Page 33 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

When she finally left, it was with a light touch to his arm and ayou must call me Charlenethat made something sharp twist in my gut.

The door hadn’t even clicked shut behind her before I turned to him.

“My office,” I snapped. “Now.”

His brow arched—mock innocence. “Of course, boss.”

He followed me upstairs in silence, the click of my heels like gunfire against the concrete floor. I could feel him behind me, tall, broad, far too smug for someone who’d just hijacked a tasting I’d spent days planning.

As soon as we stepped inside, I shut the door with more force than necessary and turned to face him.

“You don’t speak over me in front of a client,” I said, voice low, trembling with restraint. “You don’tintervene, and you sureas hell don’t pitch a custom menu without so much as consulting me first.”

Sebastian leaned a shoulder against the door, arms crossed, utterly unfazed. “You were losing her.”

My nails dug into my palms. “That is not the point.”

He tilted his head. “So, what is the point? That you’d rather crash and burn in front of Charlene Whitmore than let me speak up with a dish I knew would win her?”

“It’s about control!” I hissed before I could stop myself. “It’s about respect. It’smyname on that door, Sebastian. My company. My kitchen. You don’t get to take the reins just because you had one good idea and a stupid smile that makes seventy-year-old power women swoon.”

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, jaw tight now. “You think I wanted to step in? I watched her tear your menu apart like it was a supermarket flyer. I didn’t do it for the spotlight, Ada—I did it to help. Maybe next time, try saying thank you.”

I took a breath, but it got caught somewhere between my pride and the seething heat in my blood. Gods, I wanted to slap him again. Or kiss him. Possibly both.

“Next time,” I said, my voice dangerously low, “if you want to help, wait to be asked.”

He stared at me, jaw ticking, blue eyes bright with challenge.

“Fine,” he said, voice clipped. “Next time, I’ll let your ego tank the whole deal.”

I sat in my chair, spine ramrod straight, arms crossed so tightly it felt like my bones might splinter. The clipboard lay abandoned on my desk, the only evidence of the control I used to have over this day.

Across the office, Sebastian stood with infuriating ease, like he hadn’t just walked into my kitchen and taken the air right out of it.

He watched me for a moment, silent, then finally said,“What?”

I didn’t look at him.

Because the truth, the part I refused to say aloud, was that I wasn’t great with desserts. Not really.

Not in theCharlene-Whitmore-demands-Michelin-star-plated-perfectionkind of way.

I could plate an elegant panna cotta, whip a passable mousse, but that dark chocolate cylinder with smoked hazelnut praline and a quenelle of ice cream?

That was beyond me.

Not because I couldn’t learn, but because it wasn’t my strong suit. It never had been. My skills lived in savory: bold sauces, perfectly timed proteins, flavor layering that made people moan into their forks.

But pastry? That required a different kind of discipline. The kind I’d never mastered.

So instead of admitting it, I scowled and muttered, “You don’t just throw something like that at a client.”

“I saved your ass.”

I shot him a look that could’ve set the blinds on fire. “Youunderminedme.”

He pushed off the door and came a few steps closer, voice sharper now. “Maybe if you’d spent less time clutching your clipboard and more time actually listening to what she was saying—”

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