CHAPTER NINE #2
"Or getting tons of conflict," Griffin says, his dark brows drawing together. "These shows thrive on drama. They're going to make you look like the villain or the victim, neither of which is good for business."
"That's not necessarily true," I argue, feeling a familiar defensive heat rising in my chest. "It's a huge amount of advertising for Cloud Nine. Do you know how many Instagram followers those shows pull in?"
"Life is more than Instagram followers," Asher says dismissively.
"Sometimes Instagram followers pay the bills,” I snap. "How do you think I built my business in the first place? Social media is how I get ninety percent of my customers."
"It's different," Dane jumps in. "You control your own social media brand. This show? They control the narrative."
"I know what I'm doing," I insist, but my voice sounds weaker than I'd like. I look to Mom for support, but she just gives me one of those noncommittal mom looks, the ones that say “I'm staying out of this” without actually saying it.
"Great," I mutter. "So you all think I'm an idiot."
"We didn't say that," Dane says quickly.
"You didn't have to."
The familiar feeling washes over me—being the baby sister, the one who's never quite trusted to make her own decisions. The one who needs four surrogate fathers checking her every move.
"Piper," Griffin starts, his voice softening. "We're just concerned—"
"I'm twenty-eight years old," I cut him off. "I run a successful business. I make my own decisions."
"Of course you do, sweetheart," Mom finally chimes in. "Your brothers are just being protective, as usual."
"We've seen these shows," Jett argues. "They're trash. They make everyone look bad."
"Well, I guess you'll just have to tune in and see," I say, trying for nonchalance but landing somewhere in the territory of petulant child. "Can we please just play cards now?"
The game resumes, but the air is thick with unspoken tension. I win again, but it doesn't feel good this time. It’s not the victory I really wanted.
Three hands later, I bow out, claiming a headache. It's not entirely untrue—my temples are throbbing from the effort of holding back my frustration.
"I'm going to head home," I say, slipping on my coat. "Early day tomorrow."
Mom walks me to the door. "Don't be too hard on them," she says softly. "They love you."
"I know," I sigh. "But loving me and respecting me as an adult are two different things."
She kisses my cheek. "For what it's worth, I think you're more than capable of handling a reality show. And if this new landlord tries anything fishy, you'll put him in his place."
I smile weakly. "Thanks, Mom."
The ride back to Griffin's house is exactly what I need—cool lake air in my face, the physical exertion of pedaling, the quiet of the tree-lined residential streets. By the time I arrive, some of my anger has subsided, replaced by a nagging doubt.
Maybe they’re right…which is exactly what I’ve been avoiding my entire life. What if I did make a stupid decision? What if the producer is just going to paint me as some annoying little pest for conflict, and I'm going to end up looking like an idiot on national television?
I store my bike in the garage, shut the door, and head inside. Griffin won't be home for at least another hour, which means I have the place to myself.
I should shower. I should call my cousin Bella to talk through this quagmire I’ve found myself in. I should go over the week's orders on my tablet.
But I don’t want to do any of those things.
Instead, I find myself wandering into the backyard. I know what I want…and it’s the one thing I shouldn’t go after. As soon as I’m outside, I can smell something cooking, unique and savory, such a blend of smells that I can’t quite place a single ingredient.
Anticipation scorches through me. Through the thinning bushes and the gaps in the chain link fence, I can see movement in the yard behind Griffin's.
A familiar silhouette stands at a grill, spatula in hand.
The glow of the flames highlights the sharp angles of his jaw, the broad span of his shoulders.
He's in a simple T-shirt and jeans, looking unfairly hot for someone just casually grilling on a Wednesday night.
Kru.
Hunger cracks open inside me, but not for food. I can’t stop thinking about the conversation we had in his restaurant.
I should go inside. I really should.
But my feet carry me closer to the fence, like there's some kind of magnetic pull between us. I'm trying to get a better view when my foot catches on something—probably the roots of that rose bush coming to claim my pants this time—and I stumble, grabbing the fence for support.
The fence jangles loudly.
Kru's head snaps up, eyes scanning the darkness until they land on me. A slow, knowing smile spreads across his face.
"Well, well, well," he calls out, "if it isn't my favorite marshmallow maven."
Heat crawls up my neck. "I was just—" I scramble for an excuse. "Looking for my golf ball."
"A golf ball?" He raises an eyebrow as he shuts the grill. He slowly approaches the fence. "In the dark?"
"Yes," I say firmly. "I golf. I was practicing my swing.”
"In this tiny backyard? With a fence in the way?"
I’m glad it’s dark and he can’t see my cheeks flaming. "It was a chip shot."
"Uh-huh." He's standing right at the fence now, close enough that I can smell the savory aroma of whatever he's cooking. "And does your brother know you play golf in his yard after dark?"
"He doesn’t care. He supports all sports, especially mine."
Kru's smile widens. "I still don’t believe you. Just admit it: you want to come over and help me test these recipes."
I should say no. "What are you making?"
"Lobster tail with a brown butter sauce." He nods back toward the patio. "It’s almost done. I'm trying to decide if it needs something else."
My mouth waters involuntarily. "Smells amazing."
"You wanna try?" He tips his head toward the grill. "There's plenty."
Again, I should say no. But I step closer to the fence without even realizing it. It jangles again as I thread my fingers through the links.
“I probably shouldn’t go farther than this,” I tell him. It makes sense in my head. If I don’t cross the fence, then this isn’t real, whatever this big, throbbing potential is between us.
If we can keep to the fence line, I’m safe.
Kru watches me with those intense eyes of his, and I fight the urge to smooth my hair, to check if I look okay. Which is ridiculous—he saw every last inch of me in Cleveland, there’s almost nothing left to hide from him at this point.
Except for the fact that this pesky attraction will not go away, no matter how much I ignore it.
“Give me a second. I’ll bring you a sample.” He heads to the grill, arranges some food on a waiting plate, brushes something over top of it all, and then takes some time to cut things up. He grabs a fork and comes back with the most gorgeous plate I’ve ever seen come out of a basic backyard grill.
The lobster tail is glistening with butter sauce. There's asparagus, too, and what looks like some kind of risotto.
"And you did all this just for a casual Wednesday solo dinner?" I ask.
"Recipe testing," he says with a shrug. "Have to make sure everything works before I put it on the menu."
He picks up a fork, stabs a small piece of lobster, and holds it out to me. "Try it."
I should take the fork from him, but something makes me lean forward instead, letting him feed me. The moment his eyes meet mine as my lips close around the fork, I know I've made a tactical error.
But then the flavor hits, and I don't care.
"Oh my god," I moan, eyes fluttering shut. I keep them shut as I savor and chew. I’m already craving more, even though I’m not hungry in the slightest.
When I open my eyes, Kru is watching me with an expression that makes my insides melt faster than the butter sauce. "Good?"
"Good doesn't begin to cover it." I'm not even exaggerating. The lobster is tender, the sauce rich with hints of herbs I can't identify. "What's in this sauce?"
"Secret recipe." He grins, forking another piece. "Have some more. I want to hear that moan again."
I clamp my mouth shut, cheeks flaming.
“Don’t act shy,” he chides. “A reaction like that is the highest compliment you can pay a chef.”
When he offers the fork again, I let him feed me. This time, I'm prepared for the flavor explosion, but it still makes me groan with pleasure.
He nods, his gaze drifting to the plate. "I'm definitely going to win Best of Bayshore with this.”
And just like that, the spell is broken.
"In your dreams," I retort. "My strawberry s'mores torte is going to blow your lobster out of the water. Besides, your lobster is missing something.” I struggle to come up with something that could possibly improve what he’s already done here. “It needs a marshmallow to win."
"Is that right?" He steps closer, and suddenly the air between us feels charged. "Care to make a friendly wager on that?"
"What kind of wager?" I shouldn't be engaging. I should walk away. But I can't help myself around him.
"If I win, you admit on camera that I’m the best.”
"And if I win?"
His eyes glint with challenge. "Name your terms, Maven."
"If I win, you have to…" I think for a moment. "You have to let me redesign your restaurant's dessert menu. With marshmallows. Lots and lots of marshmallows.”
He laughs. "You can’t be serious."
"Deal or no deal, Lobster Man?"
“Deal.”
I hold out my hand to shake on it. His grip is firm, and when I pull back, he doesn’t let go right away. The darkness disorients me, and I stumble forward. Somehow—I swear it's an accident—my face ends up inches from his.
And then, because my body is a traitor to my better judgment, my lips are on his.
The kiss is electric, sending sparks down my spine, pooling low in my belly. His mouth is warm and tastes faintly of butter and herbs, and when his tongue slides against mine, I make an embarrassing noise in the back of my throat.
His free hand comes up to cup my face, then slides into my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss. I've already got one hand fisted in his shirt, the other one clinging to the chain link fence like it’s somehow anchoring me to the world.
He breaks the kiss first, eyes dark with desire. "You should come over. Cross the fence. It’s safe, I promise."
I'm still trying to catch my breath. "That’s a bad idea."
“I promise you, it will be so good ." His thumb swipes along my cheek, and his gaze is so intense I can barely keep eye contact. “Just like you remember, Maven.”
I’m shaking my head, hoping it will knock some common sense back into me. "Nope. You've already roped me into a reality TV show. What's next, marriage?" I joke, but my heart is racing at the mere suggestion.
"One step at a time." The fact that he doesn’t balk at that word is somehow even hotter. "First comes reality show, then backyard lobster tasting, and then…”
“You forgot kicking me out of my apartment as the first step,” I correct him.
“Mm. Right.” The intensity wavers. “Sorry.”
Something about his words reminds me of my family's reaction earlier, and I step back, the moment broken.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"Nothing." I take another step back. For safety and clarity of mind. "I should go."
"Piper." His use of my actual name stops me. "Talk to me."
I hesitate, then sigh. "My family thinks I'm an idiot for agreeing to be a part of the show."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Why?"
"They think it's going to make me look bad. That it's bad for business." I wrap my arms around myself. "That I'm being manipulated."
"By me?" He looks genuinely surprised.
I don’t want to confirm that, so I say, "By the situation."
He shakes his head. "That's ridiculous. Pat and the crew are not out to start drama. Did they watch the food truck show? Because this is a totally different vibe and you know it. Besides, you're one of the smartest businesswomen I've ever met. Why would they doubt you?"
I blink at him. "You've known me for less than a month. If you can say that, you haven’t met many businesswomen."
"I don't need long to recognize talent." His voice is sincere, his eyes locked on mine. "Look at what you've built. Cloud Nine is a marketing masterpiece. Your product is unique, your branding is on point. You know exactly what you're doing."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words. "You noticed all that?"
"Of course I did. You've got a line out the door most mornings. People taking pictures with your products, tagging you on social media. The show is lucky to have you, not the other way around."
I swallow hard, oddly touched by his assessment. "I've seen your show too, you know. The food truck one."
"Yeah?" A smile tugs at his lips.
"You were good." I shrug, trying to play it casual. "Ok, you were great. I was really happy when you came back to help Maverick at the end.”
He's about to say something else when Griffin's voice carries from the back door of his house.
"Piper? You out here?"
Shit.
"I have to go," I whisper, already backing toward the house.
"Meet me at the fence tomorrow night?" Kru calls softly after me.
I don't answer. I'm too busy hurrying toward the house, pretending I was just getting some air.
But as I slip through the back door, I can't stop thinking about Kru's words, about the way he sees me—not as the baby sister who needs guidance from brothers who know better, but as a capable businesswoman who knows her worth.
It's dangerously addictive, that kind of recognition.
Almost as addictive as his kisses.
But I'm not going to be some backyard railbird with my rival. Kisses are temporary—what I’m building with my business? That lasts a lifetime. I need to stay focused, so that was the last time with Kru. It has to be.
Even if every cell in my body is already anticipating tomorrow night.