Because I don’t want a “proper chef service.” Because having her here isn’t just about the food. Because I look forward to these evenings more than I’ve looked forward to anything in years.
But I don’t say any of that.
The doorbell rings again.
“You should answer that, darling. We wouldn’t want to keep the help waiting.”
The help. Like Kiera is some nameless servant instead of the most talented, hardworking, extraordinary person I’ve ever met.
I set down the suitcase at the top of the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”
I practically run down the stairs and across the living room, my heart hammering. This is bad. This is really bad. Mother’salready in full judgment mode, and Kiera’s about to walk into the middle of it.
I pull open the door, and there she is. Pink-streaked hair falling to her shoulders, jeans and a t-shirt, her bag slung over one shoulder. She’s smiling, that genuine smile I’ve been getting more of lately, and it makes my chest ache.
“Hey,” she says. “Have another mystery ingredient challenge for me?”
“Kiera.” I step out onto the porch and pull the door partially closed behind me, lowering my voice. “My mother is here.”
Her smile falters. “I thought she wasn’t coming until tomorrow.”
“She wasn’t. She caught an earlier flight.” I run a hand through my hair. “Look, if you want to come back another time, we can reschedule. I can pay you for tonight anyway, and?—”
Kiera laughs. Actually laughs, like I’ve said something ridiculous. “River, don’t be silly. I’m here to cook. Your mom being here doesn’t change that.”
“You don’t understand. She’s—” I struggle to find the right words. “She can be difficult. And she’s already making comments about the house, and I don’t want her to?—”
“To what? Be rude to me?” Kiera’s eyes are kind but firm. “I can handle rude people, River. I’ve dealt with way worse than someone’s judgmental mother.”
She says it so matter-of-factly, and I know she’s thinking about her own parents. About being kicked out and called a harlot. About people in her hometown whispering and pointing.
I can tell she’s thinking my mother’s subtle condescension is nothing compared to that. But she doesn’t know my mother. The thought of Mother looking at Kiera with that dismissive expression, making those backhanded comments—it makes me want to bundle Kiera back to her car and shield her from it all.
“Come on.” Kiera reaches out and squeezes my arm gently. “Let’s go in. I promise I won’t let her get to me.”
Before I can respond, she’s walking past me into the house.
I follow her inside, dread settling heavy in my stomach. Mother is already descending the stairs, having apparently decided freshening up could wait in favor of inspecting whoever rang the doorbell.
“Mother,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “This is Kiera Emmerson. Kiera, this is my mother, Victoria Stone.”
Kiera extends her hand, that professional smile firmly in place. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Stone. I’m here to cook dinner for you and River this evening.”
Mother takes Kiera’s hand briefly, with just two fingers, the handshake lasting barely a second before she pulls away. Her eyes scan Kiera from head to toe, taking in the casual clothes, the pink streak in her hair, the bag over her shoulder.
I can practically see the judgment forming.
“How charming,” Mother says, and the word sounds like an insult. “River, there’s no need to treat the help with such formality. A simple introduction would suffice.” She turns to Kiera, her smile sharp. “You may go do your job in the kitchen now. I’m sure River has work to attend to.”
My face burns. Heat floods up my neck and into my cheeks, and I want to say something. Want to tell Mother that Kiera isn’t “the help” and she deserves to be treated with respect. Want to defend both of us.
But the words stick in my throat. Because this is Mother, and she always wins. Always finds a way to make me feel like I’m in the wrong for even considering pushing back.
I catch Kiera’s eye, trying to convey how sorry I am, how much I hate this. She gives me the smallest nod—understanding, not angry—and heads toward the kitchen.
“I’ll be right there,” I manage to say.
Mother settles onto the couch, crossing her legs with elegant precision. “Whatever do you need to do in the kitchen?”
