“Maybe she’ll surprise you.”
I look at her, at the hope in her expression, and I wish I could believe that. But I know my mother. I know how this visit will go. She’ll smile and make polite conversation and askpointed questions, and by the time she leaves, I’ll feel like a disappointment all over again.
“Maybe,” I say, because Kiera doesn’t need to hear about the complicated dynamics of my family. She has enough to worry about with her competition.
We finish dinner in quieter contemplation, and I try to push thoughts of my mother’s impending visit out of my mind. But they linger like smoke, clinging to me and impossible to completely dispel.
When Kiera stands to start clearing plates, I help her without asking. We work in silence, loading the dishwasher, wiping down counters. The easy rhythm we had before the phone call is gone, replaced by this careful distance.
“I should go,” she says finally, grabbing her bag from where she left it on the counter. “I still have unpacking to do.”
“Right. Of course.” I walk her to the door, wishing I could think of something to say that would bring back the warmth from earlier. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Six o’clock.” She pauses at the door, her hand on the knob. “And you’ll have my mystery ingredient ready?”
“I’ll have something prepared.” I manage a smile. “Get ready for a challenge.”
She smiles back, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thanks for helping me move today. It… it meant a lot.”
“Anytime.”
She slips out into the warm evening, and I watch through the window as she drives away, her taillights disappearing down the driveway.
I close the door and lean against it, letting my head fall back.
My mother is coming.
And I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to explain Kiera—or what I’m feeling for her—when I don’t even understand it myself.
CHAPTER 12
KieraEmmerson
Wednesday, June 2
I leanagainst River’s kitchen counter, my fingers automatically finding the pink streak in my hair and twirling it around my index finger. The nervous habit is on full display today, and I can’t seem to stop myself.
River disappeared into the pantry about thirty seconds ago with instructions to “wait right there.” I assume he’s getting my mystery ingredient.
I slept in my own apartment last night. My own bed, in my own space, with no one else around. It should have felt amazing—liberating, even. Instead, I lay awake for hours staring at the ceiling, my mind replaying every moment from yesterday. The almost-kiss on the staircase. The way River’s hands felt on my waist. How he looked at me when I cut my finger, like I was something precious that needed protecting.
The way I wanted to kiss him so badly my chest hurt.
I twist the pink strand tighter around my finger. This is fine. Everything is fine. Today is just about cooking. Professional development. Nothing more.
“Okay,” River’s voice calls from the pantry. “Are you ready?”
“I’ve been ready.” I cross my arms, forcing my hand away from my hair. “Stop being so dramatic.”
“Dramatic? Me?” He emerges from the pantry, one hand behind his back, and there’s this mischievous sparkle in his eyes that makes my stomach flip. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“River. Just give it.”
“Fine, fine.” He brings his hand forward with a flourish, revealing a small bouquet of lavender tied with twine. The purple flowers are fresh, fragrant, and utterly beautiful. And totally not what I was expecting.
I stare at the lavender. At the delicate purple blooms and the careful way he’s tied them together. I was expecting some rare vegetable or something. Is he… actually giving me flowers? Something warm and terrifying unfurls in my chest, and I take a step back. This isn’t right.
“They’re lovely,” I say, and my voice comes out higher than normal. “But River, I can’t accept flowers from you. We talked about this—I want to keep our relationship professional. You’re my employer, and I’m your chef, and flowers would just complicate?—”
