I try my own brownie, and I have to admit, they turned out just how I had hoped they would. Fudgy and rich, with the tahini adding this sophisticated depth that makes them feel special instead of just sweet.
“I can’t believe you made these after everything that happened,” River says, finishing his brownie and eyeing the pan like he’s considering seconds.
“Spite is a powerful motivator.” I grin at him. “The flour tried to defeat me. I couldn’t let it win.”
“Well, you definitely won.” He leans back in his chair, looking at me with something warm and appreciative in his eyes. “You’re really talented, Kiera. I hope you know that.”
“I’m starting to believe it,” I say quietly. And I mean it. Because despite the chaos and the disasters and the moment where I genuinely thought I’d ruined everything, I pulled it off. I created something good.
And maybe that’s what the competition will be like. Maybe things will go wrong, and I’ll have to adapt and push through anyway. But if I can turn the Great Flour Incident into a success, maybe I can handle whatever the judges throw at me.
River stands and starts gathering plates. “Come on. Let’s do dishes together.”
“I can handle it?—”
“I know you can.” He’s already heading to the kitchen with his stack of plates. “But I want to help. Consider it payment for being part of the most entertaining cooking disaster I’ve ever witnessed.”
I follow him, shaking my head but smiling. And as we fall into our familiar rhythm of scraping off plates and putting them in the dishwasher, I think about how comfortable this has become. How easy it feels to be around him, even when I’m covered in flour and making a mess of everything.
How much I’m going to miss this when the competition is over and I don’t have an excuse to be here anymore. And if by some miracle I win and get a scholarship…
But I push that thought away and focus on the present moment. On River’s laugh when I make a sarcastic comment about the “helpful” flour. On the way our hands brush when he takes a plate from me, and how his hoodie is enveloping me in his smell. On the warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the brownies and everything to do with the man standing beside me.
For now, I’m not going to think about the future. This is enough.
CHAPTER 17
RiverStone
Monday, June 7
I stare at my monitor,watching the same thirty seconds of footage for what must be the fifth time, but I’m not really seeing it. My attention keeps drifting to the clock in the corner of the screen.
Five forty-five. Kiera will be here in fifteen minutes.
I save my work and lean back in my chair, letting myself think about the past few days instead of pretending I’m actually accomplishing anything.
Friday, I gave her pomegranate molasses. She made this delicious lamb dish with a pomegranate glaze that was sweet and tangy and complex in a way that made me close my eyes with the first bite. Then for dessert, she whipped up pomegranate panna cotta with pistachios that looked like something from a fancy restaurant.
Saturday was matcha powder. That one didn’t go as well initially. She tried to make matcha macarons, and they came out bitter and chalky. I could see the exact moment she realized theywere terrible—her whole face fell, and she set down the failed cookie like it had personally betrayed her.
But then something amazing happened. Instead of making excuses or giving up, she squared her shoulders and asked if she could stay late to try again. We spent another three hours in the kitchen while she adjusted the recipe, tested different ratios, researched techniques on her phone. The second batch came out perfect—delicate green shells with a subtle earthy sweetness and a creamy white chocolate filling.
I offered to pay her for the extra time, and she looked at me like I’d suggested something ridiculous. “This is for me,” she said. “I need to know I can fix my mistakes under pressure.”
That’s the thing about Kiera. She’s tougher than she thinks she is.
Yesterday was yuzu—these Japanese citrus fruits that taste like a cross between lemon, mandarin, and grapefruit. She made yuzu kosho chicken with a citrus rice that was bright and refreshing and unlike anything I’d ever tasted before.
Each day, watching her work through the challenges, seeing her confidence grow—it’s been incredible. The way her face lights up when she nails a dish. The way she bites her bottom lip when she’s concentrating. The way she’s started to trust her instincts more instead of second-guessing every decision.
We haven’t kissed since that night with Skyler. Part of me is dying to kiss her again, to pull her close and feel that electric connection we had on the living room floor. But I know she needs time. She needs to set the pace, to feel in control of whatever this is becoming between us.
And honestly? Just being near her is enough right now. The way she laughs at my terrible jokes. The comfortable silences while we do dishes together. The moments when our hands brush and she doesn’t immediately pull away like she used to.
We’re building something. Slowly, carefully, but it’s real.
The doorbell rings, and my heart does this silly leap in my chest. She’s early. I practically jump out of my chair and head down the hallway, trying not to look too eager. But I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face as I reach for the doorknob.
