Chapter Nine – Elliott
Elliott had spent part of the afternoon getting his truck back on the road, and by the time he turned into Rachel’s street, he could still faintly smell engine oil beneath the scent of the oranges on the passenger seat.
This was not quite how he had imagined arriving at his mate’s house for the first time.
No, in his dreams, he had imagined arriving with flowers, perhaps chocolates. Perhaps they would have a candlelit dinner for two. And then...
Stop daydreaming, his bear said. We’re not here for a candlelit anything. We’re here to bake a cake with Lucy and Aria.
His bear was right. There was no point in daydreaming because his mate was not even here. She was still at work.
Isn’t this what we wanted to prove to Rachel? his bear asked. That we’re willing to show up.
It is, Elliott agreed as he cut the engine.
Rachel’s house stood in a short row on the quieter edge of town, neat and modest, with a child’s scooter lying by the path and late flowers still holding on in the front border.
The front window stood open a crack. From inside came the sound of children’s voices and another, older one he recognized as Tessa’s.
By the time he reached the door, it had already opened.
Lucy stood there, her face full of excitement. “You’re here.”
“That was the arrangement,” Elliott said with an amused smile.
“I know, but now you’re actually here.” She pointed down at the floor.
From inside, Aria said, “I told you he would be.”
Lucy did not even turn around. “I know.”
Elliott smiled despite himself. “Am I late?”
“No,” Lucy said. “I just wasn’t sure if you were only saying you were coming.”
That caught him off guard. “If I say I’m going to do something, I stick to it.”
Tessa appeared behind them, pulling on her cardigan. “Perfect timing. I was just about to head off home. I hope you know what you’ve let yourself in for.”
“I’m not sure I do,” Elliott admitted.
Too late now, his bear said, wishing he could be part of the cake baking.
Lucy beckoned him inside. “We’ve made space,” she announced.
Tessa gave him a look that was half amused, half kind. “They’ve been ready for twenty minutes. Aria made sure Lucy didn’t start without you.”
“I was only going to get out all the things we need,” Lucy said.
“But we don’t know what we need,” Aria replied.
“Good luck,” Tessa said and headed off.
Elliott stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
“This way.” Lucy guided him into the kitchen. “We need to hurry. Mom will be home soon.”
That hit him harder than it should have. He might have come here to bake a cake, but he would still see Rachel again. She would taste the cake he had made with her children. And the scent of rosemary and orange would forever remind her of him.
“Ready?” Lucy asked. “We’re making the rosemary one. Remember?”
“The orange and rosemary one,” Aria corrected.
“That’s what I said.”
Elliott set the bag on the table and started unpacking. “All right. Before we do anything else, I think we need rules.”
Lucy groaned. “There are always rules.”
“Yes,” Elliott said. “That’s how cakes happen instead of disasters.”
Aria looked as though she approved of that.
He held up one finger. “Nobody puts anything in the bowl until I say.”
Lucy sighed theatrically.
“Second, nobody eats half the ingredients before we start.”
“I wouldn’t,” Lucy said.
Aria gave him a look that suggested history disagreed.
This is going to be fun, his bear huffed.
I’m not sure I agree, Elliott said.
The next few minutes were all movement and noise. Butter unwrapped. Sugar measured. Oranges rolled under Lucy’s palms because Elliott told her it helped wake them up. Aria took charge of the scales with the quiet gravity of someone who had already decided precision mattered.
“What does wake them up mean?” Lucy asked, rolling an orange so hard it nearly escaped off the table.
“It means the juice behaves better.”
“Are you making it up?” Lucy narrowed her eyes at him.
“No. I learned it when I was in Spain.”
“Does it make them happy?” Lucy asked.
Aria, measuring flour, said, “I don’t think fruit has feelings.”
“Okay. Let’s get this cake started,” Elliott said before a full debate on fruit feelings broke out.
By the time the butter and sugar had been beaten together, Elliott had begun to relax.
Baking with the girls was fun. There was no pressure, no worry over whether the cake turned out to be a culinary masterpiece.
According to Lucy and Aria, all that mattered was the taste.
Elliott found himself answering questions as he worked.
About oranges. About Italy. About whether rosemary always smelled that strong.
“Do you always know what to do?” Lucy asked suddenly, watching as he folded flour into the bowl.
He looked at her.
Not the question he had expected.
“No,” he said honestly. “Not always.”
Aria slid the next bowl toward him. “But enough.”
He met her eyes. “Enough. But sometimes you have to make adjustments. Use your instincts. I think cooking should be an exploration of the senses.”
“Let’s add more orange,” Aria said, casting him a look that said she was more than willing to try a little experimentation.
A chef in the making, his bear said proudly.
They got the batter into the tin with only minor losses to the table. Aria smoothed the top with deep concentration. Lucy insisted on scattering the rosemary and had to be gently prevented from turning the cake into a hedge.
“Maybe not quite that much,” Elliott said, rescuing the tin.
“That was decoration.”
“Sometimes less is more,” he said gently, though he did not remove any of the rosemary.
The oven door shut at last, and all three of them stood for a moment looking through the glass, waiting for the cake to rise.
Then came the sound of a key in the front door.
Lucy spun around. “Mom’s home.”
Elliott straightened, suddenly aware of the flour on his hands, the warmth of the kitchen, the scent of orange and sugar beginning to rise from the oven, and the fact that Rachel was about to walk in and find him here, in the middle of her house, with her daughters and a cake in her oven. And the kitchen a mess.
His bear, deeply and unhelpfully pleased, said only, Well.
Rachel came in with her bag still over one shoulder and stopped in the doorway.
For a second, she simply looked.
At Lucy with her flour-smudged cheeks. At Aria, standing beside the table. At the mixing bowl, the oranges, the cake in the oven. At Elliott standing in the middle of her kitchen as if he belonged there.
Something in her face softened before she caught it.
“Mom,” Lucy said at once, “we’ve made the cake.”
“We’re making the cake,” Aria corrected. “It’s still in the oven.”
Lucy waved that away. “We have made the cake. Now it’s cooking.”
“Baking,” Aria murmured.
Rachel set her bag down by the door and came in a little further. “I can see that.”
Her voice was warm, but Elliott still heard the caution under it.
Lucy pointed at the oven. “It’s orange and rosemary. And I did the zesting.”
“And I did the measuring,” Aria said.
“And Elliott stopped me putting too much rosemary on the top.” Lucy cast him a reproachful glance.
“That part was necessary,” Elliott said.
Rachel’s mouth curved faintly. “I’m sorry I missed that.”
“You should be,” Lucy told her solemnly. “It was excellent.”
Rachel glanced through the oven door, then straightened. “It smells lovely. Thank you so much for this.”
That sounds like she wants you to leave, his bear said mournfully.
It does, Elliott agreed.
But then Lucy stepped in. “He has to stay.”
Rachel blinked. “Does he?”
“Yes,” Lucy said. “It’s only fair.”
Aria nodded once. “He has to taste it. And you know you won’t let us eat cake before dinner.”
Lucy swung around to Rachel. “Mom?”
Rachel looked at Elliott, but he could not read her expression.
“Your mom’s had a busy day,” he said. “The cake’s in. My job is done.”
Lucy looked appalled. “But then who’s going to know if it’s right?”
“We could taste it,” Aria said.
“You should make sure it’s cooked first,” Elliott agreed.
“See? Elliott knows what it’s meant to be,” Aria said.
Rachel laughed softly at that, then looked at the girls, the oven, the flour on the counter, and finally back at Elliott.
“You are more than welcome to stay. But I warn you,” she said, “it’s only something simple.”
“I like simple,” Elliott said.
Lucy gave a small cheer.
“Right,” Rachel said, looking around the room. “Why don’t you clear everything away while I sort dinner?”
“Okay,” Lucy agreed. “Come on, Aria.”
The girls set to work, transferring the dirty utensils to the sink.
Elliott hovered next to Rachel for a moment. “You really don’t mind?”
“No,” Rachel said. “It’s the least I can do since the girls have obviously enjoyed baking with you. And I know it’s not the easiest thing.”
“Controlled chaos,” he said with a smile.
“And you survived it.” She nodded toward the girls. “Would you mind putting the ingredients away? They can show you where they go.”
“I’d be happy to.”
As he joined the kitchen cleanup, he might only be helping put away flour and sugar.
But somehow even that felt dangerously close to belonging.