"We're making dinner," I announce, taking her hand and leading her toward the living room where she can see the kitchen chaos unfold. "Real dinner. Just three alphas trying to prove they know how to take care of an omega."
Sharon laughs, and it's the kind of laugh that makes you want to hear it again.
"That sounds ambitious," she says. "And potentially dangerous."
"Only if something catches fire," Cassian says confidently from the kitchen.
Famous last words.
The thing is, I know how to cook. Mom taught me when I was a kid because I was the only one who showed any interest. Pine can cook okay when he focuses and doesn't get distracted by existential thoughts. Cassian can barely boil water without creating some kind of disaster that requires the fire department.
But the three of us together in a kitchen with an omega we're all falling for? That's a recipe for chaos.
"What are we making?" Sharon asks, perching herself on one of the bar stools that line the kitchen counter. She's got this expression on her face that suggests she knows exactly what's about to happen.
"Roasted chicken with vegetables and rice," Pine says, pulling ingredients out of the fridge with confidence. "Relatively foolproof."
"Not when we're involved," I mutter, tying an apron around my waist. The apron has a picture of a bear on it and says "Some Beers Are Better Than Others." Objectively hilarious and completely inappropriate. But I don't care because making Sharon smile is worth looking stupid.
"Okay, so here's the plan," Cassian says, rolling up his sleeves. "Jett, you handle the chicken because you actually know what you're doing, and I don't want to give everyone salmonella. Pine, you take the rice and vegetables because you're good at chopping things without losing a finger. I'll manage the oven temperature and make sure nothing burns."
"That's the plan?" I repeat, looking up from where I'm examining the chicken. "Your entire job is to babysit the oven?"
"Exactly," Cassian says.
Pine starts chopping vegetables with the kind of focus he usually reserves for tattoo designs.
"You're not good at that," I say to Cassian. "Last time you managed the stove top and oven, we ended up ordering takeout. The best role for you in the kitchen is setting the table."
Sharon is doing that thing where she's trying very hard not to laugh. Her scent spikes with her effort to contain her amusement. I find that I want to keep making her smile. I want to be the one who makes her laugh until her eyes water.
Jesus, I'm getting soft. But in the best possible way.
"Alright, let's do this," I say, pulling out the chicken and inspecting it. "Sharon, no offense, but you should probably stay far away from the stove. We're trying to protect you. From the stove. And the oven. And possibly the sink."
"I wasn't planning on getting involved," she says sweetly, tucking her legs underneath her on the bar stool. "I'm actually very interested in watching this trainwreck unfold in real time. Front row seats to a disaster."
"Ye of little faith," Pine says, already getting rice all over the counter because apparently, he's opened the bag wrong and is now standing there holding it like it's a live grenade.
Sharon sips the wine I've already poured for her because clearly, she's going to need something to help her cope with what she's about to witness.
I start seasoning the chicken when I notice the mess. "Pine, how did you manage to get rice everywhere? The bag is literally a sealed container."
"I may have gotten overexcited," Pine admits, looking at the explosion of rice that's now covering the counter, the floor, and somehow his hair. "I just wanted to get it into the pot quickly and efficiently."
"By destroying it?"
"Yes," Pine says, raising an eyebrow like I'm going to challenge him.
I hand Sharon another glass of wine because watching us is clearly going to require a serious coping mechanism. Then I get to work on the chicken. Cooking chicken is actually pretty straightforward if you know what you're doing. You pat the chicken dry, coat with either heavily seasoned softened butter or oil and seasonings, stuff the chicken with lemon, onion, herbs, lay the chicken in a roasting rack that is sitting on top of a tray of chopped potatoes, onions, and carrots, and then bake it til it hits 165 internal temp. Baste it every 30 minutes throughout cooking. Simple. Uncomplicated.
But with Cassian hovering over the oven like it's going to suddenly sprout wings and fly away, and Pine creating what appears to be a rice explosion in the background, and Sharon watching everything with the expression of someone watching a reality TV show, it becomes complicated.
"Cassian, step away from the oven," I say after fifteen minutes of watching him stare at it like he's hypnotized. "You're going to fog up the glass."
"But you said someone needs to babysit it," he protests.
"Babysitting doesn't mean pressing your entire face against the glass," I say. "That's weird."
