Page 71 of Rise
Hazel turned and caught sight of him standing in the living room, framed by fading evening light, shoulders still dusted faintly with sawdust. One of his hands lifted, rubbing absently at the back of his neck.
She smiled, her expression soft. “Well, that’s good. I wouldn’t want you to eat something that smelled terrible.”
He huffed, rocking back on his heels, and looked down at the floor. “You didn’t have to cook for me, you know. I didn’t come here expecting that.”
“I know,” she said, turning back to the stove. “But you did come here, just to fix my porch… after you’ve already done so much for me already. Seriously?” She glanced over her shoulder, shooting him a look threaded through with amusement. “It’s the least I could do. Now sit.”
He hesitated, then obeyed, sliding into one of the old wooden dining chairs like he’d done it a hundred times. Hazel brought the pan over and began plating, the rich red of the sauce catching in the low light, the cheese melted golden and bubbling.
“I haven’t made this in a while,” she said, mostly to fill the quiet. It took a lot of focus just to keep her eyes on her movements, avoiding the line of his gaze. “It was actually one of the first dishes I learned in culinary school. We were supposed to master ‘the basics’ before we could move on to anything else.”
“It’s not basic, Hazel,” Beck said, accepting the plate she handed him with both hands. “It looks like something out of a magazine.”
Hazel rolled her eyes, but a small smile pulled at her mouth, her cheeks flushing warm from his compliment. “You’re just saying that because you’re hungry.”
He lifted a shoulder and leaned back in his seat, his gaze following her as she settled into the chair across from him. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
Hazel rolled her eyes, the motion softened by the quiet curve of her mouth, and gestured for him to take a bite. She felt her teeth catch against her bottom lip, holding it there as he finally cut into the chicken, the tines of his fork clicking faintly against the plate. He didn’t rush it— of course he didn’t— just took his time, spearing a piece and dragging it through the sauce before bringing it to his mouth. She watched, breath caught high in her chest, as his expression shifted almost imperceptibly, brows lifting just enough to betray surprise, or maybe pleasure.
“This is…” he paused, shaking his head once as if the right word refused to line up for him. “It’s incredible.” His voice carried a kind of quiet certainty, the same tone he used when telling her a storm was coming in or that she couldn’t stay in the house, not with the porch half-broken and unsteady. He set the fork down, leaning back with a faint exhale. “I shouldn’t get too used to eating like this.”
Hazel’s smile unfurled before she could stop it, slow and warm, her pulse stumbling at the weight of his gaze locked on hers. “What’s the harm in getting used to it?” she asked, the words light but laced with something else— something that made her fingers tighten around the body of her water glass. “I like cooking for people.”
The space between them felt smaller for a moment, the air thicker, as if the walls themselves had leaned in to listen. Beck’s eyes stayed locked on Hazel’s for a moment in the silence, a sharp glimmer of something unspoken hidden in their dark depths.
They ate for a few minutes in silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward so much as peaceful— full of clinking forks, the occasional low hum of approval. Then Beck spoke again, voice thoughtful.
“My grandmother used to make this. Or… something close to it. When I was a kid.”
Hazel looked up, head tilting to one side. “Yeah?”
He nodded, chewing, his eyes distant like he was sifting through memories. “My mom’s mom. We’d go over on Sundays sometimes and the whole house would smell like garlic.”
“Are you Italian, then?”
“Part,” he said, setting his fork down. He reached for his glass and took a long drink of water, Hazel’s eyes unable to stray from the way his throat bobbed with the movement. Her heart rapped incessantly against her temples, warmth pooling low in her stomach. “But mostly Greek. My dad’s side of the family’s from this little island off the coast— still have some cousins there, I think. We used to visit when I was really young.”
Hazel leaned forward, her curiosity momentarily outweighing every other emotion that shifted through her, still settling. “That sounds amazing. I’ve never been anywhere, really. Not outside the east coast, anyway.”
Beck tilted his head, his brow furrowed. “No travel? Not even a vacation?”
She shook her head. “Not unless you count the week I spent in Halifax for a pastry convention once. Which I don’t.”
He smiled, just a little. “There’s a whole other world out there, Hazel. You should see it.”
And just like that, the air shifted— only slightly, but enough. Hazel’s gaze dropped to her plate. Her shoulders tensed, fingers tightening on the fork.
Beck noticed. She didn’t have to say a word, he simply saw the way her mouth pressed flat, the flicker of something heavy passing behind her eyes.
“But you’re young,” he added, voice gentle. “You’ve got plenty of time.”
Hazel gave a short, breathy laugh, not quite bitter, but close. “I don’t know,” she said. “Running the bakery makes me feel a littlelessyoung.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Beck leaned back, his chair creaking against the movement. His gaze didn’twaver from hers.
“You ever think about getting some help there?” he asked, tone casual but deliberate. “Seems like you’re doing too much for one person.”
Hazel groaned and dropped her forehead into one hand. “You’re not the first person to tell me that today.”
