Chapter 12
Kiera Emmerson
I lean against River’s kitchen counter, my fingers automatically finding the pink streak in my hair and twirling it around my index finger. The nervous habit is on full display today, and I can’t seem to stop myself.
River disappeared into the pantry about thirty seconds ago with instructions to “wait right there.” I assume he’s getting my mystery ingredient.
I slept in my own apartment last night. My own bed, in my own space, with no one else around.
It should have felt amazing—liberating, even.
Instead, I lay awake for hours staring at the ceiling, my mind replaying every moment from yesterday.
The almost-kiss on the staircase. The way River’s hands felt on my waist. How he looked at me when I cut my finger, like I was something precious that needed protecting.
The way I wanted to kiss him so badly my chest hurt.
I twist the pink strand tighter around my finger. This is fine. Everything is fine. Today is just about cooking. Professional development. Nothing more.
“Okay,” River’s voice calls from the pantry. “Are you ready?”
“I’ve been ready.” I cross my arms, forcing my hand away from my hair. “Stop being so dramatic.”
“Dramatic? Me?” He emerges from the pantry, one hand behind his back, and there’s this mischievous sparkle in his eyes that makes my stomach flip. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“River. Just give it.”
“Fine, fine.” He brings his hand forward with a flourish, revealing a small bouquet of lavender tied with twine. The purple flowers are fresh, fragrant, and utterly beautiful. And totally not what I was expecting.
I stare at the lavender. At the delicate purple blooms and the careful way he’s tied them together. I was expecting some rare vegetable or something. Is he… actually giving me flowers? Something warm and terrifying unfurls in my chest, and I take a step back. This isn’t right.
“They’re lovely,” I say, and my voice comes out higher than normal. “But River, I can’t accept flowers from you. We talked about this—I want to keep our relationship professional. You’re my employer, and I’m your chef, and flowers would just complicate—”
“What?” River’s eyes go wide, and pink creeps up his neck. “No, Kiera, I—this isn’t—” He holds the lavender out farther, like that will somehow clarify things. “This is the mystery ingredient.”
Heat floods my face so fast I’m surprised I don’t spontaneously combust. “Oh.”
“It’s for cooking,” he says, and now he’s the one who won’t quite meet my eyes. “Like we talked about last night.”
“Right.” I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. “Of course. The mystery ingredient. That makes so much more sense.”
We stand there in awkward silence for approximately three thousand years, or maybe just five seconds. I can’t tell. Time has stopped having meaning in my mortification.
Then River laughs. He’s not mocking me. It’s a genuine laugh, warm and sweet, and it breaks the tension like a knife through butter.
“Honestly, that’s kind of adorable that you thought I was trying to give you flowers.
Though now I’m wondering if I should have just committed to the bit and pretended that was always the plan. ”
“Please don’t.” I press my hands to my flaming cheeks. “I’m embarrassed enough as it is.”
“Don’t be.” He sets the lavender on the counter between us, his smile softening into something gentle. “Besides, if I were going to give you flowers as a romantic gesture, I’d do way better than this.” He cringes, like he didn’t mean to say that.
I don’t know what to do with that, so I ignore it entirely and focus on the lavender. “So this is what I’m working with today?”
“Yeah, but—” His smile falters, and worry creeps into his expression.
“Actually, maybe this is too hard for a first mystery ingredient. I was thinking it would be a good challenge, but culinary lavender can be tricky if you’re not used to it.
I read that too much and it makes everything tastes like soap.
We could do something easier? I have lemons.
Or mushrooms. Those are way more straightforward. ”
“No.” I reach for the lavender, bringing it to my nose and inhaling the sweet, floral scent. “This is perfect. I’ve heard of cooking with lavender before—I’ve just never tried it myself. That’s the whole point of this exercise, right? Learning to adapt?”
“Are you sure? Because I really don’t mind—”
“River.” I point toward the hallway with my free hand. “Go. Do your editing thing. Let me work.”
“But what if you need—”
“I’ll figure it out. That’s literally what this challenge is supposed to teach me.” I make a shooing motion. “Out. I can’t concentrate with you hovering and second-guessing your own idea.”
He holds up his hands in surrender, backing toward the hallway. “Okay, okay. I’m going. But if you need anything—”
“I’ll yell. Now go.”
He disappears down the hallway, and I hear the door to his editing room close. Finally. I set the lavender on the counter and pull out my phone, immediately opening Google.
Cooking with lavender goes into the search bar, and I scroll through results. Most of them are for desserts—lavender shortbread, lavender ice cream, lavender honey. Sweet things that showcase the floral notes. But I need something for dinner, something substantial.
I keep scrolling. Lavender chicken catches my eye, and I click through to a recipe because I’m pretty sure River has chicken in the fridge.
It’s lavender-honey roasted chicken with herbs.
The recipe calls for fresh lavender, honey, garlic, lemon, and thyme.
I read through the instructions carefully, mentally cataloging what I’ll need.
I open River’s fridge and survey the contents. Chicken breasts. Fresh thyme in the herb drawer. Lemons. Garlic. I check the cupboard for honey. He has three different kinds because of course he does. Everything I need is here.
For a side dish, I spot fingerling potatoes in the pantry. An idea sparks. Roasted potatoes with lavender salt. I saw a chef do that on a YouTube video. I can make the salt by grinding dried lavender with sea salt—it’ll be subtle but complementary to the chicken without overwhelming the dish.
I pull out all the ingredients and line them up on the counter, then start prepping.
The chicken breasts get pounded to an even thickness—a trick I learned from watching cooking shows.
Even thickness means even cooking, which is essential when you’re trying to impress judges.
Or your employer who’s paying you thirty dollars an hour.
While I work, I hear music coming from River’s editing room, and it sounds suspiciously like Fall Out Boy. I can’t help it, I smile to myself. It’s really cute that he’s playing the music I said I liked.
I strip the lavender flowers from their stems, being careful to only use the buds. I read that too much stem will make everything bitter. I set aside a small amount to dry in the oven for the lavender salt, then mince the rest for the chicken marinade.
Thirty minutes later, the kitchen is filled with the scent of lavender, honey, and herbs. It smells like summer and gardens and something I can’t quite name but makes me feel hopeful anyway.
I’m so focused on arranging the potatoes on their baking sheet that I don’t hear River come back into the kitchen until he speaks.
“Wow. That smells wonderful.”
I jump slightly, nearly dropping the potato in my hand. “I thought you were editing.”
“I was. But I got curious about what you were doing with the lavender.” He leans against the counter, watching me arrange the potatoes with careful precision. “What are you making?”
“Lavender-honey roasted chicken with roasted fingerling potatoes.” I place the last potato on the sheet. “And I’m making lavender salt for the potatoes. The buds are drying in the oven.”
River moves closer, peering at the baking sheet of drying lavender. “That’s genius. How did you come up with that?”
“Google,” I admit. “And a little bit of logic. The lavender needs to be subtle with potatoes or it’ll taste like you’re eating a potpourri sachet. The salt will give just enough flavor without overpowering everything.”
“You’re really good at this.” His voice is genuine. “The way you think about flavors and how they work together—that’s not something you can just Google. That’s talent.”
Heat creeps up my neck, but this time it’s not from embarrassment. “It’s just dinner.”
“No.” He picks up one of the raw lavender stems I set aside and twirls it between his fingers. “You took a potentially tricky ingredient and turned it into something that smells amazing. That’s exactly what you’ll need to do in the competition.”
I want to argue, to deflect the compliment with sarcasm, but my phone rings before I can. I wipe my hands on a dish towel and pull it from my pocket. Kiki’s name flashes on the screen.
“Hey,” I answer, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I slide the potatoes into the oven. “What’s up?”
“Kiera, I need a huge favor.” Kiki’s voice is higher than normal, stressed. “I know this is last minute, and I know you’re busy setting up your apartment and everything, but—”
“What’s wrong?”
“The ice cream shop.” She’s talking fast, words tumbling over each other.
“The cardboard ice cream shop I’ve been designing for a client—they moved up the deadline.
It needs to be done by Friday morning instead of next week, and I’m nowhere near finished.
I have to work late tonight, like really late, and Tobias is still on his business trip, and—”
“You need me to watch Skyler.” I glance at the clock on the oven. Almost seven.
“I’m so sorry. I know you’re busy, and I wouldn’t ask if I had any other option, but—”
“Kiki, it’s fine. Of course I’ll watch her. When do you need me there?”