Best of Intentions: A Best Friend's Brother Standalone Romance

by LK Farlow

  We divide and conquer to make the put-away go by a little quicker, with Nate handling the pantry while I take care of the cold stuff.

  I pull the notecards I printed out for him from my purse. “Okay, you ready?”

  “Damn, GG, you’re taking this seriously, aren’t you?” I can tell he’s teasing me, but I don’t mind it. This is something I’m passionate about, plain and simple.

  One day, I’m going to figure out what that stupid nickname means. “Sure am. I kept it simple to start you off. Enchiladas, lasagna, fajita salad, a broccoli and chicken casserole, and a one-pot chicken soup.”

  By the time I’m done listing it all out, Nate’s eyes are bugging out of his head. “We’re…going to…make all of that? Today?”

  Grinning, I reach up and boop him on the nose. “You betcha!”

  He groans. “Fuck my life.”

  “Man up, big baby. Wash your hands and tell me which one you want to start with.”

  “Uh. Let’s do the lasagna.”

  “Sweet. I’ll gather up everything we need while you preheat the oven to three-fifty.”

  In the pantry—which is shockingly large—I gather up the jarred marinara sauce, tomato sauce, and necessary seasonings. The only thing I’m missing is the packages of no-boil noodles. Where in the heck are they? I know I bought them—I triple checked that list. Finally, I spot them on the highest shelf.

  I’m on my tippy-toes when Nate pokes his head in. “Get lost in there?”

  “Not lost,” I grumble. “Just can’t reach these stupid noodles.”

  Nate steps into the pantry and the once-airy space now feels claustrophobic. He moves in behind me and, so help me baby Jesus, I can feel the heat of his body burning into mine. As he reaches over my head, his hips press into my bottom, pinning me between him and the freshly stocked shelves.

  Friends don’t get turned on by their friends. Maybe if I repeat the mantra enough, it’ll be true. Because Lord knows, the feel of his rock-hard body behind me has my panties damp and my nipples hard.

  Nate, however, seems completely unaffected by our nearness. I wish it was as easy for me to flip the friend-switch as it is for him. Really, it’s not fair that I’m the one struggling when this whole friend thing was my idea.

  “Got ’em. Is one box okay?”

  Not trusting my voice to come out steady, I nod.

  “Perfect.” Noodles in hand, he steps out of the pantry, allowing me to take my first full breath since he stepped inside with me.

  I take a few moments to collect myself before stepping out and joining Nate. From the lone bag I didn’t unpack, I grab one of the disposable aluminum baking pans I bought.

  “Okay, first thing you need to do is brown your meat.” I talk Nate through the basics, impressed with how quickly he picks up on things. Before I know it, our meat sauce is ready, and he’s holding out a spoon for me to taste.

  With one hand poised under it to catch spills, he raises it to my lips. “Mmm,” I moan as the flavorful sauce hits my tongue.

  “Jesus,” Nate growls, sounding pained, his eyes pinched shut.

  “Here, you try it.” I pry the wooden spoon from his grip and dip it back into the pot for him to sample it. I bring the spoon to his lips the same way he did and basically pop a lady boner when his full lips—ones that have roved over every inch of my body—part to accept my offering.

  As he moans at the taste, his growled-out curse makes a lot more sense. This may as well be foreplay, which is something else friends don’t do. Time to pump the brakes. “Good, right?”

  “GG, you might just be a miracle worker.”

  “In case you missed it, you’re the one who made this. I just…instructed.”

  “A student’s only as good as his teacher.” With a soft touch, he brushes an escaped lock of hair from my face. “So, what’s next?”

  “Now, my favorite part, the cheese!” This time, instead of talking him through it, I show him the recipe card and have him follow the steps on his own.

  While he combines the ricotta, parmesan, and parsley, I grease the two baking pans before spreading a little sauce in the bottom of each. With all of the prep work complete, we each tackle a pan, stacking layer upon layer of noodles, cheese, and sauce, topping each one with a generous amount of shredded mozzarella.

  “All right, these are going to cook for forty-five minutes.” He pops them into the oven while I set a timer. “Whatcha wanna make next?”

  “Enchiladas,” he replies, no hesitation. “Mexican food is my second favorite…right after Italian.”

  “Sounds good. But first, let’s rinse out the sauce pot. I don’t think either of us wants to deal with a sink full of dishes at the end of this.”

  Not wanting a repeat of the pantry incident, I send Nate to retrieve everything we need. While he rummages around, I pull the rotisserie chicken from the fridge and begin picking the meat from the bones.

  When Nate steps back into the kitchen, his strong arms loaded down, he scrunches his nose. “What’s that for?”

  “Using this is far more convenient than cooking chicken breasts. Trust me, stick with this, and deli chicken will quickly become your savior.”

  “Beauty and brains, GG. I like it.”

  I try my hardest not to blush at his compliment, but it’s a wasted effort. He could comment on something as ordinary as my nail polish color and my cheeks would probably burst into flames.

  I try and laugh it off, but it comes out sounding more like a horse’s neigh. Just kill me now. Thankfully, Nate doesn’t call me on it.

  Just like with the lasagna, Nate quickly works his way through the steps. He really is a quick learner. The only thing that trips him up is the cilantro.

  “The hell is that?” he asks, tipping his head toward the green sprigs on the countertop.

  “Cilantro. But you don’t have to use it if you don’t like it.”

  “Uh, I don’t really know if I do or not.” He leans down and sniffs it. “What’s it taste like?”

  “Depends on who you ask. Personally, I think it tastes like dish soap. But other people love it.”

  I pinch off a leaf and hold it out to him. Instead of taking it from me, he brings my fingers to his mouth. I have to summon every ounce of willpower I possess to not moan when his lips close around my index and middle fingers. I move to jerk my hand back, but he holds it in place, flicking his tongue over the tips of my digits as he samples the cilantro.

  My legs are wobbly, and my knees are knocking by the time he pulls back. “I like it. Kind of citrus-y.”

  In a daze, I nod. At this point, he could probably tell me the sky was green, and I’d agree.

  He smirks. “Thought you said you didn’t like it.”

  “Huh? What? I don’t.”

  “Okay, Jenny. Then we won’t use any.”

  I try and protest, because these meals are for him, not me. But he shuts me down. “How can I invite you over for dinner one night if I make something you don’t like?”

  Those stupid bees give a little buzz at his thoughtfulness. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

  We resume the recipe, working in a comfortable silence, and before I know it, hours have passed, and Nate has a full freezer.

  I’m loading the last pot into the dishwasher when my belly lets loose a loud rumble. “You hungry?” Nate asks.

  “Yeah, all this cooking worked up an appetite.”

  “Let’s eat then.”

  I look around at the now spotless kitchen. “Everything we made today is for the coming week. But if you want, I can whip something else up?”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. Go relax.”

  Dutifully, Nate retires to the living room while I get started on a super quick salad, made up of butter lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, baby carrots, raw broccoli, and some of the cold rotisserie chicken. Instead of dressing, I fry up two eggs—using the warm yolk to coat the salad is one of my most favorite things. It’s nothing special by any means,
but I’m hoping he’ll like it.

  Quickly, I check my sugar and bolus, even though I know he wouldn’t mind me doing it in front of him—something that blows my mind. The only people I’ve ever been comfortable enough to do it around is my family and sometimes Natalie—but even that took a while. After the way peers and strangers alike responded to it growing up—with either shock or disgust—it just became something I kept to myself.

  After washing my hands, I bring our bowls, along with two glasses of water, out to the living room, where Nate is kicked back on the couch, looking like a king on his throne. There’s just something so assertive about his presence—like he knows he’s all that. The man’s truly an enigma: cocky yet humble all at once.

  “Looks…interesting,” he murmurs, taking his bowl from me.

  “Don’t knock it until you try it.”

  I watch with bated breath as he runs his fork over the top of his egg, bursting the yolk. The yellow goodness seeps out, covering everything beneath it. He spears a healthy bite onto his fork, bringing it to his mouth. He chews thoughtfully…slowly…prolonging my torture. But he doesn’t spit it out, so maybe that’s a good sign.

  “I gotta say, this is hella good. Definitely better than I thought it was going to be. Damn.”

  Something that feels like pride blossoms in my chest. I like feeding him, taking care of him. Once we’ve both eaten our fill, Nate grabs the remote and flicks on the TV.

  Kicking his feet up onto the coffee table, he rests one arm along the back of the couch. Instinctually, I lean into him as we watch whatever sitcom rerun is playing the screen.

  I’m not sure friends cuddle like this, but he makes me feel so warm and secure that I don’t object.

  About fifteen minutes in, Nate’s phone buzzes on the table, but he makes no move to grab it. Five minutes later, it does it again. And again. “You gonna check that?” I ask him.

  “I probably should. I’m just too comfy to move.”

  “I’ll grab it.” I don’t mean to look at the words on the screen—I swear, I don’t. But now that I’ve seen them, they can’t be unseen.

  Mary: For real. Thanks for this morning with Sarah. You were great…

  I snatch the phone up just in time for another notification to roll through.

  Mary: I mean it. Why don’t you swing by later and let me thank you properly?

  I toss the phone to Nate like it’s a hot potato. It lands in his lap with a thud. He swipes up and reads through the messages he missed—the ones I didn’t see.

  “Jenny.” He says my name like he’s speaking to a child on the verge of a tantrum. It’s probably the same voice he uses to placate Tatum. “It’s not—”

  I cut him off, unwilling to listen to whatever BS he comes up with. “I know we just ate, but looks like your buffet is calling.” I shrug, feigning indifference. “You’d better go.”

  He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Deep down, I’m hoping he’ll correct me; that he’ll tell me she’s no one and that he certainly didn’t blow off our plans for her. But the words never come. I guess his indifference to all of the things that had me ready to offer myself up on a platter makes sense now. Why would he want to come back for fourths from me when all of that variety he loves so much is out there waiting?

  “Yeah, okay.” We both stand. He takes our dishes to the sink while I collect my belongings. He walks me to the door, his eyes pleading for me to understand and really, I do. Sure, it hurts, but this is what we agreed on, and I damn sure plan to uphold my end of this friendship.

  “Uh, thanks for everything today. I’ll text you sometime tomorrow.”

  I give him a terse nod. “Sounds good. Be…safe.” Friends don’t get jealous, I remind myself as I walk to my car. And I repeat it several more times on the drive home.

  chapter nineteen

  Nate

  Am I a total shit for letting Jenny misinterpret that text on Sunday? Yes, absolutely. In fact, I may even be King Shit.

  I know exactly what she thought when she saw it—she assumed I ditched her for a fucking threesome. Which couldn’t be further from the truth, mind you. In actuality, the department’s secretary called me in a panic because her daughter Sarah—who is seventeen—was stranded on the side of the road. Her tire ran flat, and she didn’t have a spare. Mary’s husband would usually be the one to help out, but he was stuck in meetings all day.

  Do I regret it? That’s the million-dollar question I’ve been asking myself for the last three days. Maybe a little. But, if I’m being honest, I kind of need her to go back to thinking I’m a dog—it makes staying away from her in that way a little easier, even if the pain that flashed in her eyes made me feel about two inches tall.

  We’ve texted daily since, and things seem to be back to normal between the two of us. We even had a brief phone call Wednesday night after her first shift at Bennet’s. I hated that I couldn’t be there to support her, but I was on shift. I would’ve gone Thursday, but Natalie asked me to watch Tatum—and in my book, family always comes first.

  But now it’s Friday, and I’m finally free. It’s been almost a week since I’ve laid eyes on Jenny; strangely, I’m missing the little spitfire. I’d like to say I’m not nervous about seeing her, but that’d be a lie. I’ve managed to talk Duke, Xavier, and a few of the other guys into joining me, which in hindsight might have been a terrible idea. Especially since most of the guys see me as this larger-than-life player without a care in the world who jumps from bed to bed. Yeah, they see me the same way Jenny did—or does, I guess I should say.

  “Yo! You ready for a night out, lady killer?” Xavier asks, completely unaware of how much that stupid-ass nickname pisses me off, as we walk toward the bar from our vehicles. I know I should just man up and ask them to stop, but that means opening the whole Sonia can of worms, and I’d really rather not.

  I grind my molars together; oh, yeah, this was a terrible fucking idea.

  “I know I’m ready for badge bunnies,” a dumbass rookie named Jackson pipes up. Swear, the dude talks like he spits game for a living…too bad he’s actually a virgin who still lives at home with his mommy and daddy. I’m ninety-nine percent positive he still has a curfew.

  I shake my head at their antics, trying not to yell at them all to shut the fuck up. Duke is the only person I don’t want to throttle.

  “Y’all head in. I’ll be right there.” I catch Duke’s eye over their heads.

  He nods, hearing everything I’m not saying. Watch out for Jenny. Keep these jackasses away from her. Try and make them behave. Things that wouldn’t have crossed my mind in the past. Hell, a few short months ago, I was the worst of them—a total womanizing asshole.

  But that was then. And this is now.

  I take a few moments to center myself before heading in. My eyes hone in on Jenny like there’s some kind of tracking device implanted in her, sending signals straight to my corneas.

  She looks completely at ease behind the bar, slinging drinks and charming patrons like she’s been doing it her entire life. I move toward her, slicing through the crowd. Her black Bennet’s shirt clings to her breasts, drawing the eye of every man in the place, including mine.

  I sidle up to the guys and wait for her to notice me. Must be my lucky night, because it doesn’t take long. “Hello, boys. What’ll y’all have?” She starts on the far end of our little group, saving me for last. “How about you, Nate?”

  I let my gaze slide over her. “Surprise me.”

  Her brilliant eyes glow like emeralds at my request, and she wastes no time filling our order. I keep my stare trained on her as she grabs a slew of cheap-ass domestic beers for most of the guys and what I know is a club soda with lime for Duke since he’s our DD. She takes her time on me, though.

  She keeps her back to me as she prepares my drink, and I’ve got to say, I’m mildly surprised when she places a scotch and soda in front of me. It’s definitely not something I would ever order for myself, but if Jenny thinks it’s
the drink for me, then I’m damn well going to enjoy it.

  Her eyes twinkle as I sip my drink. “Why this?” I ask her over the roar of the crowd.

  She bites the side of her bottom lip and quirks her brows. “I read somewhere that it’s what the cutest boy in the room drinks.”

  I can’t help it; I bust out laughing. “Did you just call me cute?” She gives me a cheeky nod. “Jenny. No. Dogs are cute. Tatum is cute. Grown-ass men are not cute.”

  She crooks her finger at me, and I lean down over the bar. From this vantage point, I have a clear shot down her top; the swells of her lace-encased breasts distract me. Which is why I don’t even see it coming when she pushes up to her tiptoes and boops me on the nose. “Guess you aren’t as manly as you thought, cutie.” She spins, wiggles her hips in a little victory dance, and moves on down the bar to the next group vying for her attention.

  As expected, the guys have a field day over her calling me cutie. All night, it’s cutie-this and cutie-that. And every time the little shit stirrer comes to check on us or refill our drinks, she makes a big show of talking to me like I’m five or whips me up some kind of ridiculous cutesy cocktail. The guys absolutely lose it when on her third pass she makes me a freaking appletini.

  Joke’s on her though, because while I may look like a douche drinking it, it’s fucking delicious.

  I’m halfway through said appletini when a gaggle of sorority-looking girls descend upon us; a stunning redhead with the biggest set of fake tits I’ve ever seen approaches me. Bold as fuck, she runs her cherry-red nail down the center of my chest. “There’s something about a man who can order a drink like that and still look sexy, am I right?”

  I hold the martini glass up in a cheers gesture before downing the rest of the sugary green liquid. “It’s definitely a gift.” While my words are playful, my tone isn’t. I don’t mind chatting up this chick, but I’m not interested in her.

  “I’ve seen you here before,” she says in what she believes is a sexy voice. To me, she sounds a little too desperate, like she’d let me hogtie her just for the hell of it. “You’re a cop, right?” Ah. A badge bunny—that explains it.