Chapter 14 #2
“I just stood there,” I continue. “Trying to figure out if I’d ordered wrong or if this was a test.”
“It’s a test,” she says immediately. “We don’t trust people who order black.”
“I took one sip and felt my molars vibrate.”
She laughs. Not polite. Real.
“And that,” I say, nodding toward the lobster, “is what’s happening to you.”
Jane's glaring at me. The lobster dangles from her fist like a sad, antennaed pendulum.
“You’re comparing my culinary standards to your lactose and sugar confusion.”
“I’m saying,” I reply evenly, “every place has rules. You just met the island’s version.”
She sets the lobster down on the counter. Hard.
She's trying not to smile. Failing beautifully.
This. Right here.
Not last night when she curled against me in the dark. Not this morning when I watched her hips move against me in the kitchen.
Watching her have a full meltdown over crustacean anatomy, looking at me like I'm both the problem and the only solution—
I love her.
And she has absolutely no idea how much I love watching her like this.
“I had a plan,” she mutters, pacing now, wooden spoon in hand like she’s about to lecture a room full of culinary interns. “I assumed it’d be Maine lobsters. Proper Maine lobsters. For Boston Lobster Pie.”
She gestures toward the cooler.
“Butter. Cream. A splash of sherry. Ritz crackers—”
“Ritz crackers?” I ask, carefully neutral.
She whips around. “Don’t judge me. Ritz is a New England institution. It’s structural. It matters.”
“Structural,” I repeat solemnly.
“Foundational.”
She’s already on her phone, scrolling with the focus of a trauma surgeon reviewing scans.
“The whole point is the claw meat,” she continues. “Claw is sweet. Tender. It folds into cream without tightening. That’s what makes the pie work. It’s delicate. It’s nostalgic. It tastes like holidays and someone arguing about the Red Sox in the background.”
I blink. “That’s… specific.”
“It’s accurate,” she snaps. Then gestures at the spiny lobster and her phone. “This here says the tail meat from these Caribbean lobsters is firmer. It fights back. If I bake that in cream it’ll go dense. Chewy. Wrong.”
She glares at the lobsters like they’ve personally insulted her lineage.
“This was supposed to be my flex,” she says. “My ‘let me show you what Boston actually tastes like’ moment. And instead I have… aerodynamic sea insects.”
I cross my arms, enjoying this far too much. “They do look… efficient.”
She points the spoon at me. “Do not side with the centipede.”
I hold up my hands.
She exhales sharply, then stops pacing.
Sets her phone down on the counter.
Takes a breath.
Not flustered.
Not defeated.
Just recalibrating.
“Okay,” she says, more to herself than to me. “Spiny lobster. Firmer texture. Less sweet. All tail.”
Her eyes sharpen.
“Butter-poaching will soften it. Lemon will brighten it. Sherry still works. Ritz crumb topping stays—because I’m not surrendering the Ritz.”
“That’s brave,” I murmur.
She ignores me.
“It won’t be Boston Lobster Pie,” she says thoughtfully. “Not the original. But I can keep the flavor profile. Keep the spirit. Boston heart. Island body.”
She looks up at me then, chin lifted slightly.
“I adapt,” she says.
And there it is.
Not panic.
Not ego.
Competence.
I grin at her. “You absolutely do.”
She narrows her eyes, but there’s a spark there now.
“I didn’t take down a billionaire to lose to seafood.”
“No,” I agree. “That would be embarrassing.”
"Fine." Her shoulders square. "If the island wants to play games, I can play games."
She's scrolling again. Reading. Muttering to herself:
Boston Jane is back.
"Alright. I can work with this. I'm not making the dish I planned, but I can make a Boston-inspired version. A diplomatic lobster. A lobster with dual citizenship."
"Look at you," I say. "Adapting."
"Don't get excited. I'm still furious at it."
But she's already tying her hair up tighter, rolling the thin straps of her dress back onto her shoulders where they belong, reaching for butter like she's gearing up for combat.
"Boston-inspired butter-poached Caribbean lobster with herbed Ritz crumbs," she announces, pulling out a cutting board. "Because I'm from Boston and I will die on the Ritz cracker hill."
"Herbed Ritz crumbs? Sounds ridiculous." I arch a brow.
"It's happening. Don't fight me."
"Wouldn't dream of it. I’m just… concerned for the lobster.”
“The lobster lost the right to dignity when it showed up with claws off.”
She's chopping garlic. Fast. Confident. The knife sounds steady against the board.
"The butter-poaching adds the richness the spiny lobster naturally lacks. The Ritz crumbs keep the Boston identity. Lemon and paprika stay. I'm adapting the technique, not abandoning the soul."
She looks up at me. "This is still a Boston dish. Just... translated."
"Sounds perfect."
"It better be. I'm not starting over."
I move closer. Reach past her for the wine on the counter.
Our arms brush.
She goes still. Just for a heartbeat.
"So," I say, opening the wine. "How about the bet we talked about? Bridesmaids cry first or scream first?"
"Scream first." Jane resumes chopping. "Then cry. I want both."
"Greedy."
"Competitive."
"And the stakes?"
"Loser does something humiliatingly sweet." She glances sideways at me. "Your definition is still vague."
"I like keeping you guessing."
"That's not how bets work."
"It is now."
I pour two glasses. Hand her one.
"To diplomatic lobsters," I say.
She clinks her glass against mine. "To clawless disasters."
"To you being brilliant even when you're yelling at seafood."
She flushes. Just barely. A bloom of color across her cheekbones.
"Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like..." She waves the garlic knife vaguely in my direction. "Like you're proud of me or something."
I am. So proud the feeling barely fits inside my chest.
But I don't say that. Not yet.
Instead, I lean against the counter and watch her work.
She splits the lobster tails cleanly down the back of the shell, thumbs sliding under the meat with practiced confidence. One smooth pull and the tail comes free in a single, glistening piece.
“Raw,” she murmurs to herself. “Straight into butter. Low heat. We’re coaxing, not punishing.”
She slices the meat into thick medallions—precise, even. No hesitation.
In a shallow pan, butter melts slowly with crushed garlic and a strip of lemon zest. It doesn’t sizzle. It barely shimmers.
She lowers the lobster into the butter like she’s placing something fragile into water.
Gentle. Controlled.
No rushing.
I swallow.
She’s not flustered anymore. Not spiraling. She recalibrated and now she’s executing.
Competence looks good on her.
"You're really good at this," I say quietly.
"At cooking?"
"At everything."
She looks up. Meets my eyes.
The kitchen shrinks. The air thickens.
Then her phone buzzes.
She breaks eye contact. Checks the screen.
"They're five minutes out."
"Then let's finish this diplomatic lobster."
"Boston-inspired diplomatic lobster."
"Noted."
She's assembling now. Butter-poached chunks arranged over toasted bread rounds. The herbed Ritz crumb topping—golden, fragrant, impossibly appetizing. A sprinkle of smoked paprika. A scatter of fresh chive.
It looks like something from a food magazine. It smells like home—someone's home, the kind with family dinners and arguments about sports and laughter that rattles the windows.
The kind of home I want to build.
She sets the finished dish on the counter. Steps back.
"There. Boston-Inspired Butter-Poached Caribbean Lobster with Herbed Ritz Crumbs. Take that, island."
"The bridesmaids are going to lose their minds."
"They better. I just MacGyvered an entire regional identity."
Her phone buzzes again.
"They're here."
"Then let's go feed them diplomatic lobster and blow their minds."
She grabs the dish. Heads for the terrace.
And I follow, carrying three words I can't say and watching her be exactly who she is.
They arrive like a wave.
Four women in sundresses and sandals, talking over each other, energy crackling. Barbie leads—sharp, composed, already scanning the setup. Sloane and Merritt flank her. Katelyn trails with shopping bags and nervous eyes.
"Oh my gosh," Katelyn breathes, taking in the terrace. The flowers, the china, the glinting champagne flutes, the spread. "You did all this?"
Jane shrugs. "It's just brunch."
"It's not just brunch," Merritt says quietly. There's something in her voice—gratitude layered with disbelief that someone cared enough.
I stay back. Let Jane have this.
But I'm watching. Can't stop.
"Before we sit," Jane says, reaching for the USB drives on the side table. Professional Jane. Spine straight, voice steady, movements precise.
"Everything's here." She hands Barbie a labeled drive.
"Raw footage, timestamped to the minute.
Highlight reels with key moments clipped and zoomed.
Printed stills for quick reference." She pulls up her phone.
"Cloud backup with password protection. Active for thirty days.
The audio from both my recordings and West's phone are crystal clear on these files.
Every word. Every laugh. Everything Natalie needs to hear. "
Sloane lets out a low whistle.
"When do we tell her?" Merritt asks.
Jane pauses. Careful. "That's your call. But if it were me? Soon."
Merritt's voice drops. "She'll be devastated."
Jane meets her eyes. Gentle but unflinching. "She will. But she'll also be saved from marrying someone who doesn't respect her. That's worth the devastation."
Barbie nods once. "Then it's ours now."
Jane holds her gaze. "It's yours. You decide when and how. I've done my part."
"And if something goes sideways?"
"You call me. Anytime. Day or night."
The transfer settles between them—quiet, final. Hours of planning, careful positioning, danger. All of it passing from Jane's hands to theirs.
She's calm. Like she's navigated handoffs like this a hundred times.