Recipe for Romance: A Bucky Barnes Story

3: Pretty Young Thing

Bucky's Turn

(POV CHANGE)

"Don't even try to tell me that you didn't fucking cheat."

"I didn't!" Sam Wilson yelps in his own goddamn defense as we come strolling out of the elevator from the gym way below. Steve walks out ahead of us, glancing back every now and again with those tense blue eyes to see if he'll need to intervene.

"You're a fuckin' cheater and a liar," I grunt. I wipe my forehead with the white towel that I've got draped over the metal-fused shoulder.

"Do we really have to argue about this? It was a basketball game, Buck," Steve chides.

I scowl as we walk farther into the communal part of the compound. "Yeah, and I woulda won if this asshole didn't cheat..."

"I DIDN'T CHEAT, FOR FUCK SAKE!" Sam wails.

Steve, who's been walking ahead of us at a steady pace this whole time, suddenly stops dead in the doorway. Sam nearly collides with the brick wall that is Steve's firm muscled back before I grab the loser by the slack of his collar. Steve, meanwhile, stares wide eyed and confused at something in the kitchen. Sam stands taller to get a peek before I shove him out of my way, promptly ignoring the cursing he shoots under his breath at me in response.

I'd heard the music from down the hall but hadn't really thought much of it. But now with Steve's clearly confused expression, I'm noticing the drastic change in taste to what's usually being played. Stark's a hard rock kinda guy—death metal all the way. Now there's a preppy, girly tune pumping into the kitchen and dining room.

I lean around Steve to see the same sight he peers at now, and I'm left just as confused as he seems to be. Because standing in the kitchen, the one that no one ever uses, is a girl. Not just any girl—this girl is one that I'm sure as shit that I've never seen in my life. Now, I don't have the best memory, that's for damn sure. But I would've surely remembered a girl like this...

The girl in question sways from one leg to the next above a steaming stovetop. Her face is soft and set with a sweet lipped smile. There's a light brushing of glitter across her high cheekbones that catches the light when she turns her head from one side to the next. As she does this, pretty brownish curls that've fallen out of the messy updo tickle the nape of her pale neck. Her eyes are bright and wide—the same color as summertime river water: a bit of blue and dark green combined. They flutter around the mess she's made with bowls, pots, and pans. Her thick eyebrows knot together in brief disgust at the clutter before she's distracted by the dinging of a timer. Hurrying back to the stove, she's humming to the song Friday's been playing out loud.

The girl is clearly no spy. She's completely oblivious to her audience as she rocks her hips from side to side to the tune of the Taylor Swift song. She wears a knitted dress with a turtle neck collar and no shoes on her small, tip-toe walking feet. I feel my chest grow tight when the girl takes a quick taste of something on her spoon and then breaks into a proud grin. I'm nearly tempted to smile, too.

"Who the hell is that?" Sam questions.

As if on cue, the stranger in the sweater dress lifts her gaze. She notices us for the first time—appearing completely unfazed to find herself in unknown company. Outside of the quick blinking of her long lashed eyes the only thing to change about her expression is the small smile grows wider.

"Hello," she speaks out to us. Then she goes back to her task of whisking something that smells strongly of herbs.

Steve, who glances to me questioningly, steps into the room further. He makes his way to the kitchen. He plants himself on the opposite side of the counter as the girl. I can see that he's blushing by the way the back of his bare neck has grown rosy. He's still shirtless, you see, and his modesty is sickening. He even attempts to cover his bareness by crossing both arms firmly over his pecks. Sam sniggers from beside me.