Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother novel Chapter 321

**TITLE: Wrong person 321**

**Chapter 321**

I find myself in a kitchen that feels more like a battlefield than a culinary haven. The right tools are nowhere to be found; half of the good knives, the ones I know I need, remain entombed in boxes, lost among the chaotic sea of cardboard that has claimed the dining room as its territory. The colander I require for my pasta escapade is definitely not in the kitchen, which leads me to the absurdity of draining my precious noodles with a slotted spoon, accompanied by a whispered prayer to the kitchen gods. I can only hope that the sauce is coming together due to the benevolence of the deities of butter and garlic.

But here I am, actually cooking.

Yes, cooking.

It’s a revelation, really. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when the art of meal preparation began to matter to me. Perhaps it was during those early years when I watched Asher, with his meticulous and quiet demeanor, transform simple ingredients into something magical. To him, cooking was akin to crafting a strategic battle plan. Every ingredient was measured, every action precise and intentional.

–

In stark contrast, my cooking style resembles my dancing.

Wild. Unscripted. Chaotic.

Flour dust is scattered across the counter, a fine white powder that has somehow made its way onto the floor and even onto my elbow. A trail of peas lies on the stovetop, casualties of my culinary journey. My playlist oscillates between the smooth, soulful melodies of Billie Holiday and the upbeat tunes of 90s pop, and I find myself belting out the lyrics, completely off-key, with a joyous abandon that can only manifest when the house is blissfully empty.

I sneak a glance at the clock, feeling the anticipation build. Almost there.

—

I had bought a special bottle of beer just for tonight and placed it beside the stove. Not for me, though. I’m trying to be good, to give my knee a break, to treat my body right. But for him. He has a preference for this particular brand. He hasn’t said it outright, not in so many words, but I’ve observed how he savors it, drinking it more slowly than the others. That subtle detail is how I know.

A soft, melancholic tune plays in the background, the gentle strumming of a guitar wrapping around me like a warm embrace. I hum along as I stir the sauce, tasting a strand of pasta, closing my eyes to savor the moment. Not too shabby.

Just as I’m about to set the plates on the counter, I hear the familiar sound of the key turning in the door.

A brief pause.

A breath held in anticipation.

Then it swings open.

—

“Asher?” I call out, even though deep down, I already know who it is.

Heavy boots thud against the hardwood floor, the soft sigh of the door closing, and then he steps inside. Tall, warm, and unwavering, he embodies the very essence of home, wrapped in muscle and kindness, wearing a well-loved grey T-shirt that clings to his biceps just a little too perfectly.

He strides in, his gaze sweeping over the delightful chaos of the kitchen—the open drawers, the scattered spoons, and the trail of peas that seems to tell a story of its own.

A smile breaks across his face.

“Baby?” he asks, his voice already laced with gentleness and amusement.

I drop the towel I was using to dry my hands and rush over, wrapping my arms around his waist, feeling the warmth radiate from him.

His chin rests on the top of my head as he pulls me closer, and I inhale deeply, taking in his scent—a comforting mix of cedarwood and the faintest hint of motor oil. He always smells like he’s just come from a day of hard work, even when he’s off the clock. It’s a quality about him that I will forever cherish: that sense of authenticity, of effort.

“I cooked,” I mumble into his chest, a hint of pride in my voice.

“I can see that,” he replies, his tone teasing yet affectionate.

“Just don’t judge the mess. I was improvising,” I add, a sheepish smile creeping onto my face.

His lips find my temple, a soft kiss that sends warmth through me. “Mess is good,” he reassures me.

I look up, grinning widely.

“Okay, serious question. If we could eat clouds, what flavor do you think they would be? And please, don’t say bubblegum.”

His eyes sparkle with amusement, that familiar glint that always appears when I toss out something utterly ridiculous.

“Vanilla bean,” he responds without hesitation.

I raise an eyebrow, feigning shock.

“That’s a little boring, don’t you think?”

“It’s dependable. Gentle. Sweet. Just like clouds,” he counters, a smirk playing on his lips.

I pretend to swoon, placing a hand dramatically on my forehead. “That’s the most romantic answer anyone has ever given about hypothetical food.”

He chuckles, releasing me just long enough to grab the plates. “Let’s eat by the lake,” he suggests, and I nod, my heart racing with a love that feels as fresh today as it ever has. I gather the mismatched utensils and napkins—still searching for the cloth ones I packed away.

–

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