CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Knox
The kitchen smells of thyme,searing meat, and red wine reduction. It’s a scent I have perfected over years of trial and error, designed to evoke comfort and sophistication.
Tonight, however, it does little to settle the nausea rolling in my gut.
I stand at the stove, checking the temperature of the oven for the third time in five minutes. The roast is searing perfectly, the crust forming a deep, caramelized brown, but my attention isn’t on the food. It’s on the clock.
Eli left twenty minutes ago to pick her up.
“Stop hovering,” Fallon says from behind me. “You’re going to dry out the beef just by glaring at it.”
He slides a heavy shot glass across the island toward me. The liquid inside is clear—tequila.
“I’m not hovering,” I retort, though I don’t turn away from the stove. “I am monitoring.”
“You’re vibrating,” he corrects, leaning against the counter. “Drink. It’ll take the edge off.”
I look at the shot, then at him. “I don’t need to be intoxicated to cook dinner, Fallon. I need to focus.”
“You’re too focused. You’re going to snap a towel in half with the amount of energy coming off you. I think you should’ve hit the gym before this.” He pushes the glass closer. “Just one drink. For the nerves.”
I scowl at him. I’m not nervous. I left Canada and built an entire business here. I started a fresh with no one but myself.
My family is filled with academics who debate for fun. I took part in chess competitions. I can’t be nervous over a girl.
A gorgeous girl who makes my heart want to burst right out of my chest.
Nervousness is for amateurs, for chefs who doubt their technique. I’m a professional. I run a kitchen that executes flawlessly under pressure. This should be no different.
Except it’s completely different. This isn’t about technique. This is about Amber.
I grab the shot and throw it back. The alcohol burns down my throat before settling in my stomach. I set the glass down with a decisive clink.
“Better?”
“Non.But thank you.”
I turn back to the pan. The beef is ready to go into the oven.
I open the door, sliding the heavy roasting pan inside, and check the root vegetables roasting on the rack below. Parsnips, carrots, fingerling potatoes tossed in duck fat and rosemary.
“Do you think she will actually come?” I ask the oven racks.
“Eli’s picking her up as we speak,” Fallon says. “So, yes. She’s coming.”
I still can’t quite believe it. After the conversation in the office—the revelations, the tension, the raw admission of attraction—I half-expected her to run. To lock herself in her room and pretend we didn’t exist.
Instead, she’s coming here. Into our space.
The sound of the heavy steel door rolling open on its track echoes through the warehouse.
My spine snaps straight. I drop the oven mitt onto the counter.
I hear voices first. Eli’s low murmur, then a soft laugh that belongs unmistakably to her.
They walk into the kitchen area, and my breath catches in my throat.
