Page 23 of Drilled

Lane scrunched her nose up in disgust at the phantom disaster. “Okay, yeah, that’s fine. Stay as long as you need to. You might as well stay for dinner.”

“That’s not necessary,” I said, getting in there before either of the other guys could take her up on the offer. “You cooked for us last time. Plus the rain probably won’t last very long.”

It didn’t feel right to have her working in the kitchen for us again during her time off. She didn’t often get a break and from the bits and pieces I’d caught about how her week has been going, she was desperately in need of one.

But Lane just shook her head. “You guys have been slaving away to try and fix that bathroom and all the other little problems this house has been burying. It’s the least I can do.”

“The least you can do is pay us, actually,” Dax said, putting his helmet down and sprawling out in the armchair like he’d just been invited to move in.

“No shit.” She rolled her eyes and got to her feet. “Well, if you boys are hungry already, which you probably are, I’ll get started. I hope you all eat Chicken Tinga Tacos.”

My stomach already growled at the sound of that alone. We’d worked straight through lunch today, thinking we’d finish up before we headed out. But if she was insisting on fixing us up a meal, I wasn’t going to let her do that by herself.

“I’ll help,” I offered, pushing off the doorframe I’d been leaning against.

“Ease up, Sy. You’re taking Bear’s job, remember?” Dax called over.

“I’m the better cook,” I said with a wink.

Bear grumbled something to himself but he could hardly deny the reality. His culinary proficiency topped out at cutting things up and just about making it with all ten fingers intact.

Lane laughed and a kick of pride hit my chest hard, making me grin so wide it actually hurt.

“Cornball,” Dax muttered and I pretended to not hear him as I followed Lane into the kitchen.

“Just give me permission to use your fridge and utensils and I’ve got this,” I announced, rolling back my sleeves and moving to clean my hands in the sink. Her eyes widened.

“I thought you were supposed to help me, not replace me altogether.” The mock hurt in her voice was tinged with the slightest bit of uncertainty. She probably thought some giant, lumbering blue-collar guy would burn down her kitchen before he could so much as boil water.

But I loved the art of surprise. I gave her an easy smile. “Trust me. You can monitor things and make sure I don’t accidentally poison everyone.” I paused. “Also…you’ve been stressed out lately. I want you to be able to relax when you’re not working, not have to worry about getting three grown men fed.”

Lane’s face changed from playfulness to genuine surprise. I thought about how she’d insisted on carrying those sandbags by herself despite them being like a third of her body weight. How she’d declined a ride to work and back home several times despite the offer. She very clearly valued her independence, maybe even to her own detriment sometimes.

And now here I was, asking her to relinquish control of her kitchen and let me cook for her. I expected her to say no yet again. But instead, Lane’s green eyes lit up. She smiled, retrieving something from a drawer before presenting it to me like a medal.

“For your comfort,” she said and I chuckled, taking the apron from her and tying it around my waist. “Where can I fall in?”

In no time, I had four large chicken breasts butterflied, diced and simmering in a stockpot with onion, garlic and salt. Lane helped me cut up the veggies, our hands occasionally brushing but a lot more graceful than I was willing to bet Bear’s had been during his stint on the line.

And while prepping the sauce ingredients, I found that my genius plan to get Lane to decompress was actually coming to fruition. Her shoulders were relaxed, her face light and voice animated as she began naturally filling me in on some of this past week’s debauchery at work.

“So, let me get this straight. You just spent forty-eight hours dealing with a client accused of trying to commit arson against his own brother?” I repeated, my eyes wide with sincere shock.

“Yeah,” Lane said, just as casually as though telling me she got someone off for dodging a speeding ticket. She began shredding up the chicken with two forks. “And then to just really sweeten the whole deal, my client decided to change his alibi mid-trial. Dude swore he was across town but couldn’t remember where.”

I gave a low whistle, blending up the peppers, tomatoes and adobo sauce. I drained some of the excess water before transferring the meat to a skillet, bar a small bowl’s worth. “How’d you manage to swing that?”

“Nance called her secret weapon—this legendary Chicago meter maid she trades parking ticket appeals for. Two minutes later, the woman finds a city dashcam tape proving my guy was actually getting his car booted on the South Side during the exact hour of the crime. Saved the case, but my arches are officially dead,” Lane said, waiting for me to drench the chicken with the sauce. “She’s saved me on more than one occasion.”

“Remind me to never lie to you,” I said solemnly, lowering my head with an impressed chuckle as I stirred the contents of the skillet. “Between your brain and Nancy’s connections, I’d be done for.”

“You don’t strike me as the lying type, Sy. Which is actually a fantastic thing,” she replied. Something about the way she said my nickname dragged my eyes up to meet hers, my hands still working the wooden spoon. The softness in Lane’s eyes was easily one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen in my life. I wasn’t sure if there was anything that could ever trump that. My throat went dry and I swallowed hard, trying to kickstart my brain back into action but it was difficult when she was so close I could smell the soap she used.

Fortunately for my sluggish brain, Lane’s was sharp as ever. She tore her gaze from me to quirk an eyebrow at the bowl of chicken waiting on the counter. “Extra hungry?”

“It’s actually for a friend,” I said, suddenly sheepish as I turned my attention back to the food. I cracked the stove down to a simmer and covered the skillet.

“A friend?” she asked. “Did you invite someone over or something?”