Chapter 11 Iris
IRIS
Garrik’s kitchen smells like citrus and spice and something faintly floral…probably whatever he picked up at the Fablegrove Market, tucked now into bowls and baskets the crowd the counter. They’re taking his entire attention right now as he chops up herbs and vegetables, focused on our meal.
And if I’m being honest…I’m a little jealous.
I want his attention.
Now.
He’s got the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, strong forearms dusted with flour as he rolls out dough on the counter. His antennae twitch with focus, a light shade of purple at their tips, so focused that he doesn’t notice me staring over the top of my book like a complete and utter creep.
At least I’m pretending to read. That counts for something, right?
The family tried to intrude on our evening again, but Garrik insisted on cooking me dinner when we got back from the market—which resulted in him parking me in an oversized armchair with one of the romance novels I bought at the Bloom & Quill. Garrik has been busy ever since, ignoring me.
And yes…I should be entertained. The book is one of the spicy ones, currently open to a passage that involves rope and a very generous alien prince. I should be drooling over that.
Instead, I’m drooling over the way my best friend moves around his kitchen—how he reaches for ingredients with absentminded grace, how the fabric of his shirt stretches across his back when he leans in to grab something, how his big, careful hands work the dough with so much tenderness it’s almost obscene.
He rolls it, slaps it once.
I literally gasp.
I bite my lip and shift on the couch, adjusting the way the dress is draped around me. I’ve been without panties for several hours now, just…waiting for Garrik to remember what he promised me this morning.
He might be focused on dinner now, but I’m much more interested in dessert.
I close the book and set it gently on the coffee table, trying not to look like I’ve just spent the last ten minutes imagining climbing him like a tree. Garrik glances over his shoulder at the soft sound of the book closing, brows raised.
“Too boring?” he asks in that amused way that makes me warm and tingly all over.
“Too distracted,” I correct him, biting my lip.
His eyes darken, just for a second—then he turns back to his dough, saying nothing.
Still, his antennae twitch and tinge pink, and I know he’s well aware what I meant.
I walk into the kitchen and push an oversized chair over before climbing up it to perch on the counter. Yeah…watching him work is much more interesting than the book (even if the book is good). Garrik’s whole face is pink now, his eyes fixed on his work.
“You’re really good at this,” I say. “I didn’t know.”
“I’ve gotten back into it since returning to M’mir,” he replies. “Cooking…it’s like beekeeping, in a way, or gardening. Patience. Attention to detail. Knowing when something needs heat, or time—”
I choke a little bit.
Garrik does too.
“And what are we making tonight, Chef Garrik?” I ask.
He bites back a smile. “Flatbread with a citrus-herb glaze. Spiced roots and greens. And I pulled a moonberry wine from the cellar for us, should pair nicely.”
“First you seduce me with a bookstore, now a three-course meal?”
“Technically, it’s only two courses.”
“And what’s for dessert?”
He gets saucy now, just a little bit, his gaze darting from my eyes down my body. “You tell me, honeybee.”
I bite my lip. “You’re getting spicy, Garrik.”
He snorts. “Am I?”
“Oh yeah.” I tilt my head. “Used to be that when I said something suggestive, you’d blush from antennae to toes. Now you’re out here teasing me like you’re not well aware I’d let you do unspeakable things to me bent over the counter.”
His antennae twitch violently. Now he’s really blushing.
“Gotcha,” I tease.
“You’re relentless,” he mumbles.
“I just like seeing you like this.”
“How?”
I reach out to graze my fingers up his forearm. “Just…liking me. Wanting me.”
His eyes snap to mine, and for a beat, I see it all in his eyes. Not bashfulness, but…heat. Hunger.
A flicker of desperation.
He sets the knife down with care and turns to face me fully, like he’s finally giving in to the pull that’s been building all day. His broad chest rises with a slow inhale, arms bracing on either side of the counter as he leans in just a little, not touching me yet.
“I always wanted you,” he says, voice thick with restraint. “Even when I shouldn’t have. Even when it felt impossible.”
I suck in a breath.
His gaze drops to my thighs, then lifts again. Nothing’s visible…but he knows. “You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?”
My cheeks burn. I shake my head.
Garrik exhales sharply. “Say the word, honeybee,” he murmurs. “And I’ll take you to bed right now. Dinner can wait. Everything can wait.”
But I shake my head, a smile curling my lips. “No.”
His whole body goes still. “No?”
I slide my legs apart just a little, just enough to tease. “Not to bed. Not yet.”
Garrik groans, the sound low and guttural. His antennae flick forward, searching, twitching like they’re just as desperate as I am.
I reach up and cradle his jaw in both hands, thumbs brushing the edges of his beard. “You said you were gonna feed me,” I tease.
“I was,” he growls, stepping between my knees. “I am.”
“You can’t tempt me with a nice dinner like this and not give it to me,” I chide, picking the knife up again and holding the tip to pass it to him. “Now—get back to chopping, chef.”
Garrik takes the knife from my hand, his fingers brushing mine—warm, a little rough, and shaking just slightly. Whether it’s restraint or anticipation, I can’t tell. Probably both. He doesn’t pull away right away, just lets our hands linger.
Then he clears his throat and says, “Well, if you’re going to tease me like that…you may as well help.”
“Oh?” I say, lifting a brow.
“Chop these,” he says, sliding a bowl of alien fruit toward me. “Thin slices. Think you can manage that?”
“Mm…I don’t know, seems pretty difficult,” I murmur, but I take the knife anyway.
He reaches across me to grab a second board, his body brushing mine—solid and warm and too close not to want. My legs tighten instinctively, but I force myself to focus. If he can keep it together, so can I. Probably.
“So what’s your secret?” I ask, slicing the first fruit as thin as I can manage to find juicy, blue flesh under the white rind. “Did you take culinary classes in secret while I thought you were doing mission briefings?”
“No,” he chuckles. “But I cooked with my mother a lot before she and my father retired to Kanin. When I came back to help out with the meadery, I picked it right back up again—especially growing all my own food.”
“It’s sexy.”
He snorts. “You think everything I do is sexy.”
“That’s because it is.”
Garrik shakes his head, but his antennae are still tinged pink. “You’re distracting.”
“Says the guy rolling dough like it owes him money.”
He coughs, clearly remembering the way I moaned earlier.
I keep chopping, pleased with myself.
The kitchen feels warmer now—not just from the oven but from us.
From the tension sparking between every movement, every accidental brush of knees or fingers.
He glances at me again when I lick juice from my thumb.
I glance at him when he lifts the flatbread to check the crispness, the motion making his forearms flex.
This? This is foreplay.
And I’m reveling in it.
“Alright,” Garrik murmurs after a moment, sliding the flatbread onto a wood-plated board. “Glaze is ready. Wine’s chilled. You’ve officially survived your prep trial.”
“Do I get a reward?” I ask, swinging my legs, letting the dress flutter.
He leans close, lips near my ear. “Later.”
I shiver. “You promise?”
“I’ve been promising all day.”
And with that, he slides the finished bread onto two plates, adds the greens and roots with those steady, precise hands, and passes me a full glass of wine.
“For the lady,” he says, mock-formal.
I raise my glass. “To future meals and unfinished promises.”
He clinks his glass with mine, flashing me a crooked grin. “To dessert.”
We take our plates to the small table near the window, light spilling in from the garden. Garrik lights a little votive candle—like this is a real date.
And the food? Well…it’s good. Like really, really good. The flatbread is warm and crisp, flecked with herbs and drizzled with a glaze that tastes like lemon and roses. The greens are earthy and bright with spice. The moonberry wine is rich and heady, warming me up in the best way.
But it’s not really about the food, is it?
It’s the way he watches me. The way he wipes a smear of glaze off my lip with his thumb.
The way he barely touches his own plate until I’ve had seconds and praised him for being “ridiculously hot and a domestic god.”
“Davrin’s never going to let me live this down,” Garrik mutters after I make an obscene noise about the roasted roots.
“Oh, I’m telling everyone,” I say cheerfully. “Your family’s going to know exactly how spoiled I am.”
“They already do.”
That makes me pause. “Yeah?”
Garrik looks at me, his face a little softer now—hesitant, even, which is crazy because I am so head over heels for this man.
“Pan thinks you’re moving in. Flora keeps calling you my girlfriend.
And Davrin…” He shakes his head with a smile.
“Davrin’s already asked me what kind of ring I think you’d want. ”
My chest goes tight in the best way.
I take a sip of wine to hide the emotion in my throat, then say, “Well. If you keep feeding me like this, I might start thinking about it.”
Garrik grins. “Noted.”
“And Davrin?”
“Yeah?”
“I like sparkles and the color green,” I whisper.
His smile is so big I think it might break something.
We linger at the table long after we’ve finished eating, fingers twined on the tabletop, the last of the wine sipped slowly between stolen glances and lazy conversation.
He tells me about the pollen yield this season and how Little Wing’s been acting like queen of the whole garden.
I tell him about a particularly ridiculous book I read once where the heroine seduced a warlord using only baked goods and scented paper.
“Tempting,” he says, deadpan. “But I think I prefer your current strategy.”
“Which is?”
“Flushed cheeks. No panties. Reading smut while I cook.”
I laugh so hard I nearly choke on the last of my wine.
When the plates are cleared and the candle’s burned down low, I follow him back into the kitchen where he rinses everything in the deep basin sink. I dry. We don’t talk much now. There’s no need.
It’s quiet. Comfortable.
Like we’ve done this a hundred times.
Like we’ll do it a hundred more.
When the last dish is put away, he turns to me with that same quiet awe he’s had since the garden. “Come here,” he murmurs.
I do.
And when he lifts me into his arms—when he carries me to bed—I don’t feel like a guest.
I feel like I belong.