Chapter 30 Daniela
DANIELA
The next morning, I’m back at culinary school.
The air outside is already warm, the kind of sticky Austin heat that wraps itself around you like cling film, but inside the building it’s cooler—smelling faintly of bleach from the mop buckets the janitors roll through every morning.
When I step into the kitchen classroom, the smell changes. Cocoa powder. Freshly opened bags of flour. Stainless-steel counters gleam under the fluorescents, each one already set with mixing bowls and measuring cups.
I scan the room. No Jordan.
Odd. He’s usually here early, fiddling with his knives or wiping down his station like he’s prepping for a health department inspection.
Chef Charleston stands at the front, a big silver mixing bowl cradled in one arm. “Good morning, class. Today we’re applying heat.” His voice carries to every corner of the room.
That earns a few chuckles—after technique drills, measurements, and ingredient lectures, this is what everyone’s been waiting for.
“We’re making chocolate cake. From scratch. No boxed mix. If I see a box in this kitchen, I will throw it out the window and you with it.”
That gets a louder laugh.
For a second, I’m somewhere else. Another kitchen.
The heat of the ovens, the smell of melting chocolate, the sound of a whisk cutting through egg whites.
Chef leaning over me, murmuring about folding, about patience, about respect for the rise.
The memory comes so quickly I almost taste the soufflé again.
And as always, with my memories of Chef, I also taste his disgusting dick.
I shove it all aside.
Chef Charleston glances at the headcount and frowns. “Looks like we’ve got an odd number. Daniela, you can work with Gina and Lavender today.”
I move toward their station. Gina is already reaching for the sugar. Lav gives me her bright, friendly smile.
“Wonder where your admirer is,” Gina says, pouring sugar into the mixing bowl.
I raise a brow. “Jordan?”
“Yeah.” She smirks. “Maybe he’s still sulking about the waterpark.”
Lav giggles. “Or maybe he finally realized you’re not interested.”
I pull an apron over my head. “I made it clear from the start we were just friends. Now I’m not sure I even want that anymore.”
Gina whistles low. “Ouch. Poor guy.”
“Poor guy can take a hint,” I say, tugging the apron strings tight.
Chef Charleston claps his hands. “Listen up. The cake is only as good as your ingredients. Chocolate is the soul of this dessert, so choose wisely. Belgian and Swiss chocolates have a silky, buttery texture, and they melt in your mouth. Mexican and Latin American varieties? Earthy, sometimes with cinnamon or chili notes. American chocolate tends to be brighter, with a hint of tang. Think Hershey’s.
African cocoa has a deep and wine-like richness.
Every choice changes the story your cake tells. ”
Lav leans toward me and whispers, “I didn’t know cake had a story.”
“Everything has a story,” I murmur back.
We settle on a blend—half Belgian, half Latin American—melting the chocolate gently over a double boiler. I stir, watching the chunks soften into a thick gloss. The fragrance wafts up. Good and bad. The fragrance itself is good. The memory it evokes? Not so much.
Yeah. Good and bad.
Gina measures the flour while Lav sifts.
“Don’t overmix once the flour’s in,” I say, more out of habit than anything else. “It toughens the crumb.”
Gina laughs. “Yes, Chef.”
We cream butter and sugar until it’s pale and fluffy, fold in eggs one at a time, and then add the melted chocolate. The batter turns thick and decadent, clinging to the spatula in slow ribbons.
“Perfect,” I say.
Chef Charleston comes by, watching as we scrape the batter into our prepared pans. “Good texture, ladies. Now into the oven. And remember, don’t open the door too soon or you’ll regret it.”
The cakes go in, and the smell fills the room. Gina and Lav lean against the counter, chatting about weekend plans. I listen without adding much while keeping my eyes on the oven window.
When the timer dings, we pull our cakes out. The tops are even, the sides pulling just slightly from the pans. After our cooling time has elapsed, Chef Charleston inspects ours first. He cuts into the center, takes a bite, and nods. “Excellent. Moist crumb, good balance of flavors.”
Lav grins. “We’re a good team.”
Gina nudges me. “You’re the secret weapon.”
I shrug. “Not my first time.” I don’t elaborate.
We break for lunch and head to the cafeteria. Gina and Lav unpack elaborate salads and sparkling water. I’ve got a turkey sandwich and an apple
Lav looks up, her gaze fixed on the doorway. “Speak of the devil.”
Jordan walks in.
His usual posture is gone—no easy smile, no confident stride. His shoulders are tight, his jaw clenched.
He heads straight for our table.
“Where have you been?” Gina asks, spearing a cherry tomato.
He drops into the chair next to me. “Had to go to the police station.”
I set my sandwich down. “For what?”
He stares at the table. “I noticed a truck following me yesterday morning. Then I get home from my church gig, and a neighbor alerted me to a guy skulking around the house while I was gone.”
Lav’s mouth falls open. “Seriously?”
I say nothing. Already I know it was Hawk.
Jordan raises his head and turns fully toward me now, his voice low but edged. “So tell me. What the hell was your boyfriend doing stalking me yesterday?”