Chapter 19
Lucky
I spent the whole day watching YouTube videos like some kind of suburban housewife in training.
“How to Make Dinner in Under an Hour,”
“Cooking for Dummies Who Can’t Boil Water.”
By the time Ethan shows up, I should be a Michelin-star goddess, right?
Wrong.
I stride into my kitchen, cardigan still over my shoulders like a domestic cape, and I’m immediately attacked by the fridge. Everything looks suspicious, fluorescent, and judgmental. I try to act confident. I mean, I know what I’m doing. I’ve watched literally twenty-seven videos.
I can do this.
The cutting board wobbles like it’s alive. The knife slides off it once, twice, but I catch it with the reflexes of a rockstar who’s survived mosh pits and bad hotel beds. Ethan’s arrival is thirty minutes away, and I already feel like I’m hosting some culinary hostage situation.
“Alright, Lucky Vale,” I mutter to myself, “you got this. You can adult. You’re fine.”
Confidence: 100% in my head. Actual skill: zero.
The first challenge: peeling a carrot. Simple, right? Carrot. Knife. Peel. Easy.
Except the carrot escapes. It rolls across the counter, as if it knows my panic and mocks me silently. I lunge, catching it in a desperate, elegant, totally not graceful ballet of flailing limbs. It’s the kind of move that would earn me Olympic points if there were a medal for “kitchen mayhem.”
Next step: the pasta. Water. Pot. Stove. Salt. Stir. Perfect.
Wait?
Where’s the lid? I find it, but now the water looks… suspicious. YouTube said salt. How much salt? Enough to taste like dinner or enough to induce a coronary? I sprinkle cautiously, wobbling on the balls of my feet.
The water is boiling over like it has its own vendetta against me. Steam rises, fogging the window, and my socks are suddenly soaked. I pat it all down with a dish towel, flinging droplets across the floor. Graceful.
I’m stirring furiously, wishfully imagining Ethan walking in, seeing me, thinking, “Wow. Domestic goddess. She’s perfect.”
Instead, I honestly imagine him seeing me in real-time: cardigan slightly singed at the hem because I flirted too close to the burner, water threatening to boil over, a carrot peel stuck to my hair.
Next, I shove something vaguely dinner-shaped into the oven.
Meat? Casserole? Honestly, who knows? The smoke alarm hasn’t gone off yet, which either means I’m a genius or a disaster in progress.
Then I smell it—the faint, increasingly assertive scent of burning.
I fling the oven open and get hit with a plume of smoke.
My cardigan flaps dramatically in the haze.
Pan on the stove. I toss some garlic in.
Flames leap up. I scream like a banshee, flail my arm, and somehow manage to set the towel right next to the stove.
I snatch it before it ignites and fling it onto the floor.
It lands in a puddle of boiling pasta water.
Perfect. Brilliant. Dinner is officially a war zone.
I glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes. Ethan. Fifteen minutes. My fridge is sticky, my countertops look like a crime scene, and I am wearing a cardigan that smells faintly of burnt optimism.
I take a deep breath. I can do this. I can. I am doing this.
Then the pasta bubbles over again. A scream somewhere between Janis Joplin playing in the background and a fire alarm escapes me.
Water. Everywhere. Steam like a small fog machine for dramatic effect.
I bang the pot back onto the stove, sending a small cascade of water onto the floor.
My socks are soaked. My dignity? Ruined.
And yet. I laugh. Because this is my life. This is Lucky Vale, domestic goddess. And if Ethan can survive this, well… maybe, just maybe, he’s patient enough to like me anyway.
The doorbell rings, and my stomach drops like it’s auditioning for a rollercoaster. Ethan. He’s actually here. I take a deep breath, shove my hair into a slightly less disastrous bun, throw off my battered cardigan, thank God I’m wearing a vest, and fling open the door.
Shit, my arms…it’s too late. But if he hasn’t figured out who I am, I doubt he will with my ink.
He’s standing there, arms crossed, calm as a saint, with that faint smirk I’m slowly learning to interpret as enticing danger. He steps inside, eyes scanning the kitchen like it’s a crime scene.
“Oh,” he says softly, almost amused. “I see… domestication is… going well?”
I groan, gesturing helplessly. “Yes. Totally. Look at this. I’m… I’m a domestic goddess. Clearly.”
He doesn’t say a word. He smirks and tilts his head, hands in his pockets, watching me flail over the oven smoke and the sticky countertops.
“Do you… need help?” he asks carefully.
“No!” I snap, then immediately regret it. “I mean… maybe… no! I’ve got this! Totally fine!” I gesture at the burning pan on the stove like it’s a prop in a horror movie.
He chuckles quietly, that low, amused sound that makes my chest tighten. “Alright,” he says, still silent otherwise, and moves closer to inspect the chaos.
I spin around, stirring pasta that’s threatening to escape the pot, while flames from the garlic pan lick the air. My confidence is collapsing faster than the cardboard box I just threw the towel onto.
Ethan steps up, casually grabbing a spatula and a pan, and starts taking over. He moves with precise, calm efficiency, flipping, stirring, seasoning… quietly, deliberately, like he’s dismantling my kitchen panic one step at a time.
I hover like a frantic ghost, heart thudding, cheeks flaming. “I—uh—I never learned to cook,” I admit, half-defeated, half-mortified.
He glances at me over his shoulder, still working. “Cooking’s like music,” he says, voice calm, precise. “Trial and error. You experiment, make mistakes, and adjust. You improvise.”
My mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again. “Music… trial and error… improvisation… You make it sound so… effortless.”
He smirks. “Because I like order. Chaos is… fun to watch from a safe distance.”
I groan, leaning against the counter as the smell of food finally shifts from burning disaster to… edible. Somehow, against all odds, he’s turning my domestic apocalypse into an actual meal.
I glance at him, eyes wide. “You’re… you’re really good at this.”
He shrugs, smirk softening just slightly. “I know what I’m doing. You just… enjoy the ride.”
And I do. I really, really do.
The plates are balanced precariously in my hands, wobbling like they’re daring me to drop them. Ethan follows behind, carrying a glass of wine for each of us. Somehow, despite the kitchen apocalypse, he’s produced something that actually looks—and smells—like dinner.
We step out onto the patio. The lake glitters in the late afternoon sun, the water catching every streak of gold and pink in a way that makes me pause. The breeze drifts past, cool and soft, carrying the faint scent of pine and distant smoke from someone else’s barbecue.
I set the plates on the small outdoor table, hands trembling slightly. “I—uh… don’t drop anything,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.
Ethan sets the wine down and leans against the railing, watching me with that calm, amused expression that makes my heart do stupid things. “You didn’t burn the lake, so I’d say you’re already ahead of the curve,” he says lightly.
I flush. “Thanks… I think. Barely.”
We sit, and I fidget with my fork, trying to act casual while secretly marveling at the fact that we’re eating a real meal I didn’t set on fire. He lifts his glass to me. “To improvisation,” he says, smirk softening. “And surviving domestic chaos.”
“To surviving domestic chaos,” I echo, laughing.
I take a tentative bite. My taste buds are shocked in a good way. “Wait,” I whisper, fork halfway to my mouth. “This… actually tastes… good.”
Ethan smirks, leaning back in his chair. “See? Trial and error. Cooking’s like music.”
I choke on my bite, waving my fork helplessly. “Are you trying to make me feel better about almost burning down my kitchen?”
“Maybe,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Or maybe I’m trying to teach you that even chaos can taste amazing if you handle it right.
I almost snort wine out my nose. “Yeah, well, I handle chaos with a fire extinguisher.” I gesture vaguely at the now slightly steaming pan I barely survived, and my wine glass wobbles. It tips. Ethan reaches instinctively, steadying it before it spills all over the table.
“Smooth,” he teases, eyes crinkling in amusement.
“Shut up,” I mutter, blushing. “It’s… uh… wine was thirsty.”
He chuckles, and I feel my chest tighten. I take another bite, trying to focus on the food, but my fork slips on the pasta and somersaults onto the table. I groan. “I’m… I’m really good at this,” I mutter sarcastically.
“You’re… endearing,” he says, smirk softening, and I notice his gaze runs down my arms.
I glance down at my arms, suddenly self-conscious. “Do people… do people notice tattoos a lot?” I ask, as casually as possible.
He tilts his head, intrigued. “Is that why you hide your arms?” His eyes linger just a second too long on the sleeve line, just enough to make me squirm.
I stiffen, heart hammering. “Uh… some people judge,” I say vaguely, sidestepping the truth. “You know. They see the ink and assume things about you.”
He nods slowly, still watching me, but without pressing. “Fair enough,” he says. “People are dumb. You can’t control what they think.”
I swallow, realizing that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do my whole life. Control it. Everything. My music, my chaos, my image. And here’s Ethan, calm, steady, actually listening.
I try to laugh it off, but I feel my cheeks heat up. “Well… some people do judge. But that’s life. I’ve… gotten used to it.”
“Good,” he says, voice low, eyes locking on mine. “Then let them. You don’t need their approval.”
I look down at my plate, pretending to focus on dinner, but the electricity between us is impossible to ignore. My hand brushes against his as I reach for the wine, and neither of us pulls away. I want to, but I don’t.