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“I can’t leave this unattended with Chuck roaming around the house,” Matt says, waving a hand over the steaming pot. “I’m splitting it up for a few houses and I’ll have to start over with his constant double-dipping.”
I can’t argue with that. Matt gives me an expectant look and I taste the sauce, flavor exploding in my mouth.
“Damn, that’s good.”
His face splits into a grin that could charm the boots right off a cowboy. None of us know how he got so good at cooking, but our baby brother keeps us well-fed. He likes to make extras for a few families whose ranches and farms are facing tighter times. I reach over to muss his hair, which he promptly dodges, and resumes his ever-vigilant watch over the pot.
“You want me to start some pasta? I can get you something before you have to leave.”
“Nah, there’s leftover rice, I’ll put the sauce on that,” I reply. He gives me an affronted look.
“That’s not—”
“I like it and I don’t do it when we’re all eating together, so let me have my weird food quirk.”
His eyes narrow at me and he points the spoon in my direction. “Just this once.”
My hands raise in surrender. “Just this once.”
We both know I’m lying, but he doesn’t fuss as I scoop the leftovers into a dish and put it in the microwave. I could live off rice, which is why there are leftovers in the first place. Matt’s our main cook, but the rest of us rotate in regularly. Whenever it’s my turn, it’s either kebabs with rice, stir fry with rice, or pineapple fried rice. Everyone stopped complaining a few years ago, just like we don’t complain when Bryant walks in with a comical pile of beef on his nights.
The microwave dings and I grab my dish, alternating hands to avoid getting burnt.
“Do you want chicken? I haven’t shredded it, yet, but it’s good.” And by good, he means melt-in-your-mouth-perfection.
“You know I do.”
He nods and grabs the tongs to pull out a chicken breast that’s falling apart. My mouth waters. When he finishes ladling sauce over my chicken and rice, he gives me a look of pure judgment.
“Just this once,” I whisper, grabbing my feast and tiptoeing backwards out of the kitchen to the office. I set my food aside and open up the calendar. It didn’t take me long to realize that my brothers are terrible at sharing calendars online. They’re not Neanderthals, but you’d think I was asking them to take the LSATs instead of checking one calendar at the start of every week.
Apparently, they’re too damn stubborn to do that, so I track their schedules on a weekly, bound calendar that’s color-coded. Bryant comes by and checks the calendar every Wednesday, like he thinks it might have changed, but otherwise, I’m the only one touching it.
Footsteps approach and I turn around to find Matt holding out a full glass of milk.
“You need more vitamin D. You’re inside too much.”
I snort out a laugh. “Thanks, Matt.”
He grunts, taking after Bryant and Jax, and turns on his heel.
Within seconds I hear a scuffle in the kitchen.
“God damn it, Chuck! I leave for two seconds and you’re already in the sauce!”
Chuck lets out a whoop right before Matt likely has him in a headlock because a moment later he’s straining out, “I give, I give.”
“How many times did you dip your spoon?”
“Just the one time, I swear,” Chuck replies, clearly unwilling to hold out any longer. Matt was the only wrestler out of all five of us and he’s scrappy as hell when it serves him.
“Not twice?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“You and Jax have to stop saying that—neither of you were scouts.”
A moment later, Chuck comes out and gives me a look. “You couldn’t have kept him distracted?”
