The Flavor of Us (Beta Accepted)

9. CARLEEN

Chapter nine

CARLEEN

The soft morning light filters through the curtains, casting gentle shadows across the bedroom floor. I stretch my arms overhead, the joints in my back crackling in protest. My muscles are sore in that good way—like I actually slept, like my body finally let go of the tension it’s been carrying for months.

And yeah, I know exactly why I slept so well. I glance over at the petite Beta in my arms, the faint scent of sweet melon lingering in the air, in the pillows, and now in my clothes. My Beta’s scent. My girl.

Goddess, that still feels so surreal to say.

She used to just be Ellie’s best friend and then at some point, things switched over. I’m not sure when but it doesn’t matter because Tati is now mine to protect and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Pushing to my feet, I turn to look at the nest still stuffed into the closet, Tati curled up in the middle. Her face twists up in frustration at my absence but she doesn’t wake up. Instead, she unconsciously pads around for something before pulling the pillow I slept on into her chest.

Goddess, everything about that is adorable. And her nest is cozy, colorful, chaotic—and tucked away like a secret. But that’s not gonna fly. Not in my house.

I glance around her room, trying to picture where we could set something bigger up. If she’s gonna have a nest, it’s gonna be somewhere she can actually breathe —not shoved into a corner like some dirty little secret. The corner by the window would work. Natural light, plenty of space. I nod to myself, already mentally planning how I’m going to rearrange the furniture.

I’ll admit, finding out about this little quirk of hers threw me off at first. Tati, with her sharp tongue and stubborn streak and neon highlights, nesting? It seemed almost… out of place. But then again, it doesn’t. Not when I really thought about it.

For weeks when we were first together, I’d seen the way her face lit up when she spotted something cute in a shop window. The way her eyes softened at the sight of bright colors, how she always gravitated toward softness—whether it was a stuffed animal while shopping for Ellie’s nursery or a pastel hoodie she was stealing from my closet.

She’s always been this way. I just didn’t see it before. Hell, I’m not even sure Ellie knows about this side of her. And that just goes to show how alike Tati and I are. We’ve both been hiding little pieces of ourselves, thinking the other wouldn’t understand.

But I do.

And now? Now I’m gonna make damn sure she knows there’s no need to hide anymore.

With that decision made, I head toward the kitchen, focusing on what to prepare for breakfast. I’m halfway through mentally designing an artisan spread—poached eggs, hand-twisted pastries, fresh fruit laid out like some overpriced Instagram brunch—when I freeze.

Tati.

Her voice echoes in my head from last night, that playful little edge she always gets when she’s challenging me. “Sometimes food doesn’t have to be a masterpiece, Alpha. Sometimes it can just be… easy. Or fun.”

I huff out a small laugh, shaking my head as I move toward the pantry. Alright, fine. We’ll keep it simple. But simple doesn’t mean half-assed, not in this kitchen.

I grab a carton of eggs from the fridge, setting them gently on the counter before pulling out the loaf of fresh sourdough I baked yesterday. It’s crusty and golden, the kind of bread that fills the whole house with that warm, yeasty smell when it’s in the oven.

Eggs and toast. Simple. Easy.

I fill a pot with water, set it on the stove, and wait for it to boil before gently dropping in the eggs. Meanwhile, I slice up the sourdough before tossing a few pieces into the toaster. The sound of the water bubbling fills the kitchen and I lean against the counter, letting my mind wander as I wait.

This moment feels perfect. Domestic. Calm. Like the kind of morning I used to dream about when I thought about having someone. Not just someone to share my bed, not just someone to come home to after a long day, but someone to build something with. For years, I gave up, thinking that there wouldn’t be someone who’d understand.

Even when I thought I had found the perfect person, everything fell apart when I couldn’t give them what they needed. I tried to help them understand that it wasn’t just a choice but my entire being. They called me a liar and in return, I stuffed down my emotions and pretended it didn’t hurt.

But Tati’s not just anyone. She’s everything and I can’t fucking wait until the moment I’m ready to give it all to her.

The toaster pops and I jump slightly, laughing at myself as I grab the warm slices and set them on plates. The eggs follow shortly after. A sprinkle of salt, a little cracked pepper—done. It’s not extravagant, but it’s right. It’s what she asked for.

My phone buzzes from the counter and I glance over, expecting a text from a client or maybe even a cheeky one from Tati if she’s woken up. But instead, Ellie’s name is lighting up the screen along with an incoming video call.

I fumble to dry my hands on a dish towel before swiping the screen. “Morning, little sister.”

Ellie’s face fills the screen and even through the pixelated connection, I can see the exhaustion in her eyes. But there’s something else too—something soft and warm and content. Aria is swaddled tightly against Ellie’s chest, only a tiny tuft of dark hair peeking out from the blanket. And curled into Ellie’s side like he’s made of glass and the couch is the only thing keeping him together is Savin.

“Oh, Ellie…” I murmur, my voice softer now. “You look like a momma bear guarding her cubs.”

Ellie laughs lightly, her voice still hoarse from exhaustion. “That’s exactly how it feels, Carlie. These little potatoes have me wrapped around their fingers already.”

I can’t stop the grin that pulls at my lips. “Aria’s already claimed you, huh? That little one is going to be glued to your hip for the rest of your life. Calling it now.”

Ellie tilts her head down slightly, her lips pressing against the top of Aria’s swaddled head. “Don’t remind me. Macon’s already joking about getting me one of those baby carrier backpacks for when she refuses to let me put her down.”

We both laugh at that and for a brief moment, it feels like the weight of the last few weeks lifts just a little. I tilt my head slightly, trying to catch a glimpse beyond Ellie. “Where are the boys? Don’t tell me you’ve figured out how to phase out the crying.”

Ellie snorts softly. “I wish. No, Macon took them out to the living room. They were in rare form this morning, and Savin hasn’t been able to sleep much these last few days, so Macon’s trying to give him a break.”

My eyes flick to Savin, curled up so tightly against Ellie that he looks more like a shadow than a person. His face is pale, almost too pale, and the faint circles under his eyes look bruised.

Ellie must catch the shift in my expression because she adjusts the phone slightly, her voice quieter now. “He’s okay, Carlie. Really. He’s just… tired. He was there for every single second the last few weeks before the babies came. Every false contraction, every doctor’s appointment, every late-night craving. He didn’t let me out of his sight and now it’s catching up to him.”

I nod slowly, my throat tightening as I watch Savin’s chest rise and fall steadily. “He needs time to recover, Ellie. He’s got to let his body catch up.”

She gives me a tired smile, her fingers brushing through Savin’s soft hair as he stirs slightly but doesn’t wake. “That’s why Macon took time off work. He wants Savin to have the space to rest without worrying about me or the babies. And honestly, Carleen… we’re okay. I mean, I’m tired and overwhelmed, and sometimes I cry because I can’t find a clean burp cloth, but we’re okay. ”

I let out a long breath, leaning against the counter as I watch her face. “You’ve got your hands full, Ellie, but you’ve never looked happier.”

Ellie’s face lights up and despite the exhaustion, despite the dark circles and the faint crack in her voice, she looks radiant . “I am happy, Carleen. Tired, yes. Stressed, absolutely. But happy.”

For a moment, we just look at each other—sisters across a screen, both carrying different weights on our shoulders but holding onto something solid and real. Then Ellie’s brows lift a faint smirk gracing her lips. “Alright, enough about me. What about you? You look…” She squints, her smirk widening. “You look soft , Carleen. Suspiciously soft. What’s going on over there?”

I let out a breathy laugh, shaking my head as I rub the back of my neck. “It’s… good, Ellie. Better than good. It feels like we didn’t even stop, you know? Like we picked up right where we left off and I’m so mad at myself for ever pushing her away. For ever thinking I wouldn’t be enough for her.”

Ellie smiles softly, nodding. “You two always made sense, Carlie. Even when you tried to convince yourself otherwise.”

We say our goodbyes shortly after, Ellie shifting Aria as Savin sighs softly in his sleep. When the call ends, I stand there for a moment, my phone still in my hand, the weight of everything settling deep in my chest. Before I can put my phone down, an email notification pops up on the screen.

Culinova Corp Event Management – Inquiry

I blink, my brows furrowing as I tap the notification open.

“Dear Ms. Monroe, We are hosting a series of exclusive fall events for high-profile clients this upcoming season and would love to discuss catering partnerships with Eclectic Catering. Your work has come highly recommended, and we believe your expertise would be a perfect match for our upcoming events. To ensure synergy, we’re inviting selected chefs to submit a one-week trial menu before final contracts are signed.”

Culinova. Holy shit.

They’re massive—luxury events, celebrity galas, exclusive yacht parties. This could change everything for my small ass company. And a trial week? That’s bold. And honestly? Kind of brilliant. It’s not just about making food—it’s about proving I can handle them. Their clients, their vision, their expectations. And let’s be real—Culinova’s expectations are sky-high.

My phone buzzes in my hand, the name on the screen lighting up: Culinova – R. Alexander .

My eyebrows shoot up. They sure don’t waste any time. I swipe to answer, clearing my throat to put on my customer service voice. It’s been a few months since I’ve had a full catering job and while I don’t need the money, it would give me something to do. “This is Carleen Monroe.”

A deep, smooth voice comes through the line. Confident. Polished. Absolutely Alpha.

“Ms. Monroe, this is Robert Alexander, CEO of Culinova Events. Thank you for taking my call.”

“Mr. Alexander, the pleasure’s mine. I just received your email.”

“I assumed as much.” There’s a faint chuckle on the other end, but it’s brief. “I’m reaching out directly because we have… a situation.”

My brows knit together and I shift my weight, crossing one arm over my chest. “What kind of situation?” I try not to let the excitement or desperation show through my voice but emailing and calling at six am means that it’s not just a situation. It’s more of an emergency.

“One of our previously confirmed chefs backed out. Personal reasons, they said, though I suspect it’s more about nerves. Our fall event isn’t just a party, Ms. Monroe—it’s an experience. We can’t afford missteps.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “I understand. And you need someone who can step in, last minute, and deliver without a hitch.”

“Exactly.” His voice sharpens, the authority in it impossible to miss. “Your name was referred to me by someone I trust. I took a look at your portfolio, your reviews, your work—and let me be clear, Ms. Monroe, we don’t usually extend offers to chefs outside our inner circle. But… you impressed me.”

I exhale slowly, my chest tightening with a mix of nerves and excitement. Impressing the head of Culinova is no small feat. They’re on the face of every culinary magazine, showing off their competitions and events in a way that I’ll never reach on my own. “Thank you, Mr. Alexander. I’d be honored to work with Culinova.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he replies. “I’m sending two of my best to assist you—Ryder and Ashton St. James. They’ll be working with you on logistics, prep, and quality control during your trial week. They’re efficient, professional, and sharp as knives. You’ll be in good hands.”

Ryder and Ashton St. James. The names ring faint bells—well-known chefs and event coordinators in their own right. Alphas, from what I remember. And if they’re part of Culinova’s top team, they’re damn good at what they do.

“I look forward to meeting them,” I say, my voice steady despite the way my mind is already spinning with prep ideas and menu drafts. Only a week to prepare the biggest menu of my entire career. Fuck, I need to go shopping for ingredients.

“We have your address down as 356 Hedon Lane, Apt 32, correct?” I manage a yes but it’s almost as if my response isn’t important. “They’re on their way, then. I hope everything works out, Ms. Monroe.”

The second I hang up the phone with Robert, I realize two very important things:

One—this could be the biggest break of my career. Two—I might’ve just signed my death warrant.

“They’re on their way,” I mutter to myself, staring down at the now-ominous black screen of my phone.

They’re on their way.

As in Ryder and Ashton St. James —Culinova’s golden boys, the Alphas who could probably turn water into wine and raw dough into a Michelin-starred dish.

And they have my home address .

My apartment .

The two-bedroom apartment where my Beta is still asleep in a nest tucked into a closet and where my fridge is stocked with leftover sourdough and eggs. Well, there's other items as well but not nearly on the level of motherfucking Culinova's golden boys. I glance at the clock above the stove. 7:06 a.m.

The St. James are coming here, now .

“Shit. Shit. Shit. ”

My brain goes into overdrive and I’m already moving before I realize what I’m doing. I shove the plates of breakfast off to the side, rushing toward my room to grab clean clothes and a towel. I can’t meet two of the most influential Alphas in the culinary world wearing sweatpants and yesterday’s eyeliner.

I slam the bathroom door shut, lean against it for half a second to catch my breath, and then turn on the shower. The water is ice cold because of course it is. “Goddess, give me strength.”

I don’t think I’ve ever taken a faster shower in my life. My hair is barely rinsed and I’m still scrubbing shampoo out of my ear as I wrap a towel around me and rush back into my room. I pull on black tailored pants and a crisp white button-up, rolling up the sleeves to my elbows. Professional, clean, sharp.

I pause at my reflection, my face still flushed, my hair damp and curling slightly against my forehead. It’ll have to do. And now it’s time to wake up my sweet Beta so she’s not thrown off when the two most important people of my career show up in my kitchen.

I’m definitely going to die today.