Chapter 21 Jett
JETT
Ishould have known something was going to go wrong when Cassian suggested we cook dinner for Sharon. Three normally cool and collected alphas making dinner.
The second sign was when Pine agreed without hesitation. That basically never happens.
The third sign was when I didn't immediately shut it down and instead said sure. What could possibly go wrong?
Spoiler: everything.
Sharon arrives at the house around six in the evening, and she smells like Christmas and anticipation and that strawberry honey scent that makes my alpha brain go fuzzy.
Her scent is different than it was a week ago.
Richer. More complex. Like she's finally let herself relax enough that her natural omega pheromones are actually showing up.
She's wearing a red dress that hits mid-thigh and shows off he curves. The neckline dips low enough to be interesting, and I have to work very hard not to stare at her like some kind of creep.
"Hey," she says as she steps inside.
Cassian immediately rushes forward to take her coat like she's made of glass. He's hovering over her like a protective golden retriever.
"Welcome," Pine says from the kitchen, where he's already started preparing something that smells like it could be either dinner or a chemical weapon. Hard to tell. He's got ingredients scattered across the counter like he's creating abstract art instead of a meal.
"We're making dinner," I announce, taking her hand and leading her toward the living room where she can see the kitchen chaos unfold. "Real dinner. Just three alphas trying to prove they know how to take care of an omega."
Sharon laughs, and it's the kind of laugh that makes you want to hear it again.
"That sounds ambitious," she says. "And potentially dangerous."
"Only if something catches fire," Cassian says confidently from the kitchen.
Famous last words.
The thing is, I know how to cook. Mom taught me when I was a kid because I was the only one who showed any interest. Pine can cook okay when he focuses and doesn't get distracted by existential thoughts.
Cassian can barely boil water without creating some kind of disaster that requires the fire department.
But the three of us together in a kitchen with an omega we're all falling for? That's a recipe for chaos.
"What are we making?" Sharon asks, perching herself on one of the bar stools that line the kitchen counter. She's got this expression on her face that suggests she knows exactly what's about to happen.
"Roasted chicken with vegetables and rice," Pine says, pulling ingredients out of the fridge with confidence. "Relatively foolproof."
"Not when we're involved," I mutter, tying an apron around my waist. The apron has a picture of a bear on it and says "Some Beers Are Better Than Others." Objectively hilarious and completely inappropriate. But I don't care because making Sharon smile is worth looking stupid.
"Okay, so here's the plan," Cassian says, rolling up his sleeves.
"Jett, you handle the chicken because you actually know what you're doing, and I don't want to give everyone salmonella.
Pine, you take the rice and vegetables because you're good at chopping things without losing a finger.
I'll manage the oven temperature and make sure nothing burns. "
"That's the plan?" I repeat, looking up from where I'm examining the chicken. "Your entire job is to babysit the oven?"
"Exactly," Cassian says.
Pine starts chopping vegetables with the kind of focus he usually reserves for tattoo designs.
"You're not good at that," I say to Cassian. "Last time you managed the stove top and oven, we ended up ordering takeout. The best role for you in the kitchen is setting the table."
Sharon is doing that thing where she's trying very hard not to laugh. Her scent spikes with her effort to contain her amusement. I find that I want to keep making her smile. I want to be the one who makes her laugh until her eyes water.
Jesus, I'm getting soft. But in the best possible way.
"Alright, let's do this," I say, pulling out the chicken and inspecting it. "Sharon, no offense, but you should probably stay far away from the stove. We're trying to protect you. From the stove. And the oven. And possibly the sink."
"I wasn't planning on getting involved," she says sweetly, tucking her legs underneath her on the bar stool. "I'm actually very interested in watching this trainwreck unfold in real time. Front row seats to a disaster."
"Ye of little faith," Pine says, already getting rice all over the counter because apparently, he's opened the bag wrong and is now standing there holding it like it's a live grenade.
Sharon sips the wine I've already poured for her because clearly, she's going to need something to help her cope with what she's about to witness.
I start seasoning the chicken when I notice the mess. "Pine, how did you manage to get rice everywhere? The bag is literally a sealed container."
"I may have gotten overexcited," Pine admits, looking at the explosion of rice that's now covering the counter, the floor, and somehow his hair. "I just wanted to get it into the pot quickly and efficiently."
"By destroying it?"
"Yes," Pine says, raising an eyebrow like I'm going to challenge him.
I hand Sharon another glass of wine because watching us is clearly going to require a serious coping mechanism.
Then I get to work on the chicken. Cooking chicken is actually pretty straightforward if you know what you're doing.
You pat the chicken dry, coat with either heavily seasoned softened butter or oil and seasonings, stuff the chicken with lemon, onion, herbs, lay the chicken in a roasting rack that is sitting on top of a tray of chopped potatoes, onions, and carrots, and then bake it til it hits 165 internal temp.
Baste it every 30 minutes throughout cooking. Simple. Uncomplicated.
But with Cassian hovering over the oven like it's going to suddenly sprout wings and fly away, and Pine creating what appears to be a rice explosion in the background, and Sharon watching everything with the expression of someone watching a reality TV show, it becomes complicated.
"Cassian, step away from the oven," I say after fifteen minutes of watching him stare at it like he's hypnotized. "You're going to fog up the glass."
"But you said someone needs to babysit it," he protests.
"Babysitting doesn't mean pressing your entire face against the glass," I say. "That's weird."
Sharon is definitely laughing now. She's got her hand over her mouth, but I can see her shoulders shaking.
"Alright, what did you do?" I ask Pine, looking at the rice situation that has somehow gotten worse instead of better. There's rice on his shirt now. On his pants. Possibly in his hair. He looks like he's been in some kind of rice explosion.
"I may have overestimated how much water was needed," Pine says slowly. "I thought maybe the rice needed a lot of water to properly hydrate and expand."
"You put the rice in a pot and then filled it like it was a bathtub," I say, peering into the pot of what is essentially just rice-flavored water. "Pine, this is literally just water right now. This isn't rice. This isn't even risotto. This is rice soup."
"Maybe that's what we wanted," Pine suggests, his expression totally serious. "Rice soup for dinner."
"Are you kidding me?" I say, moving to rescue the situation by draining the rice into a colander. "We're making regular rice."
The next hour is basically a series of small disasters punctuated by Sharon's increasingly hysterical laughter. Cassian tries to help with the vegetables because he's feeling left out, and he manages to cut his finger within thirty seconds because he's not paying attention.
"Don't touch that, it's hot," he says, pulling his bleeding finger back and sucking on it. "Actually, that was me. My own stupid mistake."
Pine successfully rescues the rice soup situation by draining the water, which means the entire sink gets filled with steaming rice and water and looks like a disaster zone. He stands there staring at it for a long moment like he's not entirely sure how to process what he's created.
I'm handling the chicken, which is actually going okay. At least one of us knows what we're doing. I'm seasoning it properly, roasting it at the right temperature, monitoring the internal temperature with a meat thermometer.
But here's the thing about three alpha males trying to cook together while also being protective over an omega: we keep getting distracted trying to make sure Sharon doesn't hurt herself or get too close to the heat or accidentally inhale steam or do literally anything that might result in injury.
"Don't touch that, it's hot," Cassian says every thirty seconds like he's become a broken record, his hand hovering over Sharon's like she's about to do something dangerous just by existing in the kitchen.
She tries to get up from the kitchen stool. Well—she attempts it. It’s more of an accidental slide that almost sends her wine glass flying. She catches it at the last second and gives us this triumphant little grin like that proves she’s coordinated.
Great. Fantastic. She’s definitely had way too much in the time it’s taken us to destroy dinner.
She wobbles toward the oven with the determination of someone who absolutely should not be near anything hotter than room temperature.
Pine steps in front of her, arm out like he’s guarding a crime scene. “Hold up.”
She blinks at him. “What now?”
“We’re keeping you away from the dangerous stuff,” he says, completely serious.
Sharon raises an eyebrow. “The oven is dangerous?”
“It’s hot,” Pine replies. “And sharp things exist in its vicinity.”
Cassian nods like Pine just delivered a peer-reviewed scientific theory.
Sharon looks between them, fighting a smile. “So you’re protecting me from… cooking? Vegetables? The general concept of food preparation?”
“That’s exactly what we’re doing,” Pine says without hesitation.