Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Knox
The kitchen smells of thyme, searing meat, and red wine reduction. It’s a scent I have perfected over years of trial and error, designed to evoke comfort and sophistication.
Tonight, however, it does little to settle the nausea rolling in my gut.
I stand at the stove, checking the temperature of the oven for the third time in five minutes. The roast is searing perfectly, the crust forming a deep, caramelized brown, but my attention isn’t on the food. It’s on the clock.
Eli left twenty minutes ago to pick her up.
“Stop hovering,” Fallon says from behind me. “You’re going to dry out the beef just by glaring at it.”
He slides a heavy shot glass across the island toward me. The liquid inside is clear—tequila.
“I’m not hovering,” I retort, though I don’t turn away from the stove. “I am monitoring.”
“You’re vibrating,” he corrects, leaning against the counter. “Drink. It’ll take the edge off.”
I look at the shot, then at him. “I don’t need to be intoxicated to cook dinner, Fallon. I need to focus.”
“You’re too focused. You’re going to snap a towel in half with the amount of energy coming off you. I think you should’ve hit the gym before this.” He pushes the glass closer. “Just one drink. For the nerves.”
I scowl at him. I’m not nervous. I left Canada and built an entire business here. I started a fresh with no one but myself.
My family is filled with academics who debate for fun. I took part in chess competitions. I can’t be nervous over a girl.
A gorgeous girl who makes my heart want to burst right out of my chest.
Nervousness is for amateurs, for chefs who doubt their technique. I’m a professional. I run a kitchen that executes flawlessly under pressure. This should be no different.
Except it’s completely different. This isn’t about technique. This is about Amber.
I grab the shot and throw it back. The alcohol burns down my throat before settling in my stomach. I set the glass down with a decisive clink.
“Better?”
“Non. But thank you.”
I turn back to the pan. The beef is ready to go into the oven.
I open the door, sliding the heavy roasting pan inside, and check the root vegetables roasting on the rack below. Parsnips, carrots, fingerling potatoes tossed in duck fat and rosemary.
“Do you think she will actually come?” I ask the oven racks.
“Eli’s picking her up as we speak,” Fallon says. “So, yes. She’s coming.”
I still can’t quite believe it. After the conversation in the office—the revelations, the tension, the raw admission of attraction—I half-expected her to run. To lock herself in her room and pretend we didn’t exist.
Instead, she’s coming here. Into our space.
The sound of the heavy steel door rolling open on its track echoes through the warehouse.
My spine snaps straight. I drop the oven mitt onto the counter.
I hear voices first. Eli’s low murmur, then a soft laugh that belongs unmistakably to her.
They walk into the kitchen area, and my breath catches in my throat.
She’s wearing a dress.
Not a uniform. Not jeans. A dress made of some soft, dark green fabric that clings to her curves and falls just below her knees. It has long sleeves and a high neck, modest enough, but the way it fits her... it should be illegal.
She has black tights on and those brown boots she wears, her hair loose around her shoulders.
Fuck.
My cock immediately stirs against the zipper of my dress slacks, a sudden, visceral reaction that I can’t control. I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles turn white, forcing myself to breathe through it.
“Hey,” she says, her eyes finding mine across the room. She looks hesitant, her hands clutching a small purse.
“Hello, Amber,” I manage. My voice sounds rougher than intended.
“Welcome to the Fortress of Solitude,” Fallon announces, opening his arms. He walks over to her and pulls her into a hug, lifting her off her feet for a second. “You look fantastic.”
“Thanks, Fallon.” She smiles when he sets her down, though her gaze darts nervously around the room.
Eli moves to the island, pouring himself a drink. “Tequila, Amber? To warm you up from the cold?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I actually don’t drink tequila. Last time I did, I broke a lamp and cried about a fish.”
Eli laughs, tipping the glass back. “More for us, then.”
I turn to the fridge, glad I had the foresight to chill a bottle of pinot earlier.
“Wine?” I offer, pulling the bottle from the rack.
“Yes, please.”
I pour the deep purple liquid into a glass, my movements precise despite the hammering of my pulse. I walk around the island to hand it to her.
As I pass her the glass, our fingers brush.
Her skin is warm, soft. A static shock arcs between us, not painful, but startling. A thrill rushes up my arm, settling deep in my chest.
I look down at her, and she looks up at me. Her hazel eyes are wide, catching the light.
She smiles, a tentative, sweet curve of her lips. “Thanks, Knox.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. I don’t let go of the glass immediately. I hold onto it for a second longer, feeling the warmth of her hand radiating into my palm. “Dinner will be about forty minutes. The roast needs to rest.”
“Take your time.” She takes a sip, her eyes closing as she tastes the wine. “This is good.”
Fallon claps his hands together. “Alright, since the head chef is hovering over the oven like a mother hen, I’m going to give you the grand tour.”
“I’d like that.”
“Come on.” He gestures down the hall toward the bedrooms.
She glances at me, then at Eli. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”
She follows Fallon, her boots making soft thuds on the concrete floor. I watch her go, the sway of the green dress hypnotizing.
The kitchen feels suddenly larger.
Eli leans against the counter next to me, watching me with a knowing smirk. “You’re staring.”
“I’m observing,” I correct, turning back to the stove to check the reduction sauce.
“You’re mesmerized,” he says. “How are you doing, Knox?”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
I sigh, running a whisk through the sauce. It’s thickening nicely. “I’m... aware. This feels precarious. All of us in one room, with her.”
“It’s good precarious,” Eli says. He pushes off the counter and washes his hands in the sink. “Let me help you with the prep. We can get the salad started.”
We work in tandem. He washes and dries the mixed greens; I toast walnuts in a dry pan until they smell nutty and sweet.
The rhythm of cooking soothes me, the mechanical actions calming my racing heart. This is my domain. I know food. I know flavors.
I do not know how to navigate a relationship with three men and one woman, but I can roast a duck to perfection.
I’m just tossing the walnuts into the salad when Fallon and Amber return.
She looks more relaxed now, her shoulders less tight. She walks over to the island, sitting on one of the high stools.
“This place is incredible,” she says, looking around at the high ceilings and the industrial beams. “It’s so... spacious. And warm.”
“We like it,” Fallon says, leaning against the fridge. “It took a lot of work to get it livable. When we bought it, it was just a shell.”
“It has a great vibe,” she agrees. She looks at us, then back at the house. “Was the plan always to live under one roof? I mean, as a pack?”
“Oui,” I say, seasoning the salad with salt and pepper. “Even in Portland, we lived together. It’s... easier.”
She swirls her wine in her glass, watching the liquid climb the sides.
“So, for a pack that was determined not to break their rule—to not form emotional attachments—you sure set yourselves up for failure, didn’t you?
How were you supposed to live? Everyone has their own room with their own mate? How was that going to work?”
I pause, the salad tongs hovering in mid-air. I look at Eli. He looks at Fallon.
Then I laugh. It’s a short, surprised sound.
“We didn’t think of that,” I admit. “We were thinking of rent efficiency and shared utility bills.”
“Also,” Fallon adds, “we were so young when we first moved in together. We weren’t exactly known for our foresight.”
Amber smiles, and this time it reaches her eyes. “Well, it worked out. The house is beautiful.”
“It’s home,” Eli says simply.
I check the oven timer. “The food will be ready in about half an hour. The reduction needs to simmer for a bit.”
“Good,” Fallon says. He looks at Amber. “We should talk. Get comfortable before we try to eat.”
He gestures to the living area.
We move away from the kitchen, the warmth of the ovens fading as we step into the cooler living space. Eli walks over to the sound system, tapping his phone against the receiver.
Soft jazz fills the room, a steady, low bass that doesn’t intrude.
Amber stands near the sofa, looking uncertain where to sit. I walk past her, intending to go to the armchair, but I stop.
She smells like vanilla and the cold night air, mixed with the scent of my kitchen on her clothes.
“You look beautiful tonight, Amber,” I say. The words come out stiffer than I intend, but they are true.
She looks up, startled. Her cheeks pink. “Thank you, Knox.”
I lean in. It’s an impulse, a breach of my usually rigid control, but I can’t help myself. I press my lips to her cheek.
Her skin is impossibly soft. She smells divine. For a second, I just breathe her in, feeling her freeze slightly against me before she relaxes.
I pull back. “Please. Sit.”
She sinks onto the sofa, tucking her legs under her. Eli sits next to her, leaving a respectful foot of space. Fallon takes the armchair, sprawling out with his usual lazy grace.
I sit on the other end of the sofa, turning slightly so I can see her face.
The music plays. The snow falls silently outside the high windows. The static in my head quiets.
This is really happening.
“I’ll play something,” Eli says.
“And I’ll get more wine,” Fallon offers.