Just Like This (Albin Academy #2) - Cole McCade Page 0,27

pepper under the water. “Most of the seeds just rinse out,” he muttered; talking was hard, his voice thick and grinding out of his throat. He set the knife aside on the cutting board. “And you can just scrape the pulp out with your fingers.” He did just that, dipping two fingers into the inner heart of the hollowed-out bell pepper and curving them to stroke along the wet insides, and—fuck. Deep breaths. “Go ahead and cut the stem out of the other pepper, and wash it just like this. Then cut them in half and slice them.”

He finished rinsing out the inside of the pepper, left the water on for a few seconds longer to sweep the seeds down the drain, then set the pepper on the edge of Rian’s cutting board and retreated to the other side of the sink again. Dinner. Fucking finish making dinner—why had he even offered to let Rian stay to eat, anyway?—and say what they needed to say about Chris.

And then get Rian the fuck out of his space.

Before that sharp sugar-candy scent permeated the room, and Damon wouldn’t be able to get it out of his space.

Or out of his head.

But he couldn’t seem to bring himself to speak, as that silence fell again—punctuated only by the sound of Rian hesitantly chopping the bell peppers into thin slices, followed by the sharp, crackling hiss as Damon tossed the beef strips into the heated wok and the searing metal instantly set the meat to sizzling, savory scents rising to mingle with the fresh, wet scent of cool cut vegetables. Damon slid the wok in a practiced circle, swirling the cooking meat around, tossing it...and almost tossing it too high, pent-up frustration scoring through him and making his motions too sharp; he let out a soft yelp and scooted the wok forward to catch the beef strips as they fell, rounding them up back into the pan.

He was half expecting a biting, mocking comment from the man at his side.

But Rian didn’t say a word.

Until the silence was almost eating at Damon, the way Rian kept his head bowed as if he was—was—Damon didn’t know, but he growled under his breath and settled the wok, eyeing Rian. He’d piled all the pulled and cut vegetables up into neat little distinct piles, and was just finishing with the second pepper and adding the curving, messily irregular red strips to the last heap, picking them up in both thin hands.

“Here,” Damon grunted. “Go ahead and add it all.”

Rian blinked, tilting his head at him. “Just...pour it all in?”

“That’s how it works, yeah.”

“Okay...” Rian started to gather up the handful he’d just put down, but Damon shook his head.

“Seriously. Just pick up the whole cutting board and dump it.”

Rian looked skeptical, but picked up the cutting board in both hands, balancing it like a newly hired waiter handling his first tray of delicate champagne glasses and maneuvering it over the wok with exaggerated care. Damon watched with a raised eyebrow while Rian slowly, slooowly tipped the cutting board over—then let out a little excited noise, jumping up on the balls of his feet, as the vegetables tumbled into the wok and a cloud of steam went up, bursting with a medley of mingled scents.

Damon started sliding the wok back and forth again, tossing the food until the steak strips and vegetables mixed so they’d crisp quickly and evenly. “You that excited about stir-fry?”

“I like making things.” Rian watched raptly, holding the empty cutting board clutched in both hands like a chipmunk with a nut clutched in both paws. “It’s just the things I make usually aren’t edible.” He swayed closer—too close, his shoulder brushing against Damon’s arm, his eyes locked on the wok. “Except that time I made stained glass cookies.”

“Stained glass cookies?”

“Sugar glaze and food coloring in a frame of dough. It’s really not that much different from making real stained glass, and mixing dough’s about as easy as mixing pottery clay.” Those curious eyes shifted to him. “Do you like sugar candy, Damon?”

The scent of sugar candy, curling over his tongue and begging to be tasted, every time he stood too close to Rian Falwell.

Damon took a step away.

Just enough to break that contact—the warmth of Rian’s shoulder pressing into his arm, angular and lean.

“You can put that in the sink,” he said, nodding toward the cutting board. “Food’ll be done soon. There’s iced tea in the fridge, if you don’t mind putting out glasses.