Page 79 of Christmas With The Kings
He muttered something dark and dramatic under his breath in French—but it was far better than his shooing me out, like he normally did.
Progress.
Of course, would he really attempt it with my beloved Kings in attendance? Not to mention, Mama King had my back. She was the one who suggested we use her kitchen in the first place.
“I do not know why this fiasco had to happen here,” he huffed, flinging his towel over his shoulder. “What is wrong withyourkitchen?”
Sophia patted his arm with all the serenity of a woman used to his theatrics. “Hush, now. Let the boys play. It’s Christmas.”
Across the island, Mrs. Patterson snorted from behind her mountain of mixing bowls. “Perhaps if you’d taken them under your wing instead of kicking them out every time they were hungry, they would’ve learned a thing or two. Like how to clean as they go.”
Chef’s face went scarlet, his jaw locking. “Of all the assistants I’ve had in my career, toi, femme, tu es une catastrophe culinaire avec des opinions dangereuses!”You, woman, are a culinary disaster with dangerous opinions!
Mrs. Patterson’s eyes glittered like she’d been waiting for this moment for years. She adjusted her apron and fired back smoothly, “Et pourtant, votre employeur préfère mes tartes.”And yet, youremployer prefers my pies.
A loud chuckle went up from the corner of the room—courtesy of Nik, who looked utterly delighted. “Oof, Bonfils, that’s rough,” he said, elbowing Alek. “She pulled the employer card. He’s not coming back from that one.”
Chef threw his hands in the air. “Sacrebleu! The woman burns garlic and calls it rustic!”
Mrs. P wagged her spoon at him. “And yet, your ‘rustic’ soufflé deflated faster than your ego last Easter, I was told!”
Sophia’s laughter filled the kitchen. Her shoulders shook, and her eyes crinkled. I leaned in toward her conspiratorially. “I don’t know Mama King, this feels a lot like foreplay. The Reaper and I use to argue like this too. And look at us now.”
Isabella, who was sitting nearby on a counter, nearly choked on her tea. “Oh for the love of—only you would romanticize verbal sparring,” she sputtered between coughs.
“Well, it’s true,” I said with a grin, shrugging one shoulder. “Sometimes chemistry sounds like combat.”
Before she could retort, the sound of boots and laughter echoed from the hallway. A second later, Marcel, Sebastian, and Pasha appeared in the doorway.
“The man with the world-renowned palate has arrived to judge this competition,” Bash announced grandly, clapping his hands.
“You?” Izzy huffed, eyebrows arching high. “Please. We all know you’ll throw your vote behind the Reaper even if his cookies taste like dog shi—”
“Language, young lady.” A chorus of manly voices rose, making Isabella nearly blow her top.
Bash leaned against the counter with a smirk. “Ride or die, Sissy. Ride or die,” he said. “Tell me you wouldn’t do the same for your new bestie?”
Heat climbed up Isabella’s neck immediately, and I melted under the moniker. She truly was my new bestie and one I loved more than life.
“You’ve become quite attached at the hip,” he teased.
“Are you complaining?” she shot. “Because I can move back home with Mama and Papa.”
I nearly dropped my mug, spinning toward her so fast I sloshed hot chocolate down my sleeve.
“What? You can’t,” I exclaimed, half scandalized, half ready to stage an intervention.
Isabella grinned like the menace she was. “It was a hell of a lot more peaceful there. You could come move in with me. Mama would love it, isn’t that right Sophia?”
Sophia winked at Isabella. A deep growl rolled from Ivan’s chest before I could even answer. He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, gaze locked on Isabella.
“She’s not moving anywhere, malen’kiy krolik,” he said, voice low and dangerous enough to make Isabella’s chin lift in defiance.
“Is that a challenge?” She shot back, eyes narrowing in that way that promised trouble. “And I don’t speakRussianso whatever you called me—”
“He called you little bunny. Seems fitting with the way your nose is twitching right now,” Pasha spoke up. He had that sweet, crooked grin of his plastered on his face. “Although, I’d say you’re more a printsessa. Need help with that translation?”
His voice was teasing, but his eyes flicked to mine for a fraction of a second.
