Chapter 10
TEN
KAYA
Death Valley–level heat roars beneath my skin as embarrassment paints me in red splotches.
Why did I say that? Because for whatever reason, any time I am near this man, my brain short-circuits.
“I’d rather feel all those things than nothing at all.”
Dig the hole and bury me now.
Tingles dance over my skin where his calloused, capable fingers grazed my neck. An infinitesimal, simple touch that was more than a surface-level connection. My hands flutter, eager to reach up and let my fingers sweep over the point of contact, to imprint it permanently on my skin.
But I don’t. Instead, I curl my fingers into loose fists at my sides and ignore my impulses.
Heavy silence looms over us as I study his striking umber irises. Eyes that tell a story yet give nothing away.
“I’m—” I start at the same time he says, “Me?—”
I tuck my lips between my teeth, fighting my smile, as he chuckles and says, “Go ahead.”
For three heartbeats, I capture the sound of his understated laughter. Commit the deep, throaty tones to memory. Let it take up residence in my soul like the feel of his fingers on my skin has.
I like his laugh. Quite a bit. More than I should.
Releasing my lips, I set my smile free. “Was just going to apologize.” I drop my gaze and fumble with the buttons on the coat. “Seems I made things awkward.”
His hands appear at his sides, fingers twitchy as I fasten the cloth-covered buttons. My stomach flips at his restlessness, at his inclination to touch me again.
“Not awkward,” he mumbles.
When I reach the last button, I lift my gaze and am taken aback by the warmth in his eyes. We barely know each other, but his visceral reaction every time he sees me is undeniable. Significant. As if it’s impossible for him to conceal his feelings. It’s refreshing.
I like an unreserved man. A man willing to open himself up to vulnerabilities. A man unafraid to flaunt every facet of himself, including the side most are taught to suppress because it makes them appear weak or less than .
“As you said, there’s nothing to apologize for.” The corner of his mouth tips up in a crooked smile. “I agree with you.”
My eyes dart between his as my brows pinch together. “Agree?”
With indiscernible ease, he leans closer, invades my space, breathes my air. “I’d rather feel all those things than nothing at all, too.”
I suck in a sharp breath as he straightens and inches back. Several heart-pounding seconds pass as I stand slack-jawed and speechless. Dumbfounded. Unable to articulate a coherent thought or find my voice.
No man has stunned me silent before, not like this.
A click sounds behind me, and I turn to see a shock of red hair. Eyes scanning the room, Phoebe Graves enters with a bag slung over her shoulder and a semi-cheerful smile on her face. Although Phoebe and I are descendants of the founding families, we aren’t familiar with each other beyond names and basic public information.
Most of her life, Phoebe has been dubbed the most frigid person in Stone Bay. Until a little more than a year ago, most people—including myself—steered away from her. With a single glare from her harsh gaze, she would’ve turned anyone to ice.
It took a serial killer threatening to rob her of someone she’d fallen in love with—Delilah Fox, another of the Seven—to thaw her arctic heart.
I’m still a bit hesitant on how much I share or interact with her. A tiger may not change its stripes, but I’d like to think perhaps she was a chameleon blending in with her environment until ready to show her true self.
Phoebe scans the room full of kids, then breathes easier when she spots me and Ray. She crosses the room for us, smiles… and it appears genuine. Happy. A touch skittish.
“Kaya.” She tips her head in my direction then turns toward Ray. “Tré,” she greets. “Great turnout.”
Brows pinched in confusion, Ray tilts his head. “What brings you in, Phoebe?”
Phoebe glances to the front of the room, where the kitchen is, and juts her chin. “Chef Beaulieu asked me to come in, take pictures, and write up a feel-good story for the Gazette on the restaurant’s first cooking classes.”
Ray peers over his shoulder at the front of the room as his fingers rub his palms at his sides. When he turns back to us, he rolls his shoulders and nods, his expression vacant and all business.
“He mentioned the paper, but I missed the details.” He folds his arms over his chest. “Seats are assigned. Look for an empty spot without a tent card,” he says, voice colder than usual.
Phoebe rolls her eyes. “I’m glad to be here, too,” she says in a mocking tone, then gives us her back. Hiking the bag higher on her shoulder, she wanders off to a table in the corner.
The desire to console Ray once she’s out of earshot blooms in my chest. Words dance on the tip of my tongue, eager to comfort him. Tell him not to worry about the nosy reporter and focus on why he’s here—to do what he loves and share it with the next generation.
On instinct, I reach out and rest a hand on his forearm. The heat, the hum, the undeniable connection we shared moments ago flares back to life. An inferno blazes anew. Tingles ripple up my arm to my chest. Need pools low in my belly.
I yank my hand away and swallow. Watch as his hand flexes then extends at his side. Inhale a slow, deliberate breath as I meet his mystified gaze.
“Focus on why you’re here and ignore the rest.” My voice is sandpaper as I clutch my left wrist and stroke the beads on my bracelet. “You’ll do great.”
The lines around his eyes deepen as a soft smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks.”
“Chef Calhoun,” Chef Beaulieu calls. “Shall we begin?”
With a wink, Ray walks off and I take my seat. Tucker gives a gleeful “Yes!” when he learns we are at the same table. Everyone quiets down, and I turn my attention to the front of the room as Ray greets the group.
After introductions, Ray, Fin, and André outline some of the boring but important safety measures the kids will learn this week before the fun starts. They share the kitchen tools we will use, how sharp the knives and graters are, and how important it is to focus on your tasks and hands.
Fin abandons the counter to hand out thickly sliced cheese as Ray instructs everyone to pick up the butter knife at their setting.
“Before we introduce sharp knives, we’ll practice basic techniques with gentler tools,” Ray says as he picks up his own butter knife. He shows the kids how to hold it properly, where to place their other hand, and how to cut without hurting themselves.
The entire time, I salivate in my seat at how capable he is. Peek at him every once in a while from under my lashes. Do my best to focus on why I am in this room.
I’m here to assist, to work, not ogle.
Although the kids didn’t cook anything today, lunch is served before class ends.
Rice-shaped and decorated to look like different animals. Vegetables sliced into stars, hearts, and other various designs or left whole. Thin cuts of chicken with teriyaki sauce on the side. A small bowl of fresh fruit. The younger kids are thrilled by the adorable display. And thankfully, the chefs made “adult” versions of the same lunch for the teens.
As plates are delivered, I can’t help but notice I’m the only person with fish instead of chicken.
Ray has seen me eat twice, and both times, I’ve had fish on my plate. That he’s paid attention and remembered such a detail makes me bite my cheek throughout lunch.
As we clear and wipe down the tables, I spot Ray in my periphery. Huddled with the teens, he promises things will be more exciting soon. Lips pursed, one of the teens shrugs and mutters something inaudible. The others appear a little more accepting and appreciative.
Taking the last of the trash from our table to the bin, I approach Chef Beaulieu at the front of the room.
“Thank you for a wonderful first class, Chef. It’s great that you’re offering this for the kids.”
An amiable, genuine smile brightens his features as he extends his hand for me to shake. His skin is more calloused than I expect, but his grip is gentle, firm yet supple. “I should be the one thanking you, Ms. Imala. Your time is valuable, and we appreciate you spending it with us. Your assistance eases our stress and helps the kids focus better. And please, call me André.”
I lean closer and whisper, “Only when the kids aren’t around.” I straighten and see Ray heading our way. “While class is in session, they should address you as Chef.”
His affectionate smile morphs into this pulse-pounding beam. It’s impossible not to be pulled in and enthralled by the sight. “Of course, you’re right.” Brilliant smile still in place, he winks.
Is that a requirement to work at Calhoun’s Bistro? An addictive smile the patrons will melt over.
Ray sidles up to me at the counter, the heat of his gaze on my profile. “Good first class?”
My body hums as I turn to meet his waiting stare. He’s close. Much closer than expected. I swallow and nod. “Great.” Perspiration dampens my skin and I pop the buttons on my chef’s coat. “Kids really enjoyed it.”
I don’t miss the way his intense focus falls and latches on to my fingers as I undo each button. How the muscles in his jaw flex as I reach the last one. The way his Adam’s apple bobs as I peel off the coat.
The way he can’t take his eyes off me… this man likes me in a chef’s coat. Would undoubtedly prefer it to be his and nothing else. But the fire in those dark irises as each button pops free… he aches for the slow, torturous way I take it off more.
“Did you?” Ray asks, voice low, gravelly.
I fold the coat and drape it over my arm. “Did I what?”
His dark gaze drifts up and locks onto mine once more. “Enjoy the class.”
Right. “Yes.” Peeking around the room, I inch closer to him and lower my voice. “But I do prefer gouda over cheddar.” I straighten and bite the inside of my cheek.
His eyes dart between mine for three erratic heartbeats. “Noted.”
A student says goodbye as they exit and it snaps my attention back to reality. I glance at my watch and see it’s just after one.
“I should head out.” I amble back to the table and collect my things. Ray follows in my wake like a proprietorial shadow. “They need me at the rec center,” I say as I shoulder my bag.
“Let me walk you out.”
I open my mouth to tell him it isn’t necessary but can’t form the words. He would ignore my dismissal anyway.
We weave through the dining room in comfortable silence. A low hum in the air between us. When we reach the door, he holds it open and gestures for me to exit. I expect him to linger on the threshold and say his farewell from the door. But as I step into the sunshine, his shoes clap the stone pavers behind me.
The last time a man pursued me, really gave chase, was in college. I didn’t make it easy for him, but that was part of the thrill. Although I was career-focused and not looking for a relationship, one man snuck in and cross-wired my lifelong plan. For the first time in years, my career wasn’t my only priority. Eager but scared to leap, I needed him to prove I’d be more than one night between the sheets. He didn’t disappoint.
At the start of my third semester in college, Ren Tajima sat several seats from me in cultural anthropology. The course wasn’t crowded, but the occupied seats outweighed the empty ones.
I remember the first day our eyes met. The twinkle in his dark hazels made my stomach flutter.
During the second week of class, we arrived within seconds of each other. As we scurried for our seats, we bumped into one another, and my notebook fell out of my hands. Ever the proper gentleman, he bent down, picked it up, and handed it back with a soft, apologetic smile on his lips. He introduced himself, asked my name, and what year I was in. The conversation was cordial, if not a little generic, lasted maybe a minute, and then we took our seats.
Every day after the incident, Ren smiled at me before class started. And every time, his smile reached his eyes and emphasized that alluring twinkle. When the opportunity struck, he sat closer. It wasn’t long before friendship sparked. By the middle of the semester, he asked me on a date, and I said yes.
I liked Ren. I enjoyed spending time with him. But as time ticked by, I knew we’d never be more .
In my sophomore year of high school, my primary focus had been my studies. By mid-junior year, most of my attention centered around my eventual career. If something or someone disrupted my plan, I tended to shove it or them aside. The more my career goals solidified, the more concrete those tendencies became.
After a handful of dates with Ren, we took the next step. Unfortunately for him, it was also our last step.
I liked Ren. A lot. For months, he garnered much of my attention. Spending time with him felt right, perfect. So taking the next step seemed evolutionary, natural. But as we lay in his bed in coital bliss, it dawned on me how off course I’d drifted.
I didn’t want to hurt him, but I refused to let myself be distracted anymore. Once we crossed the line, there was no in-between. So, I broke his heart and lost a great friend in the process.
At this stage of my life and in my career, the occasional date isn’t off the table. But I refuse to let a romantic relationship smother my light, my work, my ambition, or my future. It’s challenging enough to fight the strong, invisible current in my path. The last thing I need is an additional obstacle in the way.
With the right person, it’s possible to have more than my career. Love and intimacy take work, but they shouldn’t feel like barriers.
If Ray Calhoun truly wants a shot, I need to be more than one of the millions of people fawning over him online. I need to know I’m more than a distraction or good time. That he won’t diminish my aspirations to boost his own.
I unlock my car and stow my belongings in the back seat. Opening the driver’s door, I turn to face him. “Thank you, again. It was nice to see the students in an environment other than school.”
He nods. “I don’t get enough time with Tucker because of our schedules. But that’s changing.”
“I’m sure it’ll be a positive transition for you both. Oh”—I hold up a finger—“I meant to ask earlier but didn’t have the chance. Why did Phoebe call you Tré?”
Conflicting emotions dance in his eyes. “It’s a default nickname. The simplest to use when Dad, Pops, and I are in the same room. Curse of sharing the same name.” He chuckles. “I put my foot down and refuse to let there be a fourth Ray.”
“I love Tucker’s name.”
“Thanks. Was my choice. His mother didn’t care about his name.” Melancholy laces his tone. “Was nice to see Tucker so happy today. Don’t think I’ve seen him smile that much in a while.”
The details of Tucker’s past are vague, but after talking with him and spending time with Ray, it’s easy to see they’ve experienced major bumps.
“Glad he has a parent who gives him that.” I slip behind the wheel and reach for the door handle. “See you in the morning.”
He reaches for the door, steps closer, and flashes me his dazzling smile. “Look forward to it.” With a wink, he shuts my door and steps back.
I expect him to turn around and head for the restaurant. Go inside and say goodbye to others. But he doesn’t move. Rooted in place, gaze on my profile, he watches me drive out of the lot. Fire licks my skin the entire seventeen seconds I see him in my rearview.
My pulse resumes its normal rhythm by the time I reach the rec center. I head inside, spend a few hours entertaining and corralling the grade school children, pass out snacks and sit through an animated movie I saw a dozen times last summer, and am thoroughly exhausted when the last child is picked up.
On the way to my car, I call Bay Chowder House for takeout. Order one of my favorites as I slip into the driver’s seat and crank the engine. Melt into my seat and take a moment for myself when the call disconnects.
It’s been a long day, but I wouldn’t change a single minute.
As I turn into the restaurant lot, ringing sounds through the car speakers. I glance at the console and smile when Anaana —mother—flashes on the screen. Mom.
Pressing the answer button on the steering wheel, I greet, “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, my sweet panik . Hope I’m not interrupting.”
In my preteens, there was this small window of time where I wished my mom called me something besides my sweet daughter. Most girls my age were called darling, cutie, peanut, or a similar term of endearment by their parents. I wanted so badly to have a normal byname from my parents. To be like the other girls.
When I grew out of my broody stage, I was glad my parents hadn’t given me one of those nicknames. They didn’t fit who I am or where I come from.
My smile widens at her warm, affectionate tone. “Not at all. Picking up dinner.”
“Long day?”
As doctors, my parents are accustomed to long shifts and the exhaustion that comes with it. But we all agree the reward is worth the price.
“Yes. Working a couple programs this summer.”
“I won’t keep you. Only called to check in about Friday dinner.”
No matter how busy life gets, my family gets together once a week. Although we see or speak with each other during the week, our family dinners are the one guaranteed time we have to catch up and strengthen our kinship. Most happen on Friday, but we switch them if too many conflicts pop up.
“I’ll be there, Anaana . What can I bring?”
“Just that beautiful smile.”
I pull into a parking space marked for takeout. “I’ll be there. Nalligivagit, Anaana. ” I love you, Mom.
“ Nalligivagit, panik. ” I love you, daughter.
When the call disconnects, I cut the engine and head inside to pick up my order. Bag in hand, I’m behind the wheel a moment later and driving to the Imala estate.
Music plays in the background as my tires eat up the miles. As the second song ends, I turn onto a road bearing our family’s surname. Each of the Stone Bay founding families has a vast estate with a private road marked with their name. The only difference between the Imala estate and those of the other founders… the homes on our property.
Most of the founding families have grandiose mansions and a small home or two for guests. On the Imala estate, we have a larger house—four bedrooms and bathrooms—for the two eldest generations of the Imala and Stonewater. On the rest of the estate, we have smaller, quaint homes for the younger generations and guests. Our homes are modern, simple, and minimalistic. They provide shelter, warmth, and safety. As children, anytime my brothers or I would complain about not having things , an elder would tell us that beautiful trinkets will come and go, it’s the things we need most that remain.
We live by those wise words.
I park in the garage, grab my dinner and bag from the back, and head inside. Setting my food on the kitchen counter, I go to my bedroom and change into sweatpants and a loose-fitting T-shirt.
From the fridge, I grab the wine and pour myself a small glass. Take a sip, carry my dinner to the living room, and plop down on the couch. With a heavy sigh, I sink into the cushions. Let my muscles relax for the first time since early this morning. Close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and center myself.
I love my job. I love how rewarding it is to work with children and give them a safe space in a harsh world. But I also love coming home to an empty house and not having to attend to anyone other than myself.
Pulling the take-out box from the bag, I open the lid and stare down at the grilled shrimp and avocado salad. And without fail, I smile.
Because it makes me think of him—Ray—and how he’s bookmarked my favorite foods.
And after a long day, there’s no better way for it to end.