Chapter 17
River Stone
I stare at my monitor, watching the same thirty seconds of footage for what must be the fifth time, but I’m not really seeing it. My attention keeps drifting to the clock in the corner of the screen.
Five forty-five. Kiera will be here in fifteen minutes.
I save my work and lean back in my chair, letting myself think about the past few days instead of pretending I’m actually accomplishing anything.
Friday, I gave her pomegranate molasses.
She made this delicious lamb dish with a pomegranate glaze that was sweet and tangy and complex in a way that made me close my eyes with the first bite.
Then for dessert, she whipped up pomegranate panna cotta with pistachios that looked like something from a fancy restaurant.
Saturday was matcha powder. That one didn’t go as well initially. She tried to make matcha macarons, and they came out bitter and chalky. I could see the exact moment she realized they were terrible—her whole face fell, and she set down the failed cookie like it had personally betrayed her.
But then something amazing happened. Instead of making excuses or giving up, she squared her shoulders and asked if she could stay late to try again.
We spent another three hours in the kitchen while she adjusted the recipe, tested different ratios, researched techniques on her phone.
The second batch came out perfect—delicate green shells with a subtle earthy sweetness and a creamy white chocolate filling.
I offered to pay her for the extra time, and she looked at me like I’d suggested something ridiculous. “This is for me,” she said. “I need to know I can fix my mistakes under pressure.”
That’s the thing about Kiera. She’s tougher than she thinks she is.
Yesterday was yuzu—these Japanese citrus fruits that taste like a cross between lemon, mandarin, and grapefruit. She made yuzu kosho chicken with a citrus rice that was bright and refreshing and unlike anything I’d ever tasted before.
Each day, watching her work through the challenges, seeing her confidence grow—it’s been incredible.
The way her face lights up when she nails a dish.
The way she bites her bottom lip when she’s concentrating.
The way she’s started to trust her instincts more instead of second-guessing every decision.
We haven’t kissed since that night with Skyler. Part of me is dying to kiss her again, to pull her close and feel that electric connection we had on the living room floor. But I know she needs time. She needs to set the pace, to feel in control of whatever this is becoming between us.
And honestly? Just being near her is enough right now. The way she laughs at my terrible jokes. The comfortable silences while we do dishes together. The moments when our hands brush and she doesn’t immediately pull away like she used to.
We’re building something. Slowly, carefully, but it’s real.
The doorbell rings, and my heart does this silly leap in my chest. She’s early. I practically jump out of my chair and head down the hallway, trying not to look too eager. But I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face as I reach for the doorknob.
I pull the door open, my greeting already forming on my lips.
I freeze.
It’s not Kiera.
My mother stands on my doorstep in a cream-colored suit that probably costs more than most people’s monthly rent, her blonde hair pulled back in a bun. She’s holding the handle of one designer suitcase, and behind her on the driveway, I can see three more pieces of matching luggage.
“Surprise, darling,” she says, her smile sharp and practiced. “I managed to catch an earlier flight.”
My stomach drops. She’s a day early. She wasn’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow afternoon. I specifically planned around that. I was going to have tonight with Kiera, one more normal evening before everything got complicated.
“Mother.” The word comes out strangled. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
“I know. Isn’t it wonderful?” She sweeps past me into the entryway without waiting for an invitation, her heels clicking on the hardwood. “The airline had a cancellation, and I thought, why wait? I wanted to come see you.”
Of course she did. Because planning ahead, giving me advance notice, considering that I might have other plans—that would be too considerate. This is classic Mother. Show up unannounced, throw everyone off balance, maintain control of the situation.
It’s a power play. It always is.
“Let me help you with your luggage,” I say, because what else can I do? I can’t exactly tell her to leave.
I head out to the driveway and grab two of the suitcases. They’re heavier than they look, packed with what I’m sure are multiple outfit changes for every possible social situation she might encounter.
“How long are you planning to stay again?” I ask, hauling the luggage inside.
“Just until Saturday morning, darling. I have a charity luncheon I absolutely cannot miss.” She’s already moving through the entryway into the living room, her eyes scanning everything with the critical assessment of an art appraiser examining a questionable piece.
I set the suitcases down and watch her take in my house. The open living room. The modern furniture. The floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the backyard and the slice of ocean beyond.
Her lips purse slightly. “Well. It’s certainly... spacious.”
That’s not a compliment. That’s Mom-speak for “You’ve wasted your money on something garish.”
“The modern aesthetic is very popular these days,” she continues, running one perfectly manicured finger along the back of my couch. “Though I suppose if one likes that sort of stark, impersonal look, it’s adequate.”
Stark. Impersonal. Adequate.
I should defend my choices. Should tell her that I love this house, that it’s the first place I’ve ever lived that actually feels like mine instead of some extension of my parents’ expectations. Should point out that the “modern aesthetic” is clean and functional and exactly what I wanted.
But I don’t. Because I learned a long time ago that arguing with my mother is like trying to win a debate with a lawyer who’s already decided the verdict. She always has the last word. Always finds a way to make me feel small and uncertain.
So I just say, “I’m glad you made it here safely.”
She turns to face me, her expression softening into something that might pass for maternal affection if you didn’t know her well. “Show me where I’ll be staying, darling. I’d like to freshen up before dinner.”
“Of course.” I grab her largest suitcase and head toward the stairs. “The guest room is this way.”
We’ve just reached the top of the stairs when the doorbell rings. My stomach plummets.
Kiera.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Six o’clock exactly.
“Were you expecting someone?” Mother asks, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes. My—” I pause, searching for the right word. What is Kiera? My chef? My friend? The girl I’m falling for but haven’t actually defined anything with yet? “My cook. She’s a friend who is practicing for culinary school. She comes every evening to make dinner.”
“Your cook.” Mother’s tone suggests she finds this both amusing and somehow beneath me. “How resourceful. Though I’m surprised you didn’t just hire a proper chef service.”
Because I don’t want a “proper chef service.” Because having her here isn’t just about the food. Because I look forward to these evenings more than I’ve looked forward to anything in years.
But I don’t say any of that.
The doorbell rings again.
“You should answer that, darling. We wouldn’t want to keep the help waiting.”
The help. Like Kiera is some nameless servant instead of the most talented, hardworking, extraordinary person I’ve ever met.
I set down the suitcase at the top of the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”
I practically run down the stairs and across the living room, my heart hammering. This is bad. This is really bad. Mother’s already in full judgment mode, and Kiera’s about to walk into the middle of it.
I pull open the door, and there she is. Pink-streaked hair falling to her shoulders, jeans and a t-shirt, her bag slung over one shoulder. She’s smiling, that genuine smile I’ve been getting more of lately, and it makes my chest ache.
“Hey,” she says. “Have another mystery ingredient challenge for me?”
“Kiera.” I step out onto the porch and pull the door partially closed behind me, lowering my voice. “My mother is here.”
Her smile falters. “I thought she wasn’t coming until tomorrow.”
“She wasn’t. She caught an earlier flight.” I run a hand through my hair. “Look, if you want to come back another time, we can reschedule. I can pay you for tonight anyway, and—”
Kiera laughs. Actually laughs, like I’ve said something ridiculous. “River, don’t be silly. I’m here to cook. Your mom being here doesn’t change that.”
“You don’t understand. She’s—” I struggle to find the right words. “She can be difficult. And she’s already making comments about the house, and I don’t want her to—”
“To what? Be rude to me?” Kiera’s eyes are kind but firm. “I can handle rude people, River. I’ve dealt with way worse than someone’s judgmental mother.”
She says it so matter-of-factly, and I know she’s thinking about her own parents. About being kicked out and called a harlot. About people in her hometown whispering and pointing.
I can tell she’s thinking my mother’s subtle condescension is nothing compared to that.
But she doesn’t know my mother. The thought of Mother looking at Kiera with that dismissive expression, making those backhanded comments—it makes me want to bundle Kiera back to her car and shield her from it all.
“Come on.” Kiera reaches out and squeezes my arm gently. “Let’s go in. I promise I won’t let her get to me.”
Before I can respond, she’s walking past me into the house.