But somehow we did.
Chase’s kitchen was as architecturally impressive as his office. Gleaming stainless-steel appliances reflected the recessed lighting, set against beautiful white quartz countertops veined with subtle gray. The state-of-the-art efficiency of it all, the sheerflawlessness, should have felt intimidating.This whole house was like that—the kind of meticulous, award-winning restoration people talked about, the one featured inKeys Stylelast spring. Everyone knew ChaseAshworth didn’t just design beautiful spaces. Helivedin one. And I had no doubt the place was worth a small fortune.It should have made me feel hopelessly out of place, a splash of chaotic color in his exactly curated world. But strangely, standing here with bags of cheese and bread, I didn’t feel like an intruder. That was true of all his designs I’d seen. He made spaces that were modern and functional yet still retained the essence of what they were meant to be.
Maybe it was the man, not just the house.
He came in from the back deck as I unpacked the groceries. “Look at that. You found the fancy stuff.”
“It wasn’t easy.” I held up the small, imported package. “I think the people at Island Market have started taking bets on my buying habits.”
Chase laughed. “If you’re buying gruyère now, they’ll be thinking you’re moving up in the world.”
“Maybe I am.” I took out a loaf of something called pain de campagne, wrapped in a paper bag. “This was the most ostentatious bread I could find. Knock yourself out.”
“Nice job.” He moved closer and brushed a kiss over my lips. “Finn keeping Helen on her toes?”
Lips tingling, I lined up my sourdough and block of aged cheddar. “They get along famously, and both look forward to his sleepovers there.”
He eyed the spread on the counter. “You’ve got this all planned out, don’t you?”
“I like a competitive edge. Don’t want to give you too much of a head start.”
Chase opened his fridge and removed a carton of butter. “What makes you think I need it?”
“Let’s see,” I said. “Artisan bread? Fancy imported cheese? From your shopping list, I’m betting you’ve got a game plan.”
“I do. What do you call that?” He nodded toward my plain, grocery-store sourdough.
“A classic. Only thing left to figure out is how badly I’m going to beat you.”
“Keep dreaming, Coleridge.”
He turned on two burners, and I let the smell of melting butter and browning bread do the talking for me. My whole body was in anticipation mode, half-focused on the food, half-focused on him. We cooked side by side, navigating the commercial cooktop like a kitchen choreography—bumping shoulders, reaching past each other, easy and fluid. Chase measured precisely, using his recipes like a road map to the immaculate sandwich. I went by taste, sneaking bites of cheese and pretending not to notice him watching.
“Shouldn’t you have bought more of this?” I popped a chunk of gruyère in my mouth. “For practice?”
“You’re a sore loser, huh?”
“I meant for you.” I pretended to pout. “Not me.”
He shifted closer. “Nice try.”
His closeness, his calm, the fact that he wasn’t nervous about being this domestic, made it hard to think straight. We laughed. We cooked. We teased each other until the kitchen smelled like golden perfection.
“Do we need to find a judge?” I held my plate and admitted, if only to myself, that his stove was a wonder of the world. “Or do we just admit you lost right now?”
Chase raised an eyebrow, nodding toward the back deck. “Let’s settle this. Before you change your story.”
We stepped outside, and it was like entering another world. The salty air, the distant sounds of the ocean, the way his dark yard gave way to stars. The patio was softly lit, a stark contrast to the bright precision of the kitchen. Afew simple string lights hung in long lines, giving the entire space a private, secluded feel.
“Jasmine?” I said, breathing deeply. “I thought you weren’t into the whole floral thing.”
“I make exceptions.” Chase lowered himself onto the deck seating instead of the glass table, making the outdoor couch look smaller. More intimate. “Ready to eat?”
We tasted each other’s sandwiches like we were considering life-or-death decisions, but neither of us had the guts to call the winner. I faked a grimace. He took a second bite of mine, just to make sure it was a fluke. In the end, we declared a tie.
“Next time,” he said, “we’ll let Finn decide.”
“That’s not fair. He’d pick you just because you put more than one kind of cheese on it.”
