Chapter 6
River Stone
The beef melts on my tongue. I close my eyes, savoring the perfect balance of sweet and savory, the way the soy sauce has caramelized on the edges while keeping the meat tender. The sesame oil adds this nutty richness to it.
“This is delicious,” I say, opening my eyes to find Kiera watching me with barely concealed nervousness. “Kiera, the beef is cooked to perfection. Seriously. This is restaurant-quality.”
Her cheeks flush pink, and she looks down at her own bowl. “It’s just grilled beef.”
“It’s not just anything.” I pick up another piece with my chopsticks. “You’ve got the char on the outside, but it’s still juicy inside. And the soy sauce—” I take another bite. “Yeah, this is delicious.”
She’s trying not to smile, but I can see it tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I’m glad you like it.”
Using my chopsticks, I break the egg yolk. The golden liquid spills across the rice and beef, coating everything in rich color. I stir it all together—the crispy rice, the kimchi, the beef, the runny yolk—until it’s all combined into one glorious mess.
“What are you doing?” Kiera asks, her eyebrows raised.
I pause mid-mix. “This is how they eat it in the dramas. The egg yolk is supposed to coat everything. It makes it creamier.” I gesture to her bowl with my chopsticks. “Try it.”
She looks skeptical but picks up her chopsticks and breaks her own egg yolk, watching as it spreads across the rice. Then she mixes everything together like I did, the golden yolk disappearing into the food.
She takes a bite, and her eyes widen. “Oh. Oh, wow. You’re right. That’s really delicious.”
“Right?” I take another bite of my own, and the combination of flavors and textures is perfect—the crispy rice, the tangy kimchi, the sweet beef, all bound together by that rich egg yolk. “This is exactly what I needed.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and I let myself just enjoy the moment. The food is amazing, yeah, but it’s more than that. It’s Kiera in my house, making something I’ve been wanting to try for years, looking proud of what she’s created.
“So,” I say, careful to keep my tone light and easy, “what else do you like besides cooking? What do you do for fun?”
She glances up at me, chopsticks paused halfway to her mouth. “Fun?”
“Yeah. Hobbies, interests. Things you do when you’re not working at the bakery or plotting your culinary school takeover.”
That gets a small laugh out of her. “I don’t really have hobbies.”
“Come on. There has to be something.”
She thinks about it, chewing slowly. “I like reading, I guess. Mostly mysteries. And I watch cooking shows, but I don’t know if that counts since it’s related to what I want to do anyway.”
“What’s your favorite cooking show?”
“The Great British Baking Show.” She says it without hesitation. “I love how nice everyone is to each other. It’s not all drama and competition like American shows. They just genuinely want each other to succeed.”
I smile at that. Of course Kiera would appreciate a show where people are kind to each other. “Have you ever tried making any of the technical challenges?”
“A few.” She takes another bite of rice. “I made the Mary Berry Victoria sponge once. It turned out pretty good, actually. Levi was impressed.”
“I bet it was better than pretty good.”
She shrugs, but I can see she’s pleased. “What about you? What do you do besides make documentaries and watch Korean dramas about mythical creatures who live in the sea?”
“Hey, not all of the mythical creatures live in the sea. There’s also some dramas about a gumiho,” I protest, grinning. “That’s a nine-tailed fox. Totally different.”
“Of course. My mistake.” Her tone is dry, but her eyes are sparkling with amusement.
“I like hiking,” I say. “And I collect vintage movie posters, which probably makes me sound like a film nerd.”
“You are a film nerd.”
“Fair.” I mix some more rice and egg together. “What about other aspirations? Besides culinary school, what else do you want to do with your life?”
The question seems to catch her off guard. She sets down her chopsticks and looks at her bowl. “I want to be independent. That’s my goal right now. That’s why I need that scholarship so badly.”
There’s something in the way she says it—not just wanting independence, but needing it—that makes my chest tighten.
“Why is independence so important to you?” I ask gently.
She’s quiet for a long moment, pushing rice around in her bowl. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.
“So I never have to sleep under a bridge again.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I set down my chopsticks, suddenly unable to eat. Kiera—sharp, talented, guarded Kiera—slept under a bridge. She was homeless? She’s only eighteen. How old was she when she was homeless? That must have been terrifying.
The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.
I want to ask what happened, want to know every detail so I can understand what she went through and figure out how to make sure it never happens again.
But I can see the way her shoulders have tensed, the way she’s staring at her food without seeing it.
Last time I mentioned her parents, she ran. I can’t risk that again.
“How long?” I ask quietly, because I need to know at least this much. “How long were you on the streets?”
“About six weeks.” She still won’t look at me.
“I got kicked out, so I came to the island to find Kiki, but I was too embarrassed to go to her right away. I saw her with Tobias and Skyler. I thought she had this perfect life now, and I didn’t want to ruin it by showing up, needing to crash at her place.
” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
“So I tried to make it on my own for a while. Obviously, that didn’t work out. ”
Six weeks. She survived on the streets for six weeks, and she couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen at the time. The thought makes me feel sick.
Impulsively, I reach across the table and put my hand over hers.
The moment our skin makes contact, I feel it—that electric awareness that’s been humming between us since the first time I saw her at the Barrett family dinner.
Her hand is small under mine, warm and slightly trembling.
My heart kicks up its rhythm, and I have to remind myself that this isn’t about the attraction I feel every time I’m near her.
This is about letting her know she’s not alone anymore.
But Heaven help me, I’m aware of everything. The softness of her skin. The way her fingers are curled slightly, like she’s holding herself together. The fact that she hasn’t pulled away yet, which feels like a victory and a responsibility all at once.
I want to turn my hand over, thread our fingers together, hold on to her in a way that’s more than just comfort.
I want to pull her closer, wrap my arms around her, promise her that she’ll never have to be scared or hungry or alone again.
But I can’t. Not now. Not when she’s this vulnerable, when she’s just trusted me with something so painful.
So I just keep my hand there, steady and gentle, trying to pour everything I can’t say into that simple touch.
She goes still, her eyes flicking up to meet mine. I half expect her to pull away, to throw up those walls again and shut me out. But she doesn’t. She just looks at me with those brilliant blue eyes that are trying so hard not to show how scared she still is.
“I believe in you,” I say, and I mean it with every fiber of my being. “With cooking skills like this, you’re well on your way to independence. You’re going to win that scholarship, Kiera. I know you will.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “You can’t know that.”
“Yes, I can. Because I’ve tasted your food.
Because I’ve seen the way you think about flavors and presentation.
Because you’re talented and hardworking and you actually care about what you’re doing.
” I squeeze her hand gently. “You’re going to make it.
And you’re never going to have to sleep under a bridge again. ”
She blinks rapidly, and I realize she’s fighting back tears. But she doesn’t pull her hand away. If anything, she turns her palm up slightly, letting our hands fit together more naturally.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
We sit like that for a moment, hands joined across the table, the kimchi fried rice growing cold in our bowls.
I want to tell her that she can talk to me about anything, that I’ll listen without judgment, that I’d do just about anything to help her.
But I don’t. Because words are easy, and Kiera needs more than words.
She needs proof through action that I’m going to stick around.
Her phone buzzes on the table beside her bowl, breaking the moment. She pulls her hand back and picks up her phone. I watch as her eyes widen, scanning whatever message she just received.
“Oh my gosh,” she breathes.
“What is it?”
“It’s the apartment.” She looks up at me, and her whole face has transformed.
The sadness is gone, replaced by genuine excitement.
“The studio above the bookstore. They got my application. I passed!” She reads more of the message, her smile growing wider.
“They want to know if I can walk through it tonight. Like, in an hour.”
“That’s great!” I can’t help but grin at her enthusiasm. “You should definitely go.”
“I know, I should, it’s just—” The excitement dims slightly, replaced by uncertainty.
She bites her bottom lip. “I have no idea what to look for when walking through an apartment. What if there’s something wrong with it that I don’t notice?
What if I agree to rent it and then realize it’s a disaster?
” She looks at me, and there’s vulnerability in her expression that she’s trying to hide.
“I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how to. .. adult.”
The request is there in her eyes before she says it out loud, and something warm blooms in my chest.
“Would you—” She hesitates, then pushes forward. “Would you be willing to walk through it with me? I know it’s asking a lot, and you’re probably busy, but I could really use someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone who’s rented places before and knows what to watch out for.”
I don’t even have to think about it. “Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely.” I stand up and start gathering our bowls. “Let me just clean this up real quick—”
“River, no, I should—”
“Five minutes,” I say, already heading to the kitchen. “It’ll take five minutes, and then we can go look at your apartment.”
She follows me into the kitchen, and I can feel her hovering uncertainly while I rinse the bowls.
Kiera grabs a pan and takes over the sink, rinsing the cookware, and we fall into an easy rhythm.
She scrapes and rinses the dishes, and I load everything into the dishwasher.
When we finish she’s fidgeting with her ponytail again, that nervous tell I’m learning to recognize.
“Thank you,” she says. “For coming with me. For... everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me.” I grab my keys from the counter. “Come on. Let’s go see your new place.”
As we head out to my car, I catch myself watching her from the corner of my eye. She’s excited and nervous and trying to hide both, and all I can think about is how wrong it is that someone like her—someone talented and hardworking and good—had to sleep under a bridge for six weeks.
But she’s not under a bridge anymore. She’s getting her own apartment. She’s working toward her dreams. She’s letting me help, even just a little bit.
And I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure she never has to feel that desperate or alone again.