Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Chesteria
“Chef Boy-Are-You-Serious? Isis vs. Breakfast Ends in Tragedy”
Bryce leaned against the counter, his voice calm but laced with that signature savage professionalism.
“It depends on how bad it gets. The snow itself won’t kill the signal, but if the satellite tower freezes over or the wind knocks something loose, that router gon’ blink red like it’s gasping for help.
No FaceTime. No TikTok.” He looked directly at Adrian, smirking.
“And yo’ fantasy draft? That’s gon’ be a fantasy for real.
So, yeah… you might wanna go ahead and brace yourself for auto-pick and pray the app don’t give you another punter this year.
Looks like we’ll be staying another day. ”
Those words sent a visible ripple through the room.
Isis rolled her eyes dramatically, as if staying one more day was a personal attack on her bougie spirit.
Then there was Adrian, who blew out a breath so hard, the puff of air hung in the room like steam off a pot.
The both of them clearly hated the idea of me and Bryce being locked in here together, sharing space…
sharing heat… and sharing time neither of them could control.
As for me—even though I’d been itching to leave since earlier that morning—I couldn’t deny the quiet relief settling in my chest knowing Bryce was staying. That shifted something.
Snowstorms, bougie breakdowns, and emotional, jumpy men like Adrian aside, I don’t mind being stranded like this.
“The snow’s not unbearable yet,” Bryce added, explaining, while glancing out the window, “but it’s thick enough to make that mountain road a gamble.
I ain’t taking no chances… and damn sure not with Isis in the car with me.
” He looked over at me briefly before continuing, “We’ll head out first thing in the morning if the roads are looking better. ”
I nodded.
“Well…” Adrian clapped his hands together. “Now that that’s out of the way… who’s cooking? A nigga hungry.”
Bryce and Adrian looked at me. Then, like she was following stage cues, even Isis slowly turned her neck in my direction.
Mmm.
That told me everything I needed to know.
Sis can’t cook.
If I were in her shoes, and I was trying to make my ‘so-called’ man’s ex jealous, I’d be in that kitchen like it was a Top Chef finale.
The way to a man’s heart might not always be food, but it’s definitely a shortcut most of us smart ones take.
A slow smirk crept up my face.
I tilted my head sweetly toward Isis. “You should cook.”
She blinked, taken by surprise. “Huh?”
“Breakfast, I meant. If you do breakfast, I’ll handle dinner,” I truthfully offered.
“Oh… okay. What does everybody want?”
Bryce shrugged. “Whatever. I’m easy.”
Adrian grinned. “Shid… well, I’m a lil’ picky.
Let me get a T-bone steak, medium, not medium-well, ‘cause I still want it to moo a little. Add on some grits, a side of scrambled eggs with pepperjack, not cheddar, two salmon croquettes with the edges crisp but not burnt, and a lil’ peach cobbler…
but only if the crust is thick and the peaches ain’t from no can.
And if y’all got a mimosa, I’ll take that too. ”
I looked at Adrian, wondering if he had a clone who decided to take over for the trip.
Surely this can’t be the same man who used to double-check my tire pressure before I drove home from work, that I’ve been sexing senseless, and staying on the phone with him ’til damn near sunrise on some nights, talking about dreams, goals, and that childhood trauma he swore nobody else understood.
When did he trade in perfect-man consistency for whatever this new version was?
This version is out here making requests like we’re at a five-star brunch, he got a personal concierge, and an 850 credit score with a Black card to match.
“Adrian, be serious. Aside from the eggs and grits, we didn’t bring any of that other stuff.”
He had the nerve to shrug and gesture toward Bryce and Isis. “Maybe they did. But I’m manifesting my meal, girl. Closed mouths don’t get fed.”
Open ones don’t either if they full of bullshit, I wanted to say.
What actually came out was a tight-lipped smile, but in my head?
Nigga, you didn’t contribute to a single grocery item in this damn cabin. Be lucky if you get a bottled water and half a pancake crust.
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, let’s all try to be on one accord. Look, can you just make some eggs, bacon, grits, and pancakes, well, waffles for Bryce? He loves those,” I taunted.
I glanced over at Bryce, who didn’t even bother to hide his satisfied smirk.
“Is that cool with everyone?” I asked, verifying.
Adrian groaned. “Hell yeah. I’ll take whatever’s on the menu. Hell, I’ll eat drywall at this point. I’m just hungry.”
The desperation in his voice made it clear he was ready to dive into anything that resembled food.
Damn right you will. You already chewing through your welcome.
Bryce nodded in response.
“Then it’s settled. We’ll stick to the basics… something easy to whip up. I mean…” I paused, lacing my fingers under my chin, letting my sentence dangle like bait. “Unless you can’t.”
Isis snatched her ponytail tighter as if it would give her the strength she needed.
“Girl, please! Watch me work!” she chirped, her voice too chipper as she turned and started toward the kitchen with a newfound determination, treating that modest breakfast menu as if it was a stroll through a sunny park.
Little did she know, I was about to hit her with a culinary challenge that would make even the most seasoned chef sweat.
“Oh, but wait!” I called out, just as she reached the threshold, causing her to stop dead in her tracks.
Isis turned slowly, already sensing the bullshit.
“I would like my pancakes to be slightly thick and filled with both blueberries and strawberries—you know, not too fluffy, not too flat... just like that perfect in-between. For my eggs, I prefer them soft and lightly scrambled, with melted cheese that oozes just right, and I sprinkle them with some freshly chopped chives for that pop of flavor. As for my grits, I want them rich and creamy, enhanced with a luscious garlic butter that adds a savory depth; none of that bland, plain mess, thank you. Last but not least, my bacon. Please make sure it’s crisp…
but not overly dry. Like, if it cracks too easily, you’ve gone too far, sis.
Just the right amount of crunch is what I’m after to complement the rest of my five-star breakfast instructions. ”
Bryce, who was now lounging on the couch with casual ease, smirked at me, biting his lip to hold in a laugh, fully aware that I was being petty and ‘over-the-top’ on purpose.
Adrian, on the other hand, blinked at me, his expression deadpan as he folded his arms across his chest. “And you talk about me being picky? You out here giving Michelin star requirements like we got Gordon Ramsay in the house.”
I leaned back against the couch, utterly unbothered by his jab.
“Yeah, but unlike you and your ridiculous request, everything I asked for is actually in the kitchen,” I quipped with a smug grin, then diverted my attention to Isis, who was regarding me with a look that suggested I had just challenged her to a televised cooking duel.
“Do we even have any blueberries or strawberries?” she asked, arms crossed, glaring as if breakfast preparation was beneath her lofty spirit.
“Yup… fresh ones. They’re washed, sealed, and just waiting for you.”
“Okay, and how exactly am I supposed to make a waffle without a waffle maker?”
I tilted my head, wearing my sweetest smile.
“There’s a waffle maker in there, blender, cake mix, pancake mix, muffin tins, griddle, hand mixer, cutting boards, sharp knives, and cookie sheets too—practically everything but a sous-chef.
Matter of fact, there might even be an apron in there with your name stitched on it.
In conclusion, every single thing you need for this meal is in that kitchen.
I bought it all yesterday. So yeah, you should be good. ”
Bryce grinned, shaking his head, clearly enjoying the show.
“Ain’t no getting out of this one, shawty," Adrian chimed in, never one to miss his moment to roast somebody.
Yeah, because she’s clearly trying to find a loophole in the air.
“I got one more request… and it’s a humble one,” he added, eyes locked on me, briefly, then turned to Isis.
“Can you make my food with love? Not that bougie, I-only-cook-on-holidays-for-the-gram or cooking-to-prove-a-point-to-yo-op kind of cooking. I can taste the pettiness in every over-seasoned and undercooked bite, and also when somebody’s just cooking for aesthetic. ”
I could practically see the gears turning in Isis’s head as she prepared to face down the breakfast challenge ahead.
She scoffed, flipping her hair. “I can cook, okay?!” she snapped, like that made it better. “But I won’t be partaking in what I prepare. I’m lactose intolerant, don’t eat pork, and I don’t consume anything white.”
Adrian reared his head back in surprise. “Not even rice?”
“Nope!”
“What about sugar?” he further pressed.
Isis’s face contorted like Adrian had just asked her to mop the whole kitchen barefoot.
“Eww! Absolutely not! Sugar is the devil in a crystal gown! It causes inflammation, bloating, premature aging, dull skin, and emotional instability… and none of those align with my aesthetic! I have to be stunning at all times! Do you know how hard it is to maintain a glow that radiates through haters and bad lighting?! Of course not! But no, thank you! I’ll stick to my chlorophyll water, monthly skin peels, and marine collagen! ”
Adrian leaned forward, serious now. “So you don’t eat Alfredo, mashed potatoes, or whipped cream?”
“No, but I do oat cream,” she stated proudly.
I smiled sweetly and said, “You know what, that’s fine. You don’t have to eat with us. You can eat snow with a side of pinecones. Lucky for you, they’re all organic, vegan, and white-free.”