Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 116

The second we step back into the main lodge, we’re hit with a wall of heat, sound, and voices shouting over one another.

The living room is a full scene—music pumping, bass low and insistent, some girls half dancing, half chatting in a circle by the fireplace. They’re in leggings and fuzzy socks, swaying to the beat, drinks in hand. A couple of guys are throwing a football across the vaulted ceiling like they’ve forgotten they’re surrounded by expensive glass and custom woodwork.

“Someone’s gonna break a lamp,” I murmur.

Asher huffs a soft laugh behind me.

We head toward the kitchen, which looks even bigger up close—stone countertops, iron light fixtures hanging from thick wooden beams, and a *massive* island that stretches across the center like it could seat an entire team. It’s bustling, bodies packed elbow-to-elbow as everyone assembles their own pizzas with the most Instagram-worthy spread I’ve ever seen: little bowls of cheese, herbs, meats, veggies, sauces. Everything’s labeled. There’s even truffle oil.

Of course.

“Grab a dough,” someone calls out. “Build your masterpiece.”

Tyler jumps ahead, already rolling up his sleeves like he’s training for a culinary death match. I take one of the little dough balls and start flattening it with my palms on the cold marble surface. Asher steps up beside me, his sleeves already pushed back to his forearms, quiet and calm as he works his dough like he’s done it a hundred times.

“You cook?” I ask without looking up.

“A little,” he says. “I picked up a few tricks and recipes over the years. Stuff you can eat with one hand.”

“Why one hand?”

“Because the other one usually holds a weapon,” he says casually.

I blink. He looks at me, smirks, and turns back to his dough.

Right.

I layer my pizza with tomato sauce, then fresh mozzarella, a few slices of tomato, basil, a sprinkle of rosemary, and some garlic oil. Tyler’s going full chaos with sausage, pepperoni, and *pineapple*, which should be illegal.

Asher’s pizza is deliberate—simple sauce, shaved parmesan, cracked pepper, fresh spinach, and a drizzle of oil. Minimalist. Intense. Like him.

We slide the pizzas into the big wood-burning oven built right into the stone wall. It glows orange inside, heat licking up the curved dome like a flame about to roar.

“Wanna soda?” a voice says next to me.

I turn.

“Max.” I smile. “Sure.”

He nods, then turns to Asher. “Beer?”

“Sure, thanks,” Asher says simply, brushing flour off his hands.

“Tyler?” Max asks.

Tyler doesn’t even look up. “I’m good.”

“Alright.”

Max turns to go, but Tyler mutters something under his breath.

“What was that?” Max asks, pausing.

“Nothing,” Tyler says louder, rolling his eyes. “Didn’t realize we needed waiters here.”

The tension zings like a live wire.

“Ty,” I say, frowning. “What’s your problem?”

He shrugs. “No problem.”

“Seriously?” I turn to Max. “I’m so sorry.”

Max shrugs, totally unbothered. “Don’t be. He’s always like that.”

“He’s not,” I start, then stop. Because he is. Apparently. With Max and the football team.

Tyler leaves without a word to go chat with Jo and some other guys on the other side of the kitchen.

Max comes back a minute later with a can of Sprite and a cold beer, handing them off without a word. His hand brushes mine for a second, and he leans in just slightly.

“Forget whatever you may hear,” he says, voice low. “Try to have fun this weekend, okay?”

He gives me a quick one-armed hug—friendly but warm—then disappears to go play catch with some guys.

I watch him go, still confused.

“What was that about?” Asher asks beside me.

“I haven't known Max that long,” I admit. “But he's been kind of weird lately. Cryptic.”

Asher’s watching him too now, his jaw tight. “How?”

“He told me to be careful around Tyler. Said a lot of people on his team don’t like him.”

Asher doesn’t respond. Just nods once, slowly. Absorbing it.

“Anyway,” I say, trying to change the subject. “Time to get the pizzas.”

Asher steps forward, pulls the door of the oven open like it’s nothing, and slides each pizza out with the paddle like he’s done this his whole life. Mine is golden and bubbling at the edges. His looks like a magazine cover.

He nods to Tyler across the room. “Yours is ready.”

Tyler lifts a hand lazily and mouths that he'll be there soon.

I’m still blowing on a too-hot slice when I hear a new voice.

“Hey there.”

I look up.

She’s tall, blonde, wearing a red sweater that fits just *tight* enough, with big hazel eyes and glossed lips. I recognize her from the dance-circle by the fireplace. She’s smiling, but it’s not at me.

“What’s your name?” she asks Asher, sidling in a little closer.

He looks at her. “Asher.”

“Strong name,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m Kayla.”

He shakes it. Polite. Nothing more.

“You’ve got a strong grip,” she adds with a giggle. “I like that.”

I set my pizza down slowly.

“Are you, like… staying in the main house?” she asks, brushing her hair off her shoulder.

“No.”

“Aw, really? That sucks. I was gonna say you could’ve stayed with me.”

She laughs. Touches his arm.

“You here with anyone? Anything I can do for you, maybe?”

My jaw tightens.

“I’m good,” Asher says, voice even. Cool. But his fingers curl slightly around the edge of the counter.

“Are you sure?” she says, biting her lip. “I’ve got extra space. And extra blankets.”

I want to scream.

Or maybe laugh.

Or maybe launch my pizza at her perfect glossy mouth.

Instead, I just breathe.

Because I shouldn’t care.

I shouldn’t.

And yet…

Asher hasn’t looked at me once during the whole exchange. But I feel it—tension, coiled and sharp, humming under his skin.

And I can’t help wondering:

If I touched his arm like that…

Would he move?