Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Zoe
Istep out of the bathroom, wrapped in a fluffy white towel the size of a small tent, feeling marginally more human. My plan is simple: get dressed, find coffee, and avoid all eye contact until at least noon.
The plan lasts for approximately three seconds.
Standing in the middle of my bedroom is Tristan. He’s not looking at me. He’s staring intently at my suitcase, like it’s a priceless, inscrutable piece of modern art he’s been tasked with critiquing.
“Jesus!” I yelp, clutching the towel hard. “Privacy? Knocking? Ever heard of them?”
“I did knock,” he says, his voice strained. He still won’t look at me, his gaze now fixed on the abstract art print on the far wall. “Three times. You didn’t answer. Diego was having a full-blown panic attack that you’d somehow... I don’t know, rappelled down the side of the building to escape us.”
“We’re fifty floors up,” I deadpan.
His lips quirk, and he finally chances a glance at me. Or rather, at my face. His eyes carefully avoid the rest of my towel-clad body. “He sent me on a wellness check. And to tell you... breakfast is... in progress.”
I raise an eyebrow. “In progress?”
“Diego’s cooking,” Tristan clarifies, a flicker of his usual humor returning now that we’re on a less mortifying topic. “It’s not going well. He’s at war with the stove, and I think the stove is winning.”
Just as he says it, a new smell wafts in from the hallway, cutting through the clean, steamy air of the bedroom.
Smoke.
Tristan sniffs the air, his nose wrinkling. “Yeah. The stove is definitely winning.” He’s already backing toward the door, clearly eager to escape. “So, uh, maybe get dressed? We might need someone who knows how to operate a fire extinguisher.”
With that, he’s gone, leaving me alone in the room with the distinct and growing smell of something burning.
I stare at the empty doorway, then down at my towel. So much for avoiding them.
I get dressed in record time, my curiosity and a healthy dose of alarm overriding my mortification. I follow the thin haze of smoke out of the hallway and toward the kitchen.
The scene that greets me is pure chaos.
The kitchen is filled with a light haze of smoke while a high-pitched beeping slices through the air.
Diego is standing in front of their ridiculously sleek, futuristic-looking stove, frantically waving a dish towel at the smoke detector on the ceiling while simultaneously glaring at the appliance with an expression of pure betrayal.
Dane is perched on a barstool, disassembling the smoke detector with a screwdriver he’s produced from.
.. somewhere. Rett is jabbing at the stove’s touchscreen with increasing frustration, muttering what sounds like obscenities under his breath.
And Tristan is poking at something in a pan with the caution of someone prodding a suspicious package.
“Is this what breakfast looks like in alpha-land?” I ask, my voice cutting through the chaos.
Four heads whip around to stare at me.
The beeping abruptly stops as Dane removes the battery from the smoke detector with a satisfied grunt.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Diego says, dropping the dish towel in defeat. He gestures at the stove. “I wanted to make you a proper breakfast, but this... this demon machine has betrayed me.”
I approach cautiously, peering into the pan. Inside sits what appears to be a single, perfectly round but completely blackened disc.
“Is that... a pancake?” I ask.
“It was supposed to be,” Diego sighs. “The first of many. A stack of perfect, golden pancakes to start your day. But now...” He trails off, staring mournfully at the charred remains.
“It has the density of plutonium,” Tristan adds, still poking at it with a fork. The fork makes a distressing ‘tink’ sound against the pancake’s surface. “I think we could use it as a hockey puck.”
“I don’t understand,” Diego continues, throwing his hands up in frustration. “I know how to cook! I’m good at it! But this thing—” he gestures at the stove, “—it’s not a stove. It’s an alien technology disguised as a kitchen appliance.”
“It’s the most efficient model on the market,” Rett says, looking deeply offended as he continues tapping at the screen. “Induction heating. Temperature precision to the degree. Smart capabilities.”
“It has a ‘sous-vide’ setting but not a ‘make a basic pancake without burning down the building’ setting,” Tristan points out, abandoning his poking to lean against the counter.
“I don’t know what this thing is!” Diego continues, gesturing at the stove.
“There’s no flame. There’s a million buttons, and none of them are labeled ‘medium heat.’ My abuela could make a feast on a single hot plate.
” He glares at Rett. “I can’t even make a pancake on your thousand-dollar smart stove. ”
For the first time since The Scream (which is how I’m now mentally categorizing last night’s mortifying episode), a genuine, unexpected laugh escapes my throat.
The sight of these four powerful men being defeated by a fancy appliance is so absurd, so.
.. human. The tension in my chest loosens, just a little.
“Was that one... supposed to be for me?” I ask, pointing at the pancake.
Diego nods, looking so utterly dejected that I feel a pang of sympathy.
“I tried toast first. It was going to be a welcome breakfast,” he says softly. “To make you feel at home.”
Something warm and unfamiliar blooms in my chest at his words. They actually wanted to make me feel welcome. Even if they failed spectacularly.
“That’s... actually really sweet,” I admit. Then I look back at the smoking pan and can’t suppress another laugh. “Totally misguided, but sweet.”
The atmosphere in the kitchen shifts. My laughter seems to have broken some invisible barrier. Tristan’s dimple makes a reappearance as he grins. Diego’s shoulders relax slightly. Even Rett’s perpetual frown softens around the edges.
“Okay,” I say, taking charge because someone clearly needs to. I look around for a window to open and realize, with a jolt, that there aren’t any. The floor-to-ceiling glass is a seamless, solid wall. Of course.
“How do you get fresh air in this place?” I ask, waving a hand through the smoke.
Rett points to a sleek, minimalist touchscreen panel on the wall. “Air circulation system. The ‘Purge’ function will clear the air in about ninety seconds.”
I stare at the panel, then back at him. “Your apartment has a ‘Purge’ function?”
“It was for cigar smoke,” Tristan mutters defensively. “From a party. Once.”
I just shake my head, walk over to the panel, and press the button. A low, powerful hum fills the penthouse as the ventilation system kicks into high gear, pulling the smoke from the air with an almost unnerving efficiency.
“Rule number one of this... arrangement. No one touches the stove before I’ve had coffee.” I move toward the refrigerator. “Where do you keep the bagels?”
The four of them exchange glances.
“Bagels?” Tristan repeats, as if I’ve asked for moon rocks.
“Yes, bagels,” I say slowly. “Round bread with a hole in the middle? Often topped with cream cheese? The cornerstone of any decent breakfast?”
More blank stares.
With growing suspicion, I pull open the refrigerator door and peer inside. The fridge is immaculate, organized with a militant order that screams Rett Sterling. But it’s also... bizarre.
There are containers of pre-marinated steak and chicken breasts. A crisper drawer filled with nothing but kale and bell peppers. An entire shelf dedicated to different kinds of expensive bottled water. No milk. No juice. No butter.
I close the door with a soft thud and turn to face them, one eyebrow raised. “Okay. Where do you keep the actual food?”
“The... pantry?” Diego asks. He points to what I thought was just a section of the seamless, dark wood wall.
I walk over and find the hidden seam, pulling the door open.
Inside, there’s a bag of flour (clearly used for the doomed pancake attempt), a nearly empty box of spaghetti, and rows upon rows of protein bars.
It’s the pantry of four single men who either eat out or cook the same three functional meals on rotation.
I turn to face them, a look of profound disbelief on my face. “This isn’t a kitchen. It’s a survival bunker with better countertops.”
Diego has the grace to look embarrassed. “We have the basics.”
“You have the ingredients for exactly two potential meals: sad, butterless eggs or more pasta,” I counter. “What happens if someone just wants a bowl of cereal? Or a sandwich? Or a single, life-affirming bagel?”
Tristan snaps his fingers. “That’s what’s missing! Bagels! I knew this place felt emotionally empty for a reason.”
“A house isn’t a home without a fully stocked pantry,” I say, my voice taking on a tone of mock-seriousness as I find my footing in this new dynamic. “It’s a fundamental truth.”
“Our chef used to handle the stocking,” Rett says, as if that explains everything. “He kind of set up grocery delivery for an entire year.”
“The same chef you fired for putting foam on everything?” I ask, unable to resist.
Tristan shudders dramatically. “So much foam. It was like eating shaving cream with a side of food.”
I just shake my head, a real smile finally on my face. “Okay, notepad.” I pause. “And a pen.”
They stare at me with identical looks of blank confusion.
“A... notepad?” Tristan repeats, as if I’ve just asked for a live unicorn.
“You know,” I say, making a writing gesture in the air. “Paper. For writing things on. With a pen. An ancient technology.”
“I have a tablet,” Rett offers, pulling a sleek, impossibly thin device from a nearby charging station. “The new SterlingPad prototype.”
“No,” I cut him off, pointing a finger at him. “No tablets. No apps. We are making a physical list. With paper. It’s a sacred ritual of grocery shopping.”
Diego opens a drawer, then another, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I think... I think there might be some stationery in Rett’s office.”