“The dishes. That's my job.”
“No,” I say, continuing to dry the plate with slow, deliberate movements. “Your job is to cook. Which you did. Beautifully, I might add.”
“River—” She turns off the water and faces me, her hands dripping onto the floor. “I'm being paid to cookandclean upafter. That's how this works. You don't hire someone to make you food and then do their dishes for them.”
“Sure I do. I just did.” I set the dried plate on the counter and reach for another one. “This is my kitchen. My house. I can run it however I want.”
Her eyebrows pull together, and I can see her trying to figure out if she should keep arguing. “It's normal for a cook to clean up after herself.”
“And it's normal for me to do my own dishes.” I keep my tone light, easy. “Besides, you're not my maid, Kiera. I don't want you to feel like one. I hired you to cook, not to scrub my kitchen floors and polish my silverware. Although—” I glance around the kitchen, “—I'm not entirely sure where my silverware polish is. Or if I even have any.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. Just barely, but I catch it.
“I'm serious,” I continue, drying a pair of chopsticks. “The deal is you cook, I pay you. Cleaning is optional. And if we're both here anyway, we might as well do it together. Makes it go faster."
She studies me for a long moment, her blue eyes searching my face like she's trying to figure out if I'm serious or if this is some kind of trick. Finally, she sighs and turns back to the sink, picking up the cutting board.
“Fine. But this doesn't mean you're going to do the dishes every time I'm here. If you’re on a deadline and need to work, let me do the dishes.”
“All right.” I grin, even though she can't see it with her back to me. Small victories. “But you do know I have a dishwasher, right?”
She snorts. “I didn’t want to use it for these few things.”
We finish the dishes in comfortable silence. Well, mostly comfortable. I'm hyper-aware of her presence beside me, the way she moves efficiently through the task, the faint scentof whatever shampoo she uses. Something clean and simple, maybe coconut.
When the last dish is dried and put away, I fold the towel and set it on the counter. Kiera is already reaching for her bag, which she left on one of the bar stools, and I know I have about thirty seconds before she makes an excuse to leave.
“Can I ask you something?” The words come out before I fully think them through.
She pauses, her hand on her bag strap. “Sure."
"What made you want to become a chef? Like, when did you know that's what you wanted to do?"
Her shoulders relax slightly. Okay, good question. Not too personal.
“I don't know exactly.” She turns to face me, leaning back against the counter. “I've always liked cooking, I guess. Even when I was little, I used to help Kiki in the kitchen. She'd let me stir things or measure ingredients.” A shadow crosses her face and I’m curious what it means, but she keeps going. “There's something about taking basic ingredients and turning them into something that makes people happy. It's like... I don't know. Magic, kind of.”
“That makes sense.” I lean against the counter opposite her, keeping some distance so she doesn't feel crowded. “I feel that way about filmmaking sometimes. Taking all these separate shots and editing them into something that tells a story. Making people feel something they didn't expect to feel.”
She nods, and I can see her mentally connecting the dots. “Yeah. That's it exactly.”
“So the competition—the culinary school scholarship. That's your ticket to making the magic official?”
“Something like that.” She picks at a spot on her jeans. “I know I'm good at cooking. I know I love it. But there's a difference between making dinner for my sister's familyand actually being trained. Learning the proper techniques, understanding flavor profiles, all of that. The scholarship would give me that.”
“You're going to win,” I say, and I mean it.
She looks up sharply. “You don't know that.”
“I know you made peanut butter and jelly look like something from a fancy restaurant. That takes creativity. Skill. If you can do that with the most basic ingredients imaginable, imagine what you'll do when you're actually trying.”
A genuine smile breaks across her face, and it's like watching the sun come out from behind clouds. “Thanks.”
“I mean it. Your parents are going to be so proud of you.”
I realize my mistake the second her smile vanishes. Her expression shutters so fast it's like watching a door slam shut.
I try to correct myself. “I mean?—”
