Cooking for her

RYAN

She was driving me so fucking insane.

First, she showed up to that stupid lunch in a dress that clung to her like a second skin, and her nipples strained against the lace of her blue bra. I’d meant it when I said she wasn’t my type—nerdy, innocent, and completely out of her depth—but damn, I’d enjoyed the view. My mind betrayed me by conjuring images of me lifting that dress, tugging her bra aside with my teeth, and closing my mouth around those sweet, hardened peaks—

I yanked myself out of that fantasy fast. What the fuck was wrong with me? She was my stepsister.

Nerdy, blue-eyed Violet, the girl who wouldn’t survive a second in my world. She was the polar opposite of the sophisticated, jaded women I preferred—both in and out of bed. She didn’t even belong in the same universe.

"Seriously? Take me back!" Violet’s voice cut through my thoughts as she yanked on her seatbelt.

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “You don’t want to go back, do you? Tell me you actually want to sit through that pathetic lunch, listening to our parents drool over each other?”

She didn’t respond immediately, just crossed her arms and pouted like a child.

"Right," I muttered, pressing my foot harder on the gas, enjoying the way the car roared beneath us.

"Okay, fine! I don’t want to go back," she admitted after a beat. "But my mom’s going to kill me if I don’t."

I let out a frustrated groan. "Typical you. Always trying to make everyone happy. Always trying to please people."

Her eyes flashed, and she shot me a glare. "You don’t have to insult me," she snapped.

I ignored her, running a hand through my hair, frustrated beyond reason. The traffic in front of us suddenly slowed, and I slammed on the brakes, the car jolting to a stop just before we rear-ended a Porsche.

"We’re not going back," I said, my voice low, but firm. “We’re going home. I'll make us something decent to eat”

Her eyes widened in surprise, and I wasn’t sure why the hell I said that. Sure, I was done with the awkward family lunch, but taking Violet home to cook for her wasn't part of the plan.

Violet blinked, her eyes widening in surprise. She tilted her head and laughed, the sound light and teasing. “I don’t know...you don’t really strike me as the ‘whisk and apron’ kind of guy, Ryan. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Look, I’m just hungry, alright?” I said, gripping the wheel tighter. “And you looked miserable back there. Figured you’d prefer some real food over that crap.”

She gave me a look, but didn’t argue. We sped down the road, leaving behind the suffocating atmosphere of our parents’ perfect little family charade. I didn’t know what I was doing, why I had this impulse to keep her around a little longer. Maybe it was her innocence that fascinated me, the way she didn’t fit into my world, and yet somehow... I wanted her in it.

As soon as we pulled into the driveway and stepped out of the car, she stretched, looking around. "So, what’s your specialty then, Master Chef? Are you going to blow my mind with a five-star meal?"

Ignoring her, I shrugged off my jacket, heading straight for the kitchen.

I opened the fridge, grabbing ingredients for a simple but hearty meal—pasta, garlic, tomatoes, basil, and chicken.

I chopped the vegetables with precision. Cooking always did that for me—forced me to focus. Forced me to control something, even when everything else was a mess. The kitchen was filled with the smell of garlic and onions simmering in oil, the sizzle a soft backdrop to Violet’s voice. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes bright as she rambled on about something I wasn’t really paying attention to

I noticed she'd changed out of that clingy dress into a pair of baggy sweatpants and loose-fitting tee.
That was more like the Violet I was used to seeing. She looked more like herself, and it was oddly comforting.

"Do you think it's possible to mess up pasta? I mean, it's just boiling water, right? How hard could that be?" she mused, her voice light but edging into sarcasm.

I didn’t look up, focusing instead on the vegetables. “I can manage,” I muttered, sliding the chopped veggies into the pan.

“Come on, don't be so modest” She teased further

I glanced up, my knife pausing mid-chop. "The first rule of making a good meal is silence,

“Silence? Really?” she shot back, crossing her arms tighter. “Who made you the Gordon Ramsay of this kitchen?”

I didn’t respond, just continued chopping. She always talked too much. Always filling the silence with words. I didn’t mind it sometimes. But right now, I needed focus.

After a few more minutes of simmering and stirring, the food was ready. I plated it up, sliding her a dish without a word. She stared at it suspiciously.

"Should I brace myself for food poisoning?" she teased, raising an eyebrow.

"Eat," I said, sitting down across from her, ignoring the bite of annoyance in her voice.

She picked up her fork, twirling the pasta with a dramatic flair before taking a cautious bite. Her eyes widened slightly, and I watched as she chewed, clearly surprised.

“This is... good. Really good,” she admitted, her tone almost grudging.

“Shocking,” I said dryly, but a small smirk tugged at my lips.

Violet took another bite, savoring it this time, before leaning back in her chair with a thoughtful expression. “I wish I could cook like this.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You can’t cook?”

She shrugged, setting her fork down. “Nope. I’ve always been closer to Dad than Mom, and he died when I was still young. Mom was... well, distant. Full of expectations but rarely around. Cooking wasn’t exactly something she taught me.”

There was a pause, the air between us shifting. I didn’t miss the wave of melancholy that flickered across her face. She tried to hide it, but it was there—in the slight drop of her shoulders, in the way her voice softened.

I didn’t say anything at first, just took a slow bite of my own food, thinking about what she’d said. I knew something about distant parents, about expectations and silence. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful but suffocating.

“You could learn,” I said after a moment, my voice more casual than I felt. “It’s not hard. You just need patience.”

She glanced up at me, eyes curious. “Patience, huh? Is that something you have a lot of?”

I met her gaze, the corner of my mouth twitching.

“Depends on the day.”

Violet chuckled softly, her mood lifting slightly. “Well, I guess it’s too late to become a master chef now. I’ll leave that to you.But I could make cookies and coffee though. Dad taught me that”

“Cookies and coffee. Now that's a skill” I replied trying to hide my amusement.

“Hey don't knock it. Those are essential life skills” She defended,her eyes lighting up. You'd be surprised how many people don't know how to make a decent cup of coffee. You're a really good chef though”

“I’m not a chef,” I muttered.

“No, but you could be. You’ve got the whole ‘mysterious guy who’s secretly good at everything’ thing going on,” she teased.

I didn’t bother responding to that, finishing my meal instead. She had no idea. But I wasn’t about to explain myself to her.