The Flavor of Us (Beta Accepted)

12. CARLEEN

Chapter twelve

CARLEEN

The faint clink of utensils against metal and the low murmur of voices weave through the air as I step back into the space I know better than the back of my hand. There’s groceries sitting on my counter–most likely from their car because I definitely didn’t have whatever they're currently working with. Ryder is at the counter, a large mixing bowl cradled in one arm while he whisks something with slow, deliberate precision. His sharp blue eyes flicker up the second I cross the threshold, locking onto me with the kind of intensity that makes my stomach flip.

He sees me. Not just looks at me— sees me.

It’s unnerving, how quickly he seems to understand the energy in the room, how easily he adjusts to it. Like he’s absorbing every detail—where I’m standing, how I’m breathing, what kind of mood I’m in—before making his next move.

Ashton, on the other hand, is half-perched on the edge of the counter, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his bronze skin glowing under the soft kitchen lights. He’s piping something into tiny chocolate shells with a grin stretched across his face, his tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth as he works.

“Back so soon, Chef?” Ashton asks without looking up, but there’s a knowing edge to his voice like he can feel me watching him.

I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised. “Would you rather I leave you two unsupervised?”

Ryder’s lips twitch slightly—almost a smile—but he doesn’t stop whisking. Ashton, though? Oh, Ashton smirks . “I mean… depends on how much you trust us, darling.”

His voice is warm, low, and playful, but it sends a spark of something sharp through me. I roll my eyes, fighting down the flush threatening to creep up my neck. Tati isn’t the only one flustered with these men in my kitchen.

“Darling,” I repeat flatly, pushing off the doorframe and striding further into the kitchen. “If you set one thing on fire in here, I’ll have your head.”

Ashton grins wider, but Ryder clears his throat softly, cutting through whatever nonsense Ashton is about to fire back with.

“We’re working on a dessert concept for the trial menu,” Ryder says evenly. “Ashton insisted it would be the centerpiece.”

Ashton gestures grandly to the chocolate shells he’s been filling, his brown eyes flicking up to meet mine. “ Insisted is a strong word, Chef Monroe. I strongly suggested it would be a showstopper.”

I can’t stop the small laugh that escapes me as I move to the other side of the counter, surveying their work. The chocolate shells are intricate—fragile-looking, with delicate swirls of caramelized sugar draped over them like lace. Whatever’s inside them must be good because even without tasting it, the air is thick with the scent of rich chocolate, orange zest, and something… spiced .

“You better hope these taste as good as they smell,” I say, tapping one lightly with my finger.

“They will,” Ryder replies. “We don’t miss.”

His confidence hits me square in the chest, and for a brief moment, I let myself feel it . The way Ryder’s calm steadiness grounds me. The way Ashton’s playful energy keeps the air light, even when the stakes are high.

It feels like… balance .

I shake the thought away, turning toward the stove and pulling out the fresh ingredients I’d prepped earlier. There’s an entrée I’ve been working on—something Ashton swore would “win over the entire board.” It’s not that I don’t trust his instincts, but… No. That’s a lie. I do trust him. Both of them.

That’s what’s throwing me off.

I’m used to fighting for every inch of ground in this industry, used to Alphas undermining me, second-guessing me, talking over me. But Ryder and Ashton? They’re just… here . They’re following my lead, slipping into my kitchen like they’ve always belonged. It’s disarming.

I focus on chopping herbs, the rhythmic thud, thud, thud of the knife against the cutting board grounding me. Unfortunately, the solace I usually find in my kitchen is nowhere to be found. Their presence and heavy scents are distracting and knowing that I’m just as bothered as Tati is, is messing with my head.

The knife slips.

It’s barely a flicker of movement, but the sharp edge skims past my knuckle, and I flinch, jerking my hand back just in time to avoid drawing blood. I’ve never made such a rookie mistake before, my focus anywhere but in the kitchen where it should be.

Before I can even process what happened, Ryder is at my side. He crosses the kitchen in two steps, his large hand wrapping around my wrist while his other plucks the knife from my trembling fingers. “Sit.” His voice is low, steady, and carries an authority that settles deep in my chest. I freeze, my lips parting slightly as I stare up at him. “Sit,” he commands again, his blue eyes locking onto mine with a sharpness that leaves no room for argument.

But I’m Carleen Monroe. I don’t get told what to do in my own kitchen. My spine straightens, and my mouth opens to protest, but Ryder tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable .

“You don’t need to prove yourself here, Carleen.”

The words hit me harder than I expect them to.

You don’t need to prove yourself.

Not in my kitchen. Not in my space. Not to them.

My shoulders slump slightly, the weight of his words pressing into me, and without realizing it, I’m lowering myself onto one of the stools by the island. Ryder places the knife safely on the counter, his sharp gaze never leaving mine as he takes a small step back, arms crossing over his chest.

The tension in the room is palpable. Ashton, who’s been buzzing with energy and sharp wit, doesn’t say a word. He’s watching Ryder carefully, his arms still folded, a flicker of something serious in his warm brown eyes. My chest rises and falls too fast, my breathing shallow as I try to find my footing again. I try to sigh—to exhale all this tension , all this heat—but it comes out… well, it comes out sounding far more like a moan than I intended.

Ashton’s lips part slightly, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as his eyes flicker to me, but—for once—he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t crack a joke.

He just looks to Ryder.

It’s a silent exchange, something unspoken passing between them. Ryder steps closer, crouching down in front of me so that his sharp blue eyes are level with mine.

“We need to have a conversation,” he says softly. “Because whatever this is, we all feel it. And I don’t think we can keep ignoring it.”

I swallow thickly, my throat suddenly dry. “I know.”

The words come out quiet, almost a whisper, but Ryder hears them. His gaze softens just a fraction, and for a moment, it feels like the world narrows to just the two of us.

“I—” I start, my voice faltering as I try to find the right words. How do I even begin to explain what’s been swirling inside me since they walked into this kitchen?

But before I can speak, there’s a sound—soft footsteps, the faint creak of a door opening. Tati’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, her hazel eyes wide, her lips slightly parted, and her scent thickens in the air almost immediately.

For a second, none of us move.

She’s frozen in place, her gaze darting between me, Ryder crouched in front of me, and Ashton leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. Ashton perks up immediately, his shoulders straightening, his brown eyes brightening but he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t step forward. And I realize—it’s Ryder. Ryder hasn’t given him permission to move. The tension stretches tight like a wire between us and Tati looks like she might bolt. Ryder clears his throat softly, breaking the silence as his gaze flickers to me briefly before landing on Tati. “Why don’t we move this conversation to the living room?” he suggests.

He pats my knee lightly before standing, his large frame unfolding with a grace that shouldn’t belong to someone that size. Ashton pushes off the counter as he follows Ryder out of the kitchen without a word. Tati stays in the doorway, still frozen, her hazel eyes wide as they flick between me and the two retreating Alphas.

I move to the living room and drop into the armchair, sinking into the worn cushions, trying to steady the pounding in my chest. It’s the same chair Tati had curled up in earlier, and now she’s standing there, looking hesitant, her gaze flicking between me and the couch where Ryder and Ashton are settling in.

“Tati,” I say softly, patting my thigh. “Come here, sunshine.”

Her cheeks flush instantly, her gaze darting to Ashton, whose lips curl with a hint of desire. His eyes darken slightly, a flicker of lust dancing there, and Ryder—well, Ryder looks faintly amused, his sharp blue gaze sweeping over the scene like he’s cataloging every detail.

Tati doesn’t hesitate long. She steps forward and crawls delicately into my lap, curling into me like she belongs there. I wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her closer until her head tucks neatly under my chin. Her scent drifts up, mixing with the sharp citrus and warm bourbon still clinging faintly to me from earlier.

Ashton shifts slightly on the couch, his gaze locked on us, his lips parting slightly as his tongue swipes along his bottom lip. The man looks starved. Ryder, seated on the other end of the lounge, smirks faintly, his broad shoulders relaxed, one arm draped casually along the back of the couch. His icy gaze flickers between Ashton and me then lands on Tati.

“We’re all feeling it,” Ryder begins. “This… pull. The way our scents are reacting to each other. It’s undeniable.”

Tati’s shoulders stiffen slightly under my arm and I press a soft kiss to the top of her head, hoping to settle her. My instincts are drawing me to unleash my purr but I’m not sure what that would start in this situation.

Ryder’s gaze doesn’t waver as he continues. “None of us planned this. Hell, I don’t think any of us expected this. But here we are.”

No one argues. No one even tries .

Because he’s right.

Whatever this is—it’s deep and primal and real .

But it’s also fast. Too fast. And for someone like me—someone who’s always had to plan, to calculate, to control —it’s terrifying . I hold Tati a little tighter, my thumb rubbing slow circles against her hip.

“I know it’s sudden,” Ryder continues, his eyes softening slightly. “And I know it’s a lot. So maybe… we take it slow. Give it time. A week, let’s say—the same length as the Culinova trial. We’ll see how this feels, how it fits.”

“I think that’s fair,” I muse, breaking the silence. “A week. We’ll see where it goes from there.”

Tati shifts slightly in my lap, her hands folding nervously in her lap as her gaze flickers between Ryder, Ashton, and me. She looks flustered. Overwhelmed. Her cheeks are bright pink and her lips are parted slightly like she wants to say something but doesn’t know how . I tilt her chin up gently with two fingers, brushing my thumb over the curve of her cheek.

“You okay, sunshine?” I murmur.

She nods quickly, biting her bottom lip. “Y-Yeah. I’m okay. Just… a lot. I… I should get on those errands,” she blurts out, her voice tight.

Ashton leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, and his warm brown eyes lock onto her. “Can I come with you?” he asks, his voice smooth and devastatingly charming. He’s going to be trouble, I already know it.

Tati’s eyes go wide, her cheeks flushing to an even deeper shade of pink as her scent grows thicker in the room. “If you’d like? It’s going to be boring.”

Ashton’s grin widens and Ryder lets out a soft sigh from across the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s already anticipating whatever chaos Ashton is about to cause. Before anyone can say anything else, Tati practically scrambles out of my lap, nearly tripping over her own feet as she bolts toward the door.

Ashton follows at a much more leisurely pace, his grin sharp and wicked as he tosses a wink in my direction. “Don’t wait up, Chef.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me and Ryder alone in the now too-quiet living room. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Then Ryder clears his throat softly, his blue eyes locking onto mine.

“You okay with this?” he asks carefully.

I nod, exhaling a slow breath. “Yeah. I think so.”

But even as I sit there and try to convince myself that a week is enough, I can’t shake the feeling in my chest—the sharp, possessive tug that tells me this isn’t just casual.

This is everything.