m sorry,” I stutter out to Mason. I don’t know what I’m apologizing for, but I can take a guess that Vic is not as cooking challenged as they thought but rather chooses not to cook.
Mason makes a soft noise beside me and puts his arm around me, offering comfort. “We didn’t know,” he admits. With a few pats to my back, he turns off the stove and gives me a pained look. “I need to call Anniston.”
I nod, knowing this is a big deal and they need Anniston’s advice on how to handle the situation. “I’ll be back to help you clean this up.”
I wave him off, about to tell him that I can take care of it when Hayes and Tim come in with matching concerned expressions.
“What’s up with Vic?” Hayes asks.
Mason shakes his head and pushes past him. “Ask B. I gotta go call Ans.”
Hayes grabs a bottled water from the fridge and tosses one to Tim who catches it and takes a seat on one of the bar stools. Hayes takes a look around at the mess that is now all over the kitchen counters and asks the same thing Mason did. “Is that—”
I cut him off, answering before he can go any further. “Yep, Mickey Mouse.”
An audible gasp floats through the air and Hayes breaks it with a tortured sigh and mutters, “Holy shit.”
I don’t understand the significance of all of this, but I can feel it. Whatever I just discovered about Vic is huge. Hayes does something on his phone and keeps muttering that he can’t believe it. Needing something to do, I grab a cloth off the counter and wipe up the spilled flour along the floor.
“What happened?”
I freeze at the sound of Cade’s raspy voice. “And what the fuck do you have on? I told you to put some fucking clothes on, not take more off.”
Anniston’s text flashes in my head as the thought of throwing this flour-crusted rag at Cade’s beautiful face overwhelms me.
Push back.
Standing, I toss the rag into the sink and not at his face like I want to, and turn to face him. Cade stands in the doorway, dripping with sweat, his shirt clinging to his pectoral muscles like a second skin. His nipples are hard as they strain against the fabric of his t-shirt. Hair that is wet and ravaged from the combination of his sweat and hands sticks up in the sexiest way as if someone yanked him down to his knees by those chestnut locks and he fucking enjoyed it. The urge to run my fingers through those waves is borderline insane, but when Cade grunts out a distasteful sound, I get my horny self together and respond properly. “I have fucking clothes on,” I challenge the mountain of a man glaring at me like if he had Cyclops’ powers he would burn me where I stand.
“Those are not clothes, Brecklyn.”
Oh, it’s like that, is it? How does he even know my full first name? Did Anniston tell him? Oh God. What if she told him my last name? Will he remember it? It’s been five years so hopefully he won’t. And hopefully Anniston didn’t feel the need to disclose it.
Cade waits for my response, hands on his hips like I fucking owe him an explanation.
Push back.
“It’s called a romper, Major Jameson. I suggest you Google it if you’re confused on the current fashion trends.” I want to add dick to the end of my statement but I refrain. I also refrain from admitting that I chose the shortest romper that my ass likes to eat, and that I personally would have rather kept my shorts and t-shirt on, but I don’t.
Because he deserves it.
And he started it.
Cade doesn’t answer me, and I’m not sure I want him to since I can literally hear his teeth grinding as a muscle in his jaw works, flexing back and forth in censored rage. With my head held high, I match his hard stare, my arms crossed. I’m not about to show weakness to this man.
“Okay, children, let’s not argue fashion decisions.” Hayes breaks our standoff, stepping in between us and giving Cade a slight shove through the door. “We need to talk,” he tells Cade, who still hasn’t torn his eyes from mine.
Hayes pushes at his chest again, trying to get his attention. “Major?”
Cade still has his hate glare locked on me, and well … I’m fucking tired of his shit this morning.
I flip him off and mouth asshole at him.
I swear he growls and tries to push past Hayes, who now realizes his major is about to lose his calm, and orders a red-faced Cade, “Your office. Now.”
I try hard not to smile and stick my tongue out like a child when Hayes yanks on his arm, pulling him from the doorway.
I fail.
Cade and Hayes have been locked in his office for twenty minutes. The kitchen is clean, no thanks to Mason and his empty promise. He’s been MIA since he ran out of here claiming he needed to call Anniston.
The whole house is eerily quiet.
I don’t like the silence or the tension I feel like I created. I wish I would have known cooking was Vic’s trigger, but from the reactions of the guys, they didn’t know either.
Killer, Mason’s dog, whines at the back door to be let out, and I open it when no one else comes out. I’ve seen Mason let her run loose in the pastures so I’m sure it’s okay. The question is: Where is Mason? Shouldn’t he be around?
I step outside with Killer, watching her dart around and chase a random squirrel. The air is thick with moisture but the sun beating down on my back feels heavenly. You know what the McCallister Jameson Foundation needs?
A pool.
A humongous pool where I could lounge in a chair and watch five chiseled bodies do the breaststroke the entire length of said pool. What is Anniston thinking not having a pool?
Killer barks, darting for the pond down the hill, and I take off after her not wanting anything to happen to her. Not that she isn’t capable of taking care of herself. She’s a trained military dog, for goodness’ sake. Death and battle are her specialty. She’s probably killed a man or two. Make sure nothing happens to her … yeah, right. She should make sure nothing happens to me.
I’m panting, sweat running down my forehead when a beautiful sight pulls me to a stop.
Skipping rocks, along the edge of the pond, is Vic.
A military green t-shirt stretches along his back, his tan cargo pants stuffed into his boots. Vic is the man you see on all the billboards enticing you to join the Marines. He was bred for the military, with his short hair, strong jaw, and unforgiving eyes. Along the water’s edge, he stands tall, his towering body looking larger than the trees in the distance.
Killer plants herself beside him, watching the rocks skim along the water’s surface. He reaches down at her arrival and grazes his hand along her head, between her ears. I slow, taking measured steps until I come to a stop on the other side of Vic. Bending at the knees, I lower myself to the ground and draw my knees to my chest.
Side by side, we stare out into the horizon, Vic skipping rocks, Killer snapping at the dragonflies, in comfortable silence until Vic breaks it with his raspy confession.
“He was six.”
This feels remarkable. Something that will forever be a memory for me.
I don’t respond, and Vic keeps going. “He was such a picky eater. My wife and I tried everything.” Vic pauses, watching the water ripple. “We were taking him to Disney World that summer, and I told him that if he didn’t eat, he wouldn’t be big enough to ride the rides.” With a faraway gaze as if he’s locked in a memory, Vic chuckles to himself. “We started making everything into Mickey Mouse to encourage him to eat. Fruit. Vegetables. Even his sandwiches were in the shape of Mickey ears.”
A tear falls onto my hand and I want to tell Vic that I don’t want to hear the rest of his story. My heart already feels as if it’s been wounded and he hasn’t even gotten to the climax of his story yet. But something tells me he needs to purge, and he’s chosen me to confide in. So I suck up my feelings and stay strong for him even if my chest squeezes painfully.
“They deployed me two months before we were set to leave.” A shaky breath vibrates out of Vic and then he clears his throat, dropping the bomb I’m not prepared for. “Kai, my son, was killed a week later in a house fire. He gained six pounds that summer. He was big enough to ride most of the rides but I never got the chance to tell him.”
His throat works as he swallows down the emotion he’s keeping contained in his massive chest but not even staring at the water stops the silent heaves that rack through his body. “They think I can’t cook.” He turns, giving me his eyes which are bloodshot and watery. “I can. I just don’t have a reason to anymore.”
I nod, wiping at the tears that drip down my cheeks. My hands shake, and I want to reach out to this broken man. This father who can’t bear to cook because it reminds him of his dead son. My voice quivers. “You don’t have to,” I promise, barely getting it out. And I mean it. Vic makes a low sound in his throat and then picks up another rock, launching it into the water.
He sighs. “Yeah, I do. It’s time.”
He tosses another rock and I sit quietly next to him absorbing everything he’s admitted. I came here under the notion that I was teaching guys who didn’t know how to cook some basic skills. Now I realize it’s so much more than that. Vic just admitted that he knows how to cook but that it pains him to do so, and with a desperate plea in his voice, he knows he needs to do this to move on. I don’t know if I can handle that type of responsibility, but for Vic, I’m going to try.
After a while, Vic breaks the silence and shocks me again. “Let me teach you my recipe for buttermilk pancakes,” he challenges me with a smile. His face is strained when he extends his hand and offers me not only a hoist up but an agreement.
A pact.
Between me and him. Helping him through this painful transition.
It will be my honor.
My privilege.
And ultimately, a bond that will never be broken.
I clasp my hand with his and let him haul me to my feet, and with a voice more confident than I feel, I challenge him back. “Let’s see what you got.”