Chapter 11
River Stone
I force myself to step back, dropping my hand from Kiera’s wrist even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to close the distance between us instead.
Her eyes are wide, her pupils dilated, and she’s looking at me like she’s caught between wanting to run and wanting to stay. I recognize that look now—it’s the same one she had on the staircase before my phone rang. The same mix of attraction and terror.
And I know, with absolute certainty, that if I kiss her right now—if I give in to what I’m feeling—I’ll scare her away for good.
She’s not ready. Maybe she never will be. But pushing her, taking advantage of a moment when she’s vulnerable and flustered, would be the worst thing I could do.
So I step back. Even though it feels like tearing myself away from gravity.
“I’ll get a bandage,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intend. I clear my throat. “First aid kit is in the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
I turn and walk down the hallway before I can change my mind, before I can do something stupid like pull her close and tell her that I’m falling for her and I don’t care how scared she is because I’m willing to wait as long as it takes.
The bathroom is quiet, a relief from the charged atmosphere of the kitchen. I open the cabinet under the sink and pull out the first aid kit, taking a moment to just breathe.
My hands are shaking slightly as I open the kit and find the box of bandages.
This is ridiculous. I’m not some fifteen-year-old who’s never been attracted to someone before.
But Kiera makes me feel like I’m experiencing everything for the first time—the way my heart races when she laughs, the way my skin tingles when we touch, the way I can’t stop thinking about her even when I’m supposed to be editing footage.
I grab the bandages and the small tube of antibiotic ointment and head back to the kitchen.
Kiera is standing exactly where I left her, staring at the cutting board like it holds the answers to every question she’s ever had. Her injured hand is cradled against her chest, and she looks dazed, almost lost.
“Hey.” I keep my voice gentle as I approach, holding up the supplies. “Let me see your finger.”
She extends her hand slowly, and I notice the blood has mostly stopped flowing. Good. The cut really isn’t that deep, but it needs to be cleaned and covered.
I unscrew the cap on the ointment and squeeze a small amount onto my finger. “This might sting a little.”
She nods but doesn’t speak. I take her hand again and dab the ointment on the cut. She flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“It’s fine,” she whispers.
I unwrap a bandage and position it carefully over the cut, smoothing the adhesive edges down with gentle pressure. Her hand is small in mine, and I’m acutely aware of how delicate her fingers are.
“There.” I release her hand and step back again, putting distance between us. “Good as new.”
“Thank you.” She looks at the bandage, then at me, and there’s something vulnerable in her expression that makes my chest ache. I want to ask her who hurt her, but I keep that question to myself. I know that wouldn’t be welcome.
“I’m usually more careful than that,” she says.
“You’ve had a long day. Moving, unpacking, cooking—it’s a lot.” I move to the cutting board and pick up the knife she dropped. “Why don’t I finish chopping these vegetables? You can focus on the grill.”
“River, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” I start slicing the carrots she’d been working on, keeping my cuts even and precise. “Besides, you’re the chef here. I’m just the assistant.”
She watches me for a moment, like she’s trying to figure out if I mean it or if there’s some ulterior motive. Finally, she nods and heads out to the patio to check on the galbi.
I finish the carrots and move on to the cucumbers, slicing them thin. The rhythmic motion of chopping is soothing, meditative. It gives me something to focus on besides the way Kiera looked at me a few minutes ago.
Through the window, I can see her on the patio, turning the meat on the grill with careful precision. The evening light catches her pink-streaked hair, and she’s biting her bottom lip in concentration. She’s beautiful like this—focused, confident, in her element.
And completely off-limits.
I have to remember that. No matter how much I want her, no matter how many almost-kisses we have, I can’t push. She needs to come to me on her own terms, in her own time. If she ever does at all.
She comes back inside carrying a platter of perfectly grilled galbi, the meat glistening with caramelized marinade. The smell is glorious—sweet and savory with hints of garlic and sesame.
“That looks amazing,” I say, setting down the knife.
“Thanks.” She sets the platter on the counter and starts pulling out bowls and small plates. “Can you grab me a pan for the vegetables? They just need to be sautéed quickly with some garlic and sesame oil.”
“On it.”
I pull out a pan and Kiera heats it and adds oil, then tosses in the vegetables I chopped.
Then she spoons out the rice and arranges the galbi on serving plates.
I go along behind her, rinsing off dishes and putting them in the sink.
We move around each other carefully, like dancers who are still learning the choreography, making sure not to bump or touch.
The vegetables sizzle in the pan, and she stirs them, adding minced garlic and a drizzle of sesame oil. The smell that rises up is mouth-watering.
My phone rings in my pocket.
I pull it out and see my mother’s name on the screen again. Guilt flashes through me—I ignored her call earlier on the staircase. I should probably answer.
But if I answer now, I’ll miss this moment with Kiera. This careful dance we’re doing in the kitchen, this quiet domesticity that feels quite intimate somehow.
I decline the call and shove the phone back in my pocket.
“You can answer if you need to,” Kiera says, not looking at me as she finishes with the vegetables.
“It’s fine. I’ll call back later.”
She glances at me, and there’s something knowing in her expression. Like she understands exactly why I’m not taking the call.
Kiera finishes arranging everything, and then we carry it all to the dining room.
The galbi is as good as it smells. The meat is tender and perfectly cooked, the marinade adding layers of flavor—sweet from the brown sugar, savory from the soy sauce, with hints of ginger and garlic that make everything sing.
I close my eyes on the first bite, savoring it.
“Kiera.” I open my eyes and look at her across the table. “This is perfect. Like, restaurant-quality perfect. You should be proud of this.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “It’s just marinated beef.”
“It’s not just anything. This is the kind of dish that would win competitions.” I take another bite, letting the flavors develop on my tongue. “Speaking of which, tell me more about this scholarship competition. What’s the format?”
She sets down her chopsticks, and I can see her mentally shifting into planning mode. “It’s called The Future Chef Challenge. One day, but it’s intense. We have to prepare three courses—appetizer, main, and dessert—in four hours.”
“Four hours total? That’s tight.”
“Yeah. And there are all these requirements.” She counts them off on her fingers.
“Each course has to feature a mystery ingredient that they reveal that morning. We have to demonstrate at least one advanced technique per course. One course has to showcase a non-American, non-European cuisine. And one course has to be adaptable for a common dietary restriction.”
I whistle low. “That’s a lot to juggle.”
“I know.” She picks at her rice. “The mystery ingredient is what really scares me. I’m good at following recipes, at planning things out. But making something up on the spot with an ingredient I might not have worked with before? That’s terrifying.”
An idea sparks. “What if I give you a mystery ingredient every day?”
She looks up sharply. “What?”
“When you come over to cook. What if I choose one ingredient—something you have to incorporate into the meal—and don’t tell you until you get here?” I lean forward, warming to the idea. “That way you can practice the skill of adapting on the fly. Building confidence with improvisation.”
Her eyes widen, and I can see her brain already working through the possibilities. “That’s... actually that’s a really good idea.”
“We could start easy. Common ingredients that can go in lots of dishes. Then gradually make it harder as you get more comfortable.”
“And I’d still have access to everything else in your ridiculous fancy kitchen,” she adds, a small smile playing at her lips. “So it’s not like I’d be completely limited.”
“Exactly. You’d be building the muscle of creative problem-solving.” I take another bite of galbi. “Plus, it might be fun. For both of us.”
“Okay.” She nods, and there’s determination in her expression now instead of fear. “Let’s do it. Starting tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” I agree.
My phone rings again.
I pull it out and see my mother’s name for the third time tonight. The guilt intensifies. She doesn’t call this persistently unless something is important or she’s annoyed that I’m not answering.
I look at Kiera. “I should probably take this. My mom doesn’t usually call this much.”
“Go ahead.” She waves her hand. “I’ll keep eating.”
I stand and walk into the kitchen, swiping to answer. “Hi, Mom.”
“River.” Her voice is crisp, the tone she uses when she’s irritated. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I know. Sorry. I’ve been busy.” I glance through the doorway at Kiera, who’s very deliberately focusing on her food and pretending not to listen. “What’s going on?”
“I’m calling to let you know I’ll be visiting next week.”
The words hit me like cold water. “Visiting? Here?”
“Yes, darling. I’m coming to Willow Shade Island.
I thought it was time I saw where you’ve been hiding yourself away.
” There’s an edge to her voice, that carefully modulated disappointment she’s perfected over the years.
“I’ll arrive Tuesday afternoon and stay through the weekend.
I assume you have room for me in that house you bought? ”
I have five bedrooms and three and a half bathrooms. Of course I have room. But the thought of my mother here, on this island that’s become my sanctuary, inspecting my life and finding it wanting—
“That’s fine,” I say, because what else can I say? “I’ll pick you up from the airport.”
“Wonderful. We have so much to catch up on. Your father and I are very curious about what you’ve been doing all this time.” A pause. “And whether you’re ready to come home yet.”
There it is. The real reason for the visit. Not because she misses me or wants to see the documentary I’m working on, but to assess whether I’m done with this “phase” and ready to return to LA and pursue a “real career.”
“We’ll talk when you get here,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
“Indeed we will. I’ll text you my flight details. See you Tuesday, darling.”
She hangs up before I can respond.
I stand there for a moment, phone in hand, feeling like the walls of my perfect evening just collapsed inward. My mother is coming. Next week. She’ll see the house, meet the people I’ve been getting to know, probably make comments about everything from my documentary to my life choices to—
My gaze lands on Kiera, who’s still eating and definitely pretending not to have heard my side of the conversation.
To her. My mother will meet Kiera. And she’ll see right through me, see exactly how I feel about the pink-haired girl who cooks in my kitchen and makes me laugh and keeps all her walls up even though I can see the cracks forming.
This is going to be a disaster.
I return to the table and sit down, picking up my chopsticks with hands that aren’t quite steady.
“Everything okay?” Kiera asks quietly.
“My mother is coming to visit next week.” The words taste bitter. “Tuesday through the weekend.”
“Oh.” She sets down her chopsticks. “That’s... good?”
“That’s something,” I say, and I can’t quite keep the tension out of my voice. “She wants to check on me. Make sure I haven’t completely ruined my life by leaving LA and pursuing this ridiculous documentary career.”
Kiera’s eyes soften with understanding. “The same mother who never thought Kid Logic was a real career?”
“The very same.” I take a bite of galbi, but I’m not hungry anymore. “She’s going to hate everything. The island, the documentary, the fact that I’m happy here.”
“Maybe she’ll surprise you.”
I look at her, at the hope in her expression, and I wish I could believe that. But I know my mother. I know how this visit will go. She’ll smile and make polite conversation and ask pointed questions, and by the time she leaves, I’ll feel like a disappointment all over again.
“Maybe,” I say, because Kiera doesn’t need to hear about the complicated dynamics of my family. She has enough to worry about with her competition.
We finish dinner in quieter contemplation, and I try to push thoughts of my mother’s impending visit out of my mind. But they linger like smoke, clinging to me and impossible to completely dispel.
When Kiera stands to start clearing plates, I help her without asking. We work in silence, loading the dishwasher, wiping down counters. The easy rhythm we had before the phone call is gone, replaced by this careful distance.
“I should go,” she says finally, grabbing her bag from where she left it on the counter. “I still have unpacking to do.”
“Right. Of course.” I walk her to the door, wishing I could think of something to say that would bring back the warmth from earlier. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Six o’clock.” She pauses at the door, her hand on the knob. “And you’ll have my mystery ingredient ready?”
“I’ll have something prepared.” I manage a smile. “Get ready for a challenge.”
She smiles back, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thanks for helping me move today. It… it meant a lot.”
“Anytime.”
She slips out into the warm evening, and I watch through the window as she drives away, her taillights disappearing down the driveway.
I close the door and lean against it, letting my head fall back.
My mother is coming.
And I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to explain Kiera—or what I’m feeling for her—when I don’t even understand it myself.