It hadn’t.
Outside the hut where the cooking class was held, I reached out, grabbing his forearm. “Noah.”
He stopped but didn’t look at me.
I swallowed hard, forcing the words out before I lost my nerve. “I’m sorry for what I said. I went too far.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. For a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to respond. Then, slowly, he turned toward me. “It’s fine.” Noah exhaled through his nose. “Let’s just get through this class.”
He turned and walked inside.
Noah
The moment I stepped inside the hut, the thick scent of spices hit me—garlic, ginger, something citrusy that I couldn’t place. The space was rustic but polished, with wide windows that let in golden light, wooden beams arching over the ceiling, and woven pendant lamps casting a soft glow over the long cooking stations.
Each station had a cutting board, bowls of fresh ingredients, and neatly folded aprons with the resort’s logo embroidered on the chest. A row of gleaming pans hung on the far wall, and inthe center of the room stood a broad-shouldered man with a chef’s jacket and an easy smile.
Others filtered in, chatting excitedly as they claimed spots. A photographer hovered near the entrance, snapping pictures of the setup, the happy couples, the overall ambiance.
I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Great. Just what I needed—photo evidence of me playing house with Macey after our argument this morning.
She stepped in behind me, hesitating for a fraction of a second before following me to an open station near the middle. I could feel her eyes on me, like she was waiting for some sign that things were normal again.
What was normal between us anyways? Over the course of the last two days, we’d played multiple rounds of push-pull, and at this point, I wasn’t sure where we stood.
I pulled on the apron without a word, tying the strings tightly at my back. The sooner we got through this, the better.
The instructor clapped his hands together, his voice warm and welcoming. “Good morning, everyone! I’m Chef Luca, and today, I’ll be guiding you through a hands-on experience of traditional island cuisine. We’re going to have fun, get a little messy, and by the end of this, you’ll have a dish that will impress anyone.” His gaze swept over the room, stopping on me and Macey. “Even your special someone.”
I stiffened. Macey let out a short, nervous laugh, shifting beside me.
Chef Luca grinned. “Now I assume you all came hungry?”
There was a collective murmur of agreement, some of the other pairs exchanging excited glances.
“Great!” He gestured toward the tables. “Grab the prepared ingredient baskets, and we’ll get started.”
Macey adjusted her apron, glancing at me, opening her mouth like she wanted to say something.
I beat her to it.
“There’s a photographer in here, so let’s keep up the pretending.” My voice came out clipped.
Her lips pressed together, but she nodded. “Fine. I know you’re still upset with me but just know I really do respect you.”
Chef Luca clapped his hands together. “All right! We’re starting with a simple appetizer—fried plantains with a spicy mango dipping sauce. Should be easy enough, right?”
Macey and I exchanged a glance.
I wasn’t sure what her cooking skills were like, but I had a sinking suspicion they weren’t much better than mine.
“The plantains need to be sliced thin,” Luca continued, demonstrating with a swift, effortless motion. “Then we’ll fry them until golden. Meanwhile, we’ll prepare the mango sauce. Now let’s get to it!”
I grabbed a plantain and the knife, lining it up on the cutting board. Macey did the same, looking far too focused for a task this basic.
“Ever cut one of these before?” I asked.
She lifted her chin. “It’s a banana’s cousin. How hard can it be?”
