CHAPTER EIGHT
K RU
I may be a chef on various reality TV shows, but I'm starting to think my true calling is as a fence enthusiast.
Because holy shit, what happened at my rental home’s fence line last night has been playing on repeat in my brain all fucking morning.
Piper Keegan kissed me. Well, technically I kissed her, but she was the one who leaned in first, who made those soft little noises in the back of her throat that drove me absolutely insane. The same noises she made back in Cleveland when we—
"Kru, you with me?" Pat, the producer, snaps his fingers in front of my face. "We need to finalize the shot list for today."
"Yeah. Sorry." I run a hand through my hair, trying to focus. "Where were we?"
"Final walk-through. We'll get some B-roll of you checking out the final details in each area of the building and then on the patio.
" Pat gestures broadly as he speaks, visualizing the shots. "I want to have a nice sit-down in the kitchen too. Something emotional. You’re good at waxing poetic about ingredients.”
I snort laugh. I’ve offered up plenty of impassioned monologues about garlic and gastropubs and all manner of food service since we started filming. I’m one rant away from starting my own podcast.
“Just say the word, and I’ll give you a thirty-minute ode to your food item of choice. Plus a food joke as a bonus.”
Pat snorts. “The food jokes will play well with the audience, I can already tell. You got a new one for today?”
I think, accessing the compendium within me. “Which potato makes the best detective?” After Pat shrugs, I say, “The one whose eyes are peeled.”
There are a couple groans, which only make me laugh.
"If we're lucky, your feisty neighbor will make an appearance," he adds with a smirk. “She sure acts different when you’re not around, I’ve noticed. It’s like night and day when we’re filming over there.”
Pat has roped in a new part-time camera crew to begin capturing footage over at Piper’s shop.
I’m glad that she’s getting a slice of the pie too—even if her spot will end up more of a footnote than a feature like mine—because I still feel bad for ousting her from the apartment.
Maybe I view it as my secret olive branch, because she certainly doesn’t give me a chance to explain myself.
But she’ll take the time to suck your face off.
Fuck. Those kisses. A shiver runs down my spine, and I’m half-hard from the memory. Not great when I’m running through the day’s shooting plan with Pat.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, she’s not exactly a superfan of Ray’s.”
Though maybe that’ll change after last night. Even though nobody but us knows what happened across the fence.
We go through the rest of the shot list, but my mind keeps drifting to that strawberry blonde caught in the rose bush, to soft lips and eager moans, to the way she'd melted against me like she’s been dying for it since Cleveland just as much as I have.
And her radio silence this morning? Annoying, but not unexpected.
As soon as Pat leaves to address something with the crew outside, I decide I need coffee.
I’m going straight to Cloud Nine.
The bell on Piper's shop door jingles when I push it open.
The smell hits me immediately—sugar and vanilla and something distinctly her.
Her shop is busy with the mid-morning crowd, perfect lighting streaming through the windows, illuminating the selfie wall with its impossibly photogenic marshmallow and moss display.
Everyone's got their phones out. I can just imagine the social media tags flying, the shares, the filters enhancing the photos being uploaded.
She’s got a winning combo in here, and she knows it.
Piper is behind the counter in a crisp white apron, her strawberry blonde hair swept up into a messy bun that somehow looks completely intentional. She doesn't even glance my way. She's too busy piping something onto a tray of marshmallows, her steady hands betraying years of practiced precision.
"Good morning," I say, sliding up to the counter.
She jolts like I've shocked her, nearly ruining whatever design she was creating. "Oh my— Crouton. It’s you.” Her cheeks flush a shade of pink that matches some of her more colorful confections. "What do you want?"
"Coffee. Black." I pause. "Do you greet all your customers like this?”
“No. Just the ones who kick me out of my apartment and habitually block access to my main source of revenue.”
So we’re back to that. “Can we talk about what happened last night?"
Her eyes dart to her customers, then back to me. "There are people here, Kru."
"So?"
"So I'm not discussing my personal life in front of paying customers."
"When would you prefer to discuss it?"
She rolls her eyes and busies herself with pouring my coffee. "I've been working. Some of us can't just wander around whenever we feel like it."
"I'm working too."
"Seems more like you’re annoying me." She slides the coffee across the counter. "Four dollars."
I hand her a ten and don't bother collecting the change. "You know, most people who spend the night with their tongues down each other's throats don't pretend it didn't happen the next day."
The old lady behind me gasps. Piper's face goes from pink to crimson in half a second.
"Oh my god. Can you please—" She lowers her voice to a hiss. "Can you please just go back to your side of the building?"
"Fine." I take a sip of the coffee. It's good—better than whatever we've been brewing in our kitchen. "But we should talk about this."
"There's nothing to talk about."
I lean in, dropping my voice low enough that only she can hear. "If you want to take this back to the fence, just say the word. Nobody has to know."
Her mouth falls open, and I can see the exact moment her brain short-circuits. It's delicious. She looks like she wants to leap over the counter and either slap me or rip my clothes off. Maybe both.
"You're impossible," she finally manages.
"But I could make something else possible if you want."
"Go. Away."
"Thanks for the coffee, Piper." I give her a wink and turn to leave, but not before I see her reach for a nearby tray. I imagine she’s weighing whether throwing it at my head would be worth the mess. I escape unscathed—and still as horny as she left me last night.
Back at my restaurant, Pat is still reviewing the day’s plan with the camera crew.
I duck into the kitchen, away from their lenses for a moment of peace.
My brain is still buzzing with Piper—the curve of her lips, the flush on her cheeks.
She wants me. I know she does. This push and pull between us is just foreplay, and we both know how that story ends.
I just can’t figure out why she’s still insistent on acting like last month in Cleveland never happened, and it’s driving me fucking nuts.
Truth is, I shouldn’t care. I don't have time for this. I've got a restaurant to open, a show to film, a reputation to build. The last time I let a woman get under my skin, I nearly lost everything I'd worked for. I still haven't fully recovered from that tailspin.
And yet.
There's something about Piper Keegan that makes me want to throw caution to the wind.
The memory of those two nights in Cleveland, when neither of us knew each other's names but somehow understood each other perfectly, haunts me harder than a Victorian ghost in a dilapidated mansion.
Or maybe it's because she's the first woman since Vanessa who's made me feel like there might be someone worth risking my heart for again.
I'm still contemplating this when my phone buzzes in my pocket. It's a text from Maverick, checking in on me.
MAVERICK: Cameras are getting good stuff? Producer called me for a cameo.
KRU: Everything’s chill today. Getting final shots before we open.
MAVERICK: Glad to hear.
KRU: I did visit my neighbor…
Three dots appear immediately.
MAVERICK: Trouble in paradise? Or maybe just pure paradise…
I laugh out loud at that. He heard all about what happened at the fence last night. He and Scarlett are rooting for this match, but I’m not sure it’s the wisest thing. I want Piper, but part of me thinks I should be smart…and single.
KRU: If paradise includes a hostile marshmallow maven.
MAVERICK: That could be a cool new restaurant concept…
I laugh again and shove the phone back in my pocket without answering.
He's getting me back on track, even if he doesn’t realize it. I can't afford to get sidetracked, not when I'm this close to everything I've worked for. The restaurant, the show, my name on the map—it's all happening. A girl with killer curves and a talent for marshmallows is not part of the plan.
Even if she kisses like she was made for me.
Even if I can't stop thinking about her.
Even if I haven't felt this alive in years.
Pat comes barreling into the kitchen with the camera crew, interrupting my doomed train of thought. It’s time to get back to work.
We spend some time with me inspecting the gleaming corners of the freshly installed kitchen—pointing out equipment, opening cabinets, entering the walk-in fridge.
We move into the front of house, inspecting the wooden chairs, pointing out the grain on the tabletops, highlighting the pieces of art and why I contracted Wisconsin artists.
After a few stints on the patio and some retakes along the way, we’ve got our content for the day.
Now comes the next item on my to-do list: interviewing potential new staff.