“What?” River’s eyes go wide, and pink creeps up his neck. “No, Kiera, I—this isn’t—” He holds the lavender out farther, like that will somehow clarify things. “This is the mystery ingredient.”
Heat floods my face so fast I’m surprised I don’t spontaneously combust. “Oh.”
“It’s for cooking,” he says, and now he’s the one who won’t quite meet my eyes. “Like we talked about last night.”
“Right.” I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. “Of course. The mystery ingredient. That makes so much more sense.”
We stand there in awkward silence for approximately three thousand years, or maybe just five seconds. I can’t tell. Time has stopped having meaning in my mortification.
Then River laughs. He’s not mocking me. It’s a genuine laugh, warm and sweet, and it breaks the tension like a knife through butter. “Honestly, that’s kind of adorable that you thought I was trying to give you flowers. Though now I’m wondering if I should have just committed to the bit and pretended that was always the plan.”
“Please don’t.” I press my hands to my flaming cheeks. “I’m embarrassed enough as it is.”
“Don’t be.” He sets the lavender on the counter between us, his smile softening into something gentle. “Besides, if I were going to give you flowers as a romantic gesture, I’d do way better than this.” He cringes, like he didn’t mean to say that.
I don’t know what to do with that, so I ignore it entirely and focus on the lavender. “So this is what I’m working with today?”
“Yeah, but—” His smile falters, and worry creeps into his expression. “Actually, maybe this is too hard for a first mystery ingredient. I was thinking it would be a good challenge, but culinary lavender can be tricky if you’re not used to it. I read that too much and it makes everything tastes like soap. We could do something easier? I have lemons. Or mushrooms. Those are way more straightforward.”
“No.” I reach for the lavender, bringing it to my nose and inhaling the sweet, floral scent. “This is perfect. I’ve heard of cooking with lavender before—I’ve just never tried it myself. That’s the whole point of this exercise, right? Learning to adapt?”
“Are you sure? Because I really don’t mind?—”
“River.” I point toward the hallway with my free hand. “Go. Do your editing thing. Let me work.”
“But what if you need?—”
“I’ll figure it out. That’s literally what this challenge is supposed to teach me.” I make a shooing motion. “Out. I can’t concentrate with you hovering and second-guessing your own idea.”
He holds up his hands in surrender, backing toward the hallway. “Okay, okay. I’m going. But if you need anything?—”
“I’ll yell. Now go.”
He disappears down the hallway, and I hear the door to his editing room close. Finally. I set the lavender on the counter and pull out my phone, immediately opening Google.
Cooking with lavendergoes into the search bar, and I scroll through results. Most of them are for desserts—lavender shortbread, lavender ice cream, lavender honey. Sweet things that showcase the floral notes. But I need something for dinner, something substantial.
I keep scrolling. Lavender chicken catches my eye, and I click through to a recipe because I’m pretty sure River has chicken in the fridge. It’s lavender-honey roasted chicken with herbs. The recipe calls for fresh lavender, honey, garlic, lemon, and thyme. I read through the instructions carefully, mentally cataloging what I’ll need.
I open River’s fridge and survey the contents. Chicken breasts. Fresh thyme in the herb drawer. Lemons. Garlic. I check the cupboard for honey. He has three different kinds because of course he does. Everything I need is here.
For a side dish, I spot fingerling potatoes in the pantry. An idea sparks. Roasted potatoes with lavender salt. I saw a chef do that on a YouTube video. I can make the salt by grinding dried lavender with sea salt—it’ll be subtle but complementary to the chicken without overwhelming the dish.
I pull out all the ingredients and line them up on the counter, then start prepping. The chicken breasts get pounded to an even thickness—a trick I learned from watching cooking shows. Even thickness means even cooking, which is essential when you’re trying to impress judges. Or your employer who’s paying you thirty dollars an hour.
While I work, I hear music coming from River’s editing room, and it sounds suspiciously like Fall Out Boy. I can’t help it, I smile to myself. It’s really cute that he’s playing the music I said I liked.
I strip the lavender flowers from their stems, being careful to only use the buds. I read that too much stem will make everything bitter. I set aside a small amount to dry in the oven for the lavender salt, then mince the rest for the chicken marinade.
Thirty minutes later, the kitchen is filled with the scent of lavender, honey, and herbs. It smells like summer and gardens and something I can’t quite name but makes me feel hopeful anyway.
I’m so focused on arranging the potatoes on their baking sheet that I don’t hear River come back into the kitchen until he speaks.
“Wow. That smells wonderful.”
I jump slightly, nearly dropping the potato in my hand. “I thought you were editing.”
“I was. But I got curious about what you were doing with the lavender.” He leans against the counter, watching me arrange the potatoes with careful precision. “What are you making?”
