Chapter 5
Kiera Emmerson
I press River’s doorbell and immediately regret every life choice that led me to this moment.
The printed form in my hand is already getting damp from my sweaty palms, which is just perfect. Very professional, Kiera. Show up to your second day of work looking like you ran a marathon and clutching a piece of paper like it’s a life preserver.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, trying to shake off the anxiety that’s been building since I woke up this morning. Yesterday started out fine. Good, even. We ate peanut butter and jelly sushi, watched some of his documentary footage, and I managed to keep things professional.
But then he mentioned my parents, and I freaked out. I ran. I got out of there so fast that I’m pretty sure I gave myself whiplash.
River didn’t try to stop me. He just let me go. But I know he has questions, and that is only natural. I’m sure he wants to know why I live with my sister, why I don’t have contact with my parents, why I deflect every personal question like my life depends on it.
The last thing I need is River Stone looking at me with pity in those stupid gorgeous eyes when he finds out I’m the girl who got kicked out by her parents for being an idiot. The girl who slept under a bridge. The girl who was used and discarded and gossiped about and—
The door opens, and River’s standing there in jeans and a t-shirt that should be illegal because it fits him way too well. His hair is slightly messy, like he’s been frustrated while editing his footage, and there’s a hint of stubble on his jaw that wasn’t there yesterday.
“Hey,” he says, and his whole face lights up with this genuine smile that makes my stomach do gymnastics.
“Hey.” I clutch the paper tighter in my hand. “Ready to work?”
“Always.” He steps aside to let me in, and I walk past him into the house that still feels ridiculously huge.
We head to the kitchen together, and I’m hyper-aware of him walking beside me.
The house smells like coffee and something woodsy—probably his cologne or soap or whatever makes him smell annoyingly good.
Focus, Kiera. You’re here to cook, get paid, and leave. That’s it.
We reach the kitchen, and I thrust the paper at him before I can overthink it. “Here.”
River takes it, one eyebrow raising as he scans the page. “What’s this?”
“A form.” I cross my arms, going for confident but probably landing somewhere closer to defensive.
“Since you wouldn’t tell me what you actually like to eat yesterday, I made an easy questionnaire.
Fill it out so I can get a better idea of your food preferences.
Unless you want peanut butter and jelly every night for the next month. ”
His lips twitch. “The PB&J sushi was amazing.”
“It was a cop-out and you know it.” I lean against the counter. “I need real information if I’m going to practice actual cooking skills and not just get creative with children’s lunch foods.”
He’s reading through the questions now, and I can see the exact moment he realizes how thorough I was. His eyebrows climb higher.
“‘Client Preferences Form?’” he reads aloud. “‘Food allergies or restrictions? Preferred protein? Vegetables you hate? Comfort foods? Foods you’ve always wanted to try?’” He looks up at me. “This is very detailed.”
“That’s the point.”
“Did you make this last night?”
I shrug, trying to act casual even though I stayed up until 1 AM formatting this thing on Kiki’s computer and obsessing over whether I was being too controlling or not controlling enough. “It was no big deal.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s grinning now, full-on grinning in a way that makes him look even more annoyingly attractive. “This is very professional.”
“Well, you’re paying me thirty dollars an hour. Might as well take it seriously.”
“Fair point.” River opens one of the kitchen drawers—the one that’s apparently designated as the junk drawer based on the collection of pens, rubber bands, and random takeout menus I glimpse inside—and pulls out a pen. He leans against the counter and starts filling out the form.
I should probably go look through the fridge or start planning what to make. That would be the professional thing to do. Instead, I find myself drifting closer, curiosity winning over my attempt at maintaining boundaries.
River’s handwriting is neat, which surprises me for some reason. Most guys I know have chicken scratch handwriting. He writes “Korean” under favorite cuisine, and I can’t help myself.
“Korean?” The word comes out before I can stop it. “Really?”
He glances up at me, and I realize I’m basically reading over his shoulder like a nosy person. I should step back. I don’t.
“Yeah.” He says it like it’s obvious. “Korean food is so good.”
“I mean, sure, but better than Mexican? Better than Italian?” I lean against the counter beside him. “That’s a bold take, Hollywood.”
“Have you ever had really good Korean food?” he counters.
“Well,” I admit, thinking about it. “Not really.”
“You’ve never had bulgogi? Or bibimbap? Or tteokbokki?” He’s getting animated now, using his hands to emphasize his points. “The flavors are just—they’re complex. Sweet and spicy and tangy all at once. And all those little side dishes they bring out—”
I’m staring at him. “How do you know so much about Korean food?”
His enthusiasm falters slightly, and pink creeps up his neck. “I, uh. I watch Korean dramas.”
“You what?”
“Korean dramas.” He says it quieter this time, focusing very intently on filling out the next question on the form. “They’re good.”
“You watch Korean dramas.” I’m trying not to laugh, but it’s hard.
River Stone, former child actor, Hollywood pretty boy, watches Korean dramas.
I’ve heard about them, but I haven’t ever watched one.
Maybe they’re not as romantic and sappy as I’ve heard.
“Like, multiple dramas? This is a regular thing?”
“Maybe.” He’s definitely blushing now, still not looking at me. “They’re well-written. The production value is really high. And yes, the food always looks amazing, which makes me want to try it.”
“What’s your favorite one?” I ask, because I genuinely want to know now. This is the most real River has been since I met him—flustered and embarrassed and human.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, it definitely matters.” I’m grinning now, any pretense of professionalism completely abandoned. “Come on, Hollywood. What’s your favorite K-drama?”
He sighs, sets down the pen, and runs a hand through his hair. “You’re going to make fun of me.”
“Probably. But I’m going to find out eventually, so you might as well tell me now.”
“Fine.” He meets my eyes, and there’s something endearing about how genuinely embarrassed he looks. “It’s Legend of the Blue Sea. It’s about a mermaid who falls in love with a human. Happy now?”
I press my lips together, trying so hard not to laugh. I fail. The laugh bursts out of me, genuine and surprised and delighted.
“A mermaid.” I’m grinning so wide my cheeks hurt. “You watch romances about mermaids.”
“It’s not just about the mermaid,” he protests, but he’s smiling too now, sheepish and self-aware. “There’s a dual storyline and reincarnation and a whole con artist plotline—”
“But mostly it’s about a mermaid and human falling in love.”
“Mostly, yeah.” He picks up the pen again. “Go ahead. Get it out of your system.”
“Oh, I’m definitely going to be thinking about this for a while.” I’m still grinning, filing this information away. “River Stone, tough guy who lives in a five-bedroom house all alone, watches romantic K-dramas about mermaids and cries over the food.”
He scoffs. “I don’t cry over the food.”
“But you cry over the romance?”
“I—that’s not—” He stops, shakes his head, and goes back to filling out the form, his cheeks turning pink again. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I really am.”
But there’s something about this moment that feels significant. River, who seems perfect and put-together and completely out of my league, watches romantic dramas and gets embarrassed about it. It makes him feel more real. More accessible, somehow.
River finishes the form and hands it back to me. I scan through his answers—he’s surprisingly detailed. Under “Foods you’ve always wanted to try,” he’s written “Anything from a Korean drama” and drawn a little smiley face next to it.
Despite myself, despite all my best intentions to keep this professional and distant, I smile.
“Okay.” I fold the paper and tuck it into my back pocket. “This is helpful. Now go. Do your editing thing. I’ll figure out dinner.”
“Yes, chef.” He gives me a little mock salute that should be dorky but somehow isn’t.
“Go.” I make a shooing motion. “I can’t concentrate with you hovering.”
“I’m not hovering.”
“You’re standing here watching me read your food questionnaire. That’s the definition of hovering.”
He laughs but heads toward the hallway. “Call me when the food is ready?”
“That’s the plan.”
I wait until I hear the door to his editing room close before I pull out the form and read through his answers again.
Korean cuisine. Beef or chicken for protein.
Hates bell peppers but loves basically every other vegetable.
Under comfort foods, he’s written a list of items a kid would love, like chicken nuggets and hot pockets.
Then, after that, he’s written “Anything that reminds me of being a kid, before Kid Logic.”
There’s something sad about that answer that I don’t want to examine too closely. Is that why he wanted peanut butter and jelly yesterday? Did getting on a television show take something precious away from him?
I turn to the fridge and start pulling out ingredients. If River wants Korean food, I can do Korean food. Probably. I’ve never actually made Korean food before, but how hard can it be? I can find any recipe online.
That’s when I spot the jar of kimchi shoved toward the back of the fridge, behind the ridiculous collection of fancy cheeses. It’s unopened, probably from River’s panic grocery shopping expedition. Perfect.
I pull out my phone and search “easy kimchi recipes.” The first result is for kimchi fried rice, and the photos look good—the rice is slightly crispy, topped with a fried egg, and garnished with sesame seeds and green onions. It looks like it could be something from one of River’s Korean dramas.
I can do this.
The recipe is surprisingly straightforward. Cook rice (he has a rice cooker, thank goodness), sauté kimchi with garlic and ginger, add the rice and soy sauce, fry until slightly crispy. Top with an egg and whatever protein you want.
I find some good beef in his fridge and decide to grill it, cutting it into thin strips and marinating it in soy sauce, sesame oil, and a little brown sugar. While that sits, I get the rice going and start prepping the kimchi.
The kitchen fills with the sharp, spicy smell of fermented cabbage, and I catch myself smiling. This is different from anything I’ve made before. It’s challenging in a good way, making me think about flavors and techniques instead of just following a familiar recipe.
I sauté the kimchi until it’s slightly caramelized, the edges getting crispy and sweet.
Add the cooked rice, let it fry up in the pan, getting those crispy bits stuck to the bottom that the recipe says are the best part.
Meanwhile, the beef is grilling, filling the kitchen with savory, slightly sweet smoke.
I plate everything carefully—the way I see done on the television shows.
The kimchi fried rice goes into wide, shallow bowls.
I top each portion with a fried egg, the yolk still runny, and arrange the grilled beef strips artfully on top.
A sprinkle of sesame seeds, some chopped green onions, and it actually looks professional.
For the first time since I started this job, I feel proud of what I’ve made. This isn’t a cute novelty dish to humor River’s junk food cravings. This is actual cooking.
I pull out my phone and snap a few photos of the plated food, adjusting the angle to get the light right.
The egg yolk gleams, and the beef looks perfectly caramelized.
If I do end up entering that cooking competition, I’ll want documentation of what I’ve practiced.
Proof that I can actually cook real food.
“What’s that incredible smell?”
I jump slightly and turn to find River standing in the kitchen doorway, his eyes wide and focused on the food.
“Kimchi fried rice.” I can’t quite keep the pride out of my voice. “With grilled beef and a fried egg on top.”
River crosses the kitchen in three long strides, stopping at the counter to stare at the bowls like they’re works of art. “You made kimchi fried rice?”
“You said you wanted Korean food.” I gesture to the bowls. “I found the kimchi in your fridge.”
“Kiera.” He looks at me, then back at the food, then at me again.
“This looks exactly like what they eat in the dramas. The egg and the beef and—” He stops, and I swear his eyes are actually shining.
“I’ve never had this before. I’ve watched people eat it probably a hundred times, but I’ve never actually tried it. ”
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his genuine excitement. It’s not sophisticated or restrained—it’s pure, childlike enthusiasm, and it makes him impossibly more appealing.
“Well, come on then.” I pick up both bowls and head to the dining room. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
I set the bowls down at our places and sit down.
I’ve already accepted that we’re eating together, that the professional boundaries I tried to establish are basically nonexistent at this point, but I have to admit I don’t hate it.
River practically bounces into his chair, grabbing his chopsticks with more enthusiasm than I’ve seen from him yet.
He picks up a piece of the beef, examines it like it holds the secrets of the universe, and brings it toward his mouth.
I hold my breath, watching carefully as he takes his first bite.