Chapter 18
Now that Spencer’s hired Sarah, who’s working part time while she goes to school, the kitchen at the Dragonfly is running like a well-oiled machine.
The kitchen always runs on chaos on friends’ night. These nights I send her home and handle all the cooking myself. Although she did help me prep, which I’m grateful for because tonight we’re doing Mexican.
I slide the cast-iron pan of green-chili cornbread onto the top rack and shut the oven with my hip. On the back burner, rice toasts until it sounds like rain on a tin roof. I stir in garlic, tomatoes, and broth. A bay leaf. A curl of lime rind.
The enchilada sauce keeps a low, steady bubble while I pull poached chicken into neat shreds. Fast but gentle. Food tastes different when you respect it.
Out front, I can hear chairs scraping together under the dimmed lights.
Finn’s laugh carries, even before Spencer’s dry one-liner lands.
Mazie squeals, sounding like a cymbal crash.
Somewhere, Olly is mid-story with Jasper dropping single-word punchlines, causing Jules and Mira’s laughter to filter into the kitchen. Our weekly chaos assembled itself.
“Okay,” I tell myself. I lay out a row of tortillas, spread chicken down the centers, drag each through sauce, roll, and then line them tightly in the pan.
Cheese sprinkled on top, and finishing with more sauce until the seams disappear.
The oven door breathes like a dragon when I open it to slide the pan in.
This isn’t a date. It’s dinner. For friends. Friends, including Dom. A ritual. Rituals are safe. I know we’ve been doing whatever we’re doing for a few weeks now, but every time I see him my stomach swoops, and the excitement of it fills me.
The swinging door nicks my hip as it opens. Jaxon pops his head in. “Smells fucking amazing in here. Need a hand?”
I raise a brow. “I’m good.”
He just shrugs.
Alex slips past him just long enough to steal a strip of cheese.
“That’s garnish,” I say.
“Consider me decorative.”
“Nah, baby boy, you’re the centerpiece.” Alex grins, and Jaxon ushers him out.
“Wow,” I say to the swinging door. I don’t know whether I should clap because Jaxon got game or shudder at the sweetness overload.
I turn back to check on the rice, which is almost done.
The door barely moves this time, but I know it’s him. All the oxygen is sucked out of the kitchen. I have half a mind to check the burner.
“Careful, Chef. It smells like you’re trying to get in my pants.”
I keep stirring the sauce. “Bold of you to assume I’m not already taken.”
“Mm. Tragic. Is he hot?”
“Infuriatingly.”
Dom drifts closer, lifts the towel on the tortillas, and breathes in. He steals a corner, pops it in his mouth, and hums.
I try not to grin, and fail. “Hands off the merchandise.”
“Your tortillas or my boyfriend?” He’s in my space now, warm and smug.
“Both,” I say, but I tip my chin so he can kiss me anyway. “Wait, did you just call me… We’re…”
“Boyfriends,” he finishes with a slow nod. “If that’s okay with you.”
I swallow thickly. “Yeah. I’m okay with that. I just assumed you didn’t do…”
He leans in and gives me a peck on the lips and then just lifts his shoulder like it’s no big deal. “I guess not.” Dom carries on like life didn’t just spin on its axis and bumps my hip with his. “Need help, Chef?”
“You mean, ‘will I forgive my boyfriend for hovering and flirting while I plate?’” I say, testing the word out on my tongue.
“Tomayto, tomahto.” He snags a spoon. “Feed me something before I start declaring my undying love to the cornbread.”
I dip his spoon in the Mexican rice, tap it on the pot’s rim, and hold it up. He tastes, eyes closing. “Holy shit, Beckett. That’s so fucking good.” His eyes soften. “You look good like this.”
“Like what?”
“In your element.” He nudges my stained apron. “And in this ridiculous good-luck rag.”
“Don’t disrespect the apron,” I say. “It’s seen things.”
“Has it seen me doing this?” He hooks two fingers in the waistband and tugs me closer. My laugh gets lost in his mouth for another quick kiss.
“Boundaries,” I say, breathless. “My boss could come in.”
“Spencer would just run and tell everyone we’re kissing. Remember Alex and Jaxon?” I snort a laugh.
The timer goes off for the oven. I pull the cornbread off the top rack. The batter went in the color of sunshine, and now it’s puffing, edges browning, making the room fill with the smell of roasted corn. Perfect. Next are the enchiladas, and I smile at how well they turned out.
“Will you tell everyone dinner is ready?”
“Yes, sir,” he says, and I huff out a laugh.
“Hmm, I’m gonna have to test that name out later.”
He gives me a kiss and a slap on the ass. “Only when I’m in your kitchen,” he says with a wink before heading into the dining room.
We all cram together at the giant farmhouse table, the scent of the meal making our stomachs rumble. It’s my favorite place to sit. The enchiladas steam at the center of the table, the cornbread shines with chile butter, and the rice looks vibrant and delicious.
Mazie sits in a clip-on highchair at the end, banging a silicone spoon like she’s keeping time for us all.
“Okay, okay,” Spencer says, catching the spoon before it launches. “Gentle hands, drummer girl.” Finn kisses Mazie’s cheek, and she squeals, grabbing a fistful of rice that immediately goes everywhere.
“Ten bucks says she did that on purpose,” Jasper says. We all look at him and roll our eyes.
Everyone takes their first bite at once, then falls into that little hush I live for. Heads bow, shoulders drop. Dom’s knee nudges mine under the table. He doesn’t say anything, just gives me that look that says everything.
“Chef,” Jaxon says around a hum. “You outdid yourself again. This is so good.
Alex points at the cornbread. “This glaze is to die for, and I respect you for it.”
Spencer clears his throat and lifts his glass. “To Beckett, and… to Beckett’s cookbook, which is gonna be a hit.”
My chest fills with pride. This is what I live for: the praise of the people around me, the only opinions that matter.
That feeling I’ve been chasing all these years finally blooms, and it’s because I’m home here.
I thought that feeling would hit with what I was cooking…
but I had it all wrong. It’s where I’m cooking.
The table cheers, and Mazie throws her hands in the air, sending rice everywhere, causing us all to laugh.
“I want one recipe from each of you,” I say. “Something that represents you. I’ll test them and write them up. If you have any background information on the recipe, that would be great too.”
Mazie drops her spoon; it ricochets off the tray and lands in my lap. She looks startled, then delighted, like she invented gravity. “Yes, you can submit one too,” I say, bopping her on the nose.
I pass her spoon back, and she pats it like a pet. The table settles into the kind of quiet that means food and comfort have done their job. Chairs creak. Someone pours water. The smell of the enchilada sauce sits heavy and warm in the air.
“You’ll put our names on the cover, right?” Jasper asks, mock-serious. “Beckett and Friends: A Cookbook.”
“Friends and Beckett,” Jaxon says.
“Beckett’s Friends,” Alex tries.
Dom bumps my shoulder. “Let him pick. It’s his book.”
“It’s our table,” I say, surprising myself with how steady it comes out. “I just get to write it down.”
Finn lifts his glass again. “To the table.”
“To the table,” we echo. Mazie bangs her spoon on the after-beat, right on cue as the bell jingles over the door. We all turn to look.
“Hey, you made it,” Jasper says, getting up to give Marcus and Jacob a hug. “Have a seat. We’re just getting started.”
“Sorry we’re late.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask, sliding down so Jacob can take a seat next to me, while Marcus sits across the table next to Jasper.
“Yes, well, it will be. Two of the boys from the shelter are having a hard time getting along.”
Marcus looks at the ceiling. “If only Matthew were here.”
Jasper laughs. “He would have locked them in a room until they figured their shit out.”
“Yes, well,” Jacob starts as he lifts his plate and I slide a couple of enchiladas onto it. “I think they’re crushing on each other and don’t know what to do about it.”
Both Jules and Spencer let out a combined, “Awwwww.”
Jacob clears his throat. “So, have you heard from Lucas?” Marcus fidgets from across the table as he pretends he’s not listening.
“He called me this morning.”
“Oh?” Jacob says nonchalantly. I hold in a chuckle.
“Yep, sounds like he’ll be flying back next week. It didn’t take him as long as he thought to put his apartment on the market.”
I notice a quiet smile pass between Marcus and Jacob. They’re so not fooling anyone.
“Oh,” Alex pipes in. “Before I forget, next weekend is the open house for the shelter. I hope you can all make it.”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Dom says.
“Marcus, Jacob… I’m hoping you’ll be there, maybe even bring some of the kids from Matthew House.
“Of course, Alex. We’ll be there.”
The room fills with clinking silverware and friendly conversations that bring a smile to my face. Dom’s hand under the table squeezes my thigh, and he gives me a smile that makes my insides go fuzzy.
Sitting here surrounded by my friends… my family, the weight of Dom’s touch releases the fear I’ve been holding. I’ve always wanted to find love, someone to grow old with. I just never knew if it was gonna happen for me. Looking at Dom, I feel it. The possibility. The future.
Before, when Dom asked me about my future, I thought about my physical wants—the cookbook, a house, a dog—but not about the future inside me.
The heart. I want to be loved and cherished; I want it to be with someone I trust. Someone who wants me just as much as I want them.
Someone I don’t have to play years of games with just to find out they never wanted me to begin with.
I’ve found my footing with a little help from my friends.
Now it’s time for me to move forward in life.
Continue to grow into the person I want to be and not the person I was in the past. And I want Dom to be by my side as I do it.
My heart is already on its way down. I just hope there are gentle hands there to catch me because I’m falling for him.
We leave Dragonfly feeling full and sated, leftovers warm in my hands. Dom drives with the windows cracked, the night air ghosting across my skin. He’s quiet—his version of content—one hand loose on the wheel, the other drumming a rhythm I recognize from Mazie’s spoon solo.
If I could bottle this night up so I could savor it, I would.
At his place, the porch light clicks on like it’s been waiting up. He holds the door with a hip, and I step through, then stop. The sliding glass door at the back of the house frames his deck—and the deck is bigger.
“The deck. When did you do this?”
“Jaxon’s been helping me. We’ve done a little bit every night this week. It’s still not done, but close.”
We slide the door open. The cool air and the smell of fresh wood hit at once. The cedar smells green and new. He flips on the string of lights. They throw soft halos over the boards… over him.
I stop; surprise must be written all over my face.
Dom’s mouth twitches. “It’s a bench. You mentioned you enjoyed sitting outside in the morning and having a cup of coffee. I thought maybe this would be a good spot for that.”
I set the leftovers on the little side table.
“It’s a bench with opinions.” It runs the length of the railing now, cedar the color of tea, corners rounded like he thought about knees. “You installed a drink ledge.”
“Hydration is important.” He sits on the new bench, testing the give with both palms. “You approve?”
I drop beside him, hip to hip. The wood is cool through my jeans. “It’s perfect. It’s exactly big enough for two people pretending to watch the stars.”
“We could actually watch the stars,” he says, tone dry.
“Mm. But then we couldn’t pretend.” I bump his shoulder. “Just admit you built it for after-dinner making out.”
“I’m a respectable homeowner.”
“With a kissing rail.”
“It’s a drink ledge.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Come here.”
I’m already close, but I go anyway. The first kiss is steady, a load-bearing test. It holds. The anticipation builds: the string of lights, the night, everything we haven’t said yet. My hand slides into his hair, and he makes a sound that ripples straight through me.
We break for a breath.
“Respectable homeowner,” I whisper.
“Shut up,” he says, and kisses me again, deeper. His hands bracket my hips, and mine hook over his shoulders. The bench doesn’t creak… approval granted.
“Dom?”
“Yeah.”
“This is a great bench.”
He laughs low and tucks me closer like he’s choosing something he already chose days ago. “Stay,” he says, voice rough. I get the feeling he’s not just talking about the night.
“I’m planning on it.”
We make out on the new bench until the leftovers go cold and my self-control goes with them.
Dom’s hands are steady around my waist, mine in his hair, both of us pretending we’re not already gone for each other.
When we finally come up for air, he rests his forehead against mine, breathing like he just ran stairs.
“Inside?” he asks.
“Before your neighbors file an obscene noise complaint,” I say, and he huffs a laugh that feels like ease.
We tumble through the patio door, kicking off shoes, and not paying any attention to the lights.
He backs me down the hall, kissing me in small, precise nips—jaw, throat, the place under my ear.
In his room, he stops me with one palm splayed over my chest, not pushing, just…
asking. I nod. The yes catches in my throat, but he hears it anyway.
“Tell me if you want to slow down,” he says.
“I want to speed up and then slow down,” I say, because honesty keeps spilling out of me when I’m around him.
He smiles that small, private smile and reaches past me to the dresser. A soft swish of fabric. He holds something dark, loose between two fingers. A tie.
He comes closer, voice lower now, like we’re sharing a secret only the wall gets to keep. “Have you ever been blindfolded?”
I gasp. “Is it happening? Is it finally happening?”
Dom just rolls his eyes, and I let out a small. “Yay!”