Page 71 of Rising Heat

The kitchen stretches open to the right, bright beneath warm pendant lights. Black cabinets, butcher block counters slightly worn down at the edges, a broad island anchored in the center big enough to fit three stools.

A cutting board dusted with flour. A glass mixing bowl streaked with batter. Blueberries that have rolled loose across the island and been lazily corralled into a shallow dish like someone started cleaning and got distracted. Copper pans hang above the range, catching the flames every time they shift.

Tyler catches me turning slowly in place and smiles.

“Try not to look too shocked. You’re hurting our feelings.”

“This whole place is…” I trail off, searching.

He rests one hip against the stove and gives me a wink.

“A disaster? Be honest.”

A laugh escapes me as I glance around one more time, taking in the undeniable evidence that they decided homemade pancakes were the appropriate response to a power outage.

“…it’s a full-on Ralph Lauren fever dream.”

“We’ll take that as a compliment,” Mason says.

“You should. Most guys living together have a folding table and a TV sitting directly on the floor.”

Tyler barks out a laugh.

“Not in this house.”

My gaze drifts back across the room.

“You did all this?”

“Most of it.” Tyler gestures around the apartment with his spatula. “This used to be two separate units.”

My head snaps back toward him.

“What?”

Mason slides a mug toward me across the island and nudges a stool out with his foot. This time, I don’t argue. Which probably has nothing at all to do with the way his slutty shoulders are on full display under a black muscle tanktop and I’m just now close enough to notice. Gray sweats embroidered with Station 37 ride low on his hips, and I have to physically chew on my tongue to stop from gawking.

“First and second floor,” he notes, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“We opened it up,” Tyler adds. “Knocked out part of the ceiling. Added the loft.”

I glance up again.

The floating stairs. The exposed beams. The sheer amount of work that must have gone into turning two apartments into one.

“This must’ve taken forever.”

Mason takes a sip of coffee.

“We had some help.”

“Our dad, mostly.”

So the compulsive competence is hereditary.

I point between them.

“Okay, so the cooking comes from your mom’s side.”