I look at him, deciding to be honest. “I’m already trying.”
“Good. And I know you’re different than I was at eighteen, but for Pete’s sake,” He hands me the remote, eyebrows raised, “wear a rubber.”
“Flour, corn meal, salt…” Vandy lists out, sifting through the supplies I’d added to the grocery list. “Baking soda?” She shakes the box at me. “We need baking powder, not baking soda.”
I’m sitting on the counter, and if my dad weren’t in the next room, I’d be pulling her between my legs right now, licking at that mark she’s hiding beneath her hair. As it is, I watch her lean against the island, her skirt grazing her thighs. “They’re not the same thing?”
She starts pulling open cabinets. “What are the chances you have baking powder?”
“Slim,” I confess, watching the way her skirt sways when she stands on her tiptoes.
She eventually shuts the cabinets, admitting defeat. “I’ll go get some. Break those eggs.”
I do as she asked, but I wasn’t lying before. Cooking isn’t one of my superpowers. There are shells all in this bowl. I try to pick them out, grimacing at the feel of it.
When she returns, holding up the can of baking powder victoriously, my hands are slimy. I glare at her. “Why did you give me the hard job? I thought I’d just be stirring or something. Stirring, I can do.”
She doesn’t relent. “Try it again. That’s why I told you to get a dozen eggs. Trust me, it’s a vital skill.” I throw the eggs out and try again.
That’s when Emory suddenly walks in.
He doesn’t knock or anything, apparently just walks right through the front door, waltzing into the kitchen like he owns the damn place.
We both freeze in place, looking back at him as he narrows his eyes at us.
“Dad said you were over here,” he says to Vandy. And then, “The fuck is this?”
Vandy and I share a look. We’d put so much energy into getting parental approval that we’d forgotten her third parent. Things with Emory have been quiet since the Stairway to Hell rite. He made it right by letting V choose her own partner, but he hasn’t been particularly chummy with me since then, regardless.
“Guess we’re busted,” I say, setting the bowl aside. “Your sister is teaching me to cook.”
Vandy corrects, “This is baking, not cooking.”
I give Em a long-suffering look. “Your sister is teaching me to bake.”
“Why?” he asks, eyes taking in the scene. Somehow, despite not even having everything mixed yet, there are dishes everywhere.
“Because I don’t know how?” I answer slowly. “And because her cornbread is slamming.”
Vandy jumps in, voice sharp and defensive, “Mom and Dad said I could.”
I point toward the den. “Warren’s here, too.”
Perfectly legit, thank you very much. Asshole.
Emory’s eyes shift toward the den, neck craning. “Oh.”
Vandy pushes a lock of hair behind her ear, revealing the mark. I think she must sense the tension between us, because she adds, “You could probably use a lesson, too.”
Emory scoffs. “I can cook.”
“You can cook?” Vandy throws her head back and laughs, loud and bubbly. “Stop, my sides.”
But Emory’s relaxed now, strutting up to the island, bracing on his forearms. “Fuck off, I make plenty of stuff.”
“Hot dogs and hamburgers?” She gives him a look. “Yeah, you’re basically a culinary mastermind.”
I show the egg bowl to Vandy, asking, “Does this pass?”