Page 24 of Pack Frenzy
“Learned to,” she says. “Cheaper than takeout.”
“Cheaper than bad takeout,” I correct. “Bad takeout charges you twice, once in the wallet and later in the john.”
That wins a real smile. Not big. It hits anyway.
We work for a minute in companionable silence, broken by the thock of the knife through onion and the carrots. I take out the Insta Pot and add beef stock. Next, I grab a couple of garlic cloves, smash them, peel them, and mince them.
“Did you build the doors here?” she asks after a beat.
“Most of them.”
“The hinges, too. The… fit.”
“House shifts as it settles,” I say. “You make allowances.”
She hums, a small sound, thoughtful. “You always fix things?”
“When they break.”
“And when they don’t?”
“Preventative maintenance.”
“On people, too?”
“People aren’t cabinets,” I say. It comes out a little flat. “They’re worse.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, quick as a bird. There’s a flash of wry there. “That’s comforting.”
“Didn’t say I wouldn’t try,” I answer, and only realize how much I mean it once it’s already out.
Her hazel eyes sting from the onions now. Mine too, a little. She blinks fast and laughs, half-coughing. I push the fan button above the stove to pull the air, then slide a glass of water toward her. Our knuckles graze again.
“Thanks,” she says, quietly. The word lands differently this time…less like a test, more like she’s trying it on to see if it fits in this kitchen.
The back door opens. Eli’s scent hits first—bergamot and clean linen, gentle pressure smoothing down hackles nobody can see.
With one glance, he takes in the scene: the robe, my bare shoulders, the cutting board crowded with onions, and hismouth curves like a man who just walked into a story he didn’t expect but likes better than the one he planned.
“Ah,” he says lightly. “Two chefs. My lucky day.”
Eli washes his hands. “Jess, do you want to help me boss Cass around about seasoning?”
“I don’t—” she starts, then looks at me, then back at Eli. “Um…I’d rather observe. Maybe be an official taste tester when the food’s done.”
“Awesome,” Eli says, soft approval. “We’re making comfort food? Roast.”
“Yes, I figured simple for the first meal, and I didn’t know how long you were going to be with Rowan,” I mutter, reaching for the salt.
“Worth the price,” Eli returns smoothly, bumping my hip with his as he reaches around me for the pepper mill. “Move, menace.”
Jess’s laugh is startled and bright. My shoulders loosen by degrees; I didn’t notice they were tight.
Eli brushes past her with a folded dish towel, and the question in his eyes isn’t for me. “First question, celery or celery salt?”
“What do you usually do?”
“Whatever won’t kill you,” Eli says with a grin, but he’s watching me, not her. Waiting.
