“What—”
“Peanut butter and jelly sushi,” she says, and there’s a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I flattened the bread, spread peanut butter and jelly, rolled it up, and sliced it. Figured if you’re going to eat like a five-year-old, I might as well make it look fancy.”
I lean closer, looking at the little rolls. They’re actually clever, and just like Kiera. They’re creative and funny and somehow exactly what I needed. I can’t help but grin. “This is fantastic. Did you just come up with this?”
“You seemed pretty desperate for your PB&J.” She shrugs, but I can tell she’s pleased with herself. “I thought I’d compromise. You get your comfort food, but at least it looks like I put in some effort.”
I grin at the silver chop sticks she placed beside my plate. I love it. “And homemade french fries? They smell amazing.”
“Those are truffle fries. I googled a recipe. Figured I’d use some of that fancy stuff you bought.”
I grab a fry and take a bite. It’s crispy on the outside, and soft in the middle. “That’s so good.”
She gives me a shy grin. “Thanks.”
I pick up one of the sushi rolls and pop it in my mouth. The bread is soft, the peanut butter and jelly ratio perfect. It satisfies the craving exactly the way I wanted, but there’s something about the presentation that makes it better. “You’re a genius.”
“I’m really not.” But she’s smiling wider now, and it does something to my heart. I make it a new goal to make Kiera smile. “I just didn’t want you to think you wasted your money hiring me.”
“There’s so many on the platter,” I say, then hesitate. “Will you—do you want to sit? Eat with me?”
Her smile falters. “That’s not really how this works. You’re my employer. I cook, you eat.”
“But you made enough for both of us.”
“I wasn’t sure how hungry you were.” She shifts her weight. “It’s unprofessional for the chef to eat with the client.”
“We’re not in a restaurant. You’re here to learn, right? To practice for the competition?” I gesture to the empty chair beside my place setting. “You should eat what you make. That’s how you figure out if the recipe works.”
She opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, then closes it. I can see her thinking, weighing the logic.
“Besides,” I add, “we’re going to be doing this five times a week. If we can’t eat together, that’s going to get weird. This is supposed to be a job, yeah, but it doesn’t have to be so formal. We can just... be normal about it.”
“Normal,” she repeats, like she’s testing the word.
“Normal-ish,” I amend. “As normal as we can be when I’m paying you thirty dollars an hour to keep me from starving.”
That gets a laugh out of her—small, but real. “Fine. But only because you make a good point about needing to taste what I cook.”
“Sit. I’ll be right back.” I go into the kitchen and grab a plate, chop sticks, and glass for her.
When I come back in she’s sitting in the chair beside mine, one leg tucked under her. I set her place setting down and sit. We fill our plates with “sushi” and fries, and it makes me smile.
She picks up one of the PB&J sushi rolls with her chop sticks and examines it before taking a bite. I watch her chew, seeing the way she evaluates the taste, the texture. She’s thinking about it like a chef would, analyzing her own work.
“It’s good,” she says after swallowing. “The bread could be a little thinner, maybe.”
“I think it’s perfect.”
“You think everything is perfect because you were about to eat a regular sandwich standing over the sink.”
“That’s... probably fair.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, eating the PB&J sushi. Through the window, I can see the sun starting to set, casting orange light across the backyard. It’s peaceful. Easy. Like maybe this arrangement isn’t completely insane after all.
Kiera finishes chewing and wipes her hands on her jeans. “So, I know you’re editing your footage, but what exactly are you working on?”
I swallow the last bite of my peanut butter sushi roll and lean back in my chair. “It’s a documentary. About small coastal communities and the people who’ve lived in them their whole lives.”
