Chapter 4
River Stone
I stand in my editing room staring at the empty doorway, my monitor frozen on a clip of the shoreline. The chair Kiera was sitting in is still slowly spinning.
What just happened?
One minute we were watching footage together—she was leaning forward, actually interested in what I was about to show her—and the next minute she bolted like I'd suggested something wildly inappropriate instead of just sharing my work.
I replay the last few minutes in my head. Did I say something wrong? Stand too close? I was just excited to show someone who might actually care about this project. She seemed genuinely engaged, asking questions like she cared.
Then she just... left.
I scrub a hand over the back of my neck and head toward the kitchen, following the sound of running water. Maybe I was not thinking clearly and did something to offend her. I should check on her.
I stop in the kitchen doorway.
Kiera is at the sink, scrubbing one of the plates we used for dinner with an intensity that suggests she's trying to remove several layers of ceramic along with any remaining peanut butter residue.
Her shoulders are tense, her movements sharp and efficient.
The water is running full blast, steam rising from the sink.
“You know,” I say, leaning against the doorframe, “we only ate peanut butter and jelly. Those plates weren't exactly caked with food. You're going to scrub a hole straight through to China at this rate.”
She doesn't turn around. “Maybe the plate deserves it for having to hold such a ridiculous meal.”
There it is. The sarcasm, sharp and defensive. Her walls are back up, reinforced with steel and probably some emotional barbed wire for good measure.
I chuckle and push off from the doorframe, crossing to the drawer where I keep the dish towels. “The PB&J sushi was not ridiculous. It was innovative. A culinary masterpiece.”
“It was bread rolled up with peanut butter.”
“Artisanal bread rolled up with peanut butter,” I correct, pulling out a towel and moving to stand beside her at the sink. I pick up one of the already-clean plates from the drying rack and start wiping it dry.
She glances at me, her hands stilling in the soapy water. “You don't have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“The dishes. That's my job.”
“No,” I say, continuing to dry the plate with slow, deliberate movements. “Your job is to cook. Which you did. Beautifully, I might add.”
“River—” She turns off the water and faces me, her hands dripping onto the floor. “I'm being paid to cook and clean up after. That's how this works. You don't hire someone to make you food and then do their dishes for them.”
“Sure I do. I just did.” I set the dried plate on the counter and reach for another one. “This is my kitchen. My house. I can run it however I want.”
Her eyebrows pull together, and I can see her trying to figure out if she should keep arguing. “It's normal for a cook to clean up after herself.”
“And it's normal for me to do my own dishes.” I keep my tone light, easy.
“Besides, you're not my maid, Kiera. I don't want you to feel like one. I hired you to cook, not to scrub my kitchen floors and polish my silverware. Although—” I glance around the kitchen, “—I'm not entirely sure where my silverware polish is. Or if I even have any.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. Just barely, but I catch it.
“I'm serious,” I continue, drying a pair of chopsticks. “The deal is you cook, I pay you. Cleaning is optional. And if we're both here anyway, we might as well do it together. Makes it go faster."
She studies me for a long moment, her blue eyes searching my face like she's trying to figure out if I'm serious or if this is some kind of trick. Finally, she sighs and turns back to the sink, picking up the cutting board.
“Fine. But this doesn't mean you're going to do the dishes every time I'm here. If you’re on a deadline and need to work, let me do the dishes.”
“All right.” I grin, even though she can't see it with her back to me. Small victories. “But you do know I have a dishwasher, right?”
She snorts. “I didn’t want to use it for these few things.”
We finish the dishes in comfortable silence. Well, mostly comfortable. I'm hyper-aware of her presence beside me, the way she moves efficiently through the task, the faint scent of whatever shampoo she uses. Something clean and simple, maybe coconut.
When the last dish is dried and put away, I fold the towel and set it on the counter. Kiera is already reaching for her bag, which she left on one of the bar stools, and I know I have about thirty seconds before she makes an excuse to leave.
“Can I ask you something?” The words come out before I fully think them through.
She pauses, her hand on her bag strap. “Sure."
"What made you want to become a chef? Like, when did you know that's what you wanted to do?"
Her shoulders relax slightly. Okay, good question. Not too personal.
“I don't know exactly.” She turns to face me, leaning back against the counter.
“I've always liked cooking, I guess. Even when I was little, I used to help Kiki in the kitchen. She'd let me stir things or measure ingredients.” A shadow crosses her face and I’m curious what it means, but she keeps going.
“There's something about taking basic ingredients and turning them into something that makes people happy.
It's like... I don't know. Magic, kind of.”
“That makes sense.” I lean against the counter opposite her, keeping some distance so she doesn't feel crowded. “I feel that way about filmmaking sometimes. Taking all these separate shots and editing them into something that tells a story. Making people feel something they didn't expect to feel.”
She nods, and I can see her mentally connecting the dots. “Yeah. That's it exactly.”
“So the competition—the culinary school scholarship. That's your ticket to making the magic official?”
“Something like that.” She picks at a spot on her jeans.
“I know I'm good at cooking. I know I love it.
But there's a difference between making dinner for my sister's family and actually being trained. Learning the proper techniques, understanding flavor profiles, all of that. The scholarship would give me that.”
“You're going to win,” I say, and I mean it.
She looks up sharply. “You don't know that.”
“I know you made peanut butter and jelly look like something from a fancy restaurant. That takes creativity. Skill. If you can do that with the most basic ingredients imaginable, imagine what you'll do when you're actually trying.”
A genuine smile breaks across her face, and it's like watching the sun come out from behind clouds. “Thanks.”
“I mean it. Your parents are going to be so proud of you.”
I realize my mistake the second her smile vanishes. Her expression shutters so fast it's like watching a door slam shut.
I try to correct myself. “I mean—”
“It's late.” She straightens up and grabs her bag, slinging it over her shoulder in one quick motion. “I should go. What time do you want me here tomorrow?”
“Kiera—”
“Six work for you again?” She's already moving toward the front door, and I follow her, mentally kicking myself.
“Yeah, six is great.”
I follow her through my house. She reaches the door and pauses with her hand on the knob. “Sorry I ran out of your editing room like that. The footage was really good. I just... needed to start cleaning up.”
It's a lie. A polite one, but still a lie. We both know it.
“No problem,” I say, because what else can I say? Please tell me what I did wrong so I don't do it again? Stay and let me get to know you? Why do you keep running away from me?
“See you tomorrow.” She opens the door and slips out into the warm evening air before I can respond.
I stand in the entryway, watching through the window as she hurries to her car—a beat-up Honda Civic that's probably older than she is. The taillights flash as she starts the engine, and then she's gone, disappearing down the driveway.
I close the door and lean against it, letting my head fall back with a soft thunk.
“Great job, River,” I mutter to the empty house. “Really smooth. Ask her about the one thing she's clearly not ready to talk about. Perfect strategy.”
I push off the door and make my way back to the editing room, dropping into my chair with less grace than usual. The frozen frame of the shoreline is still on my monitor, waiting patiently for me to continue working.
But I can't focus on it right now. My mind is stuck on the look on Kiera's face right before she shut down. The way her walls slammed back into place so fast I almost got caught under one.
I spin my chair slowly, looking at the room without really seeing it.
For a first day of Kiera working for me, it could have been worse.
She made peanut butter and jelly into a fun delicacy.
Her fries were perfect. We ate together—that was a win.
We did dishes together—another win. We even had a real conversation for a few minutes where she wasn't completely guarded.
And then I ruined it by mentioning her parents.
I scrub both hands over my face and let out a long breath.
Tomorrow. I'll do better tomorrow. I'll keep things light, professional.
Let her set the pace. Prove that I'm not going anywhere, that she can trust me not to push when she's not ready.
Even if it takes all summer to get her to open up to me, I'm willing to wait.