But it doesn’t feel sterile. It feels lived-in. There’s a radio playing soft jazz in the corner, and a chalkboard on the wall covered in what looks like chemistry equations for recipes.
On the large central island, there’s a plate covered with foil. Next to it sits a container of what looks like a rich, dark stew.
“Did you have dinner?” Eli asks, nodding toward the stew. “Knox made a lamb stew earlier. There’s plenty left if you’re hungry.”
I shake my head. “I’m actually full. My brother grilled burgers. I’m just here for dessert.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I want to swallow them back.Just here for dessert.Yeah, that definitely sounds like I’m propositioning him.
Eli pauses, his hand hovering over the tea kettle. A flush creeps up his neck, tinting the tips of his ears a shade of pink. He clears his throat, his eyes meeting mine for a hot second before darting away.
“Right,” he manages. “Dessert. Of course.”
I feel my own face heat up, but I decide to power through it. If I acknowledge it, I’ll die of embarrassment. So I ignore it.
“These taste better with tea,” Eli says, turning his back to me to fill the kettle. “Do you mind if I brew us a few cups? It’s an old family recipe. My grandmother swore it was the only thing to drink with cinnamon.”
“I’d love that,” I tell him, leaning my hip against the counter.
While the water heats, I wander over to a small table tucked into the corner near the office. A heavy, marble chess set sits there, the pieces frozen in the middle of a game. It looks expensive, the kind of heirloom piece that belongs in a museum, not a commercial kitchen.
“Is this yours?” I ask, tracing the line of a knight.
Eli looks over from the stove. “No. That’s Knox’s. He plays when he needs to decompress. He was a chess prodigy when he was a kid. Grandmaster tournaments, the whole nine yards.”
“Really? He doesn’t seem like the type.” I look at the precise, strategic arrangement of the pieces.
“He’s not really. Not anymore.” Eli pours hot water into two ceramic mugs. “He left that world behind. But he still loves the game. It helps him think.”
“Do you know how to play?” I ask.
He shakes his head, carrying the mugs over to the island. “Not really. Knox tries to teach me sometimes, but I prefer baking. With baking, if you follow the recipe, you get a predictable result. Chess is… endless.”
“Endless sounds exhausting,” I muse.
“It can be.” He sets a mug down in front of me. The steam rises, carrying the scent of jasmine and chrysanthemum. “Careful, it’s hot.”
I wrap my hands around the ceramic, letting the warmth seep into my palms. “How did you guys even end up here together? You, Knox, and Fallon? You seem so… different.”
Eli leans against the counter opposite me, cradling his own mug. “We met in Portland. We were all working at this high-end French restaurant. The kind of place where the chef screams at you for breathing too loud.”
He smiles, a nostalgic look crossing his face. “It was brutal. Toxic. One night, during a really stressful service, the sous chef walked out. Just left in the middle of dinner rush. The three of us—me, Knox, Fallon—we were just line cooks then. We looked at each other, and we just… covered. We took over his station. We communicated without words, moving around each other like we’d been doing it for years. We saved the service.”
He takes a sip of tea. “After that, we were inseparable. We realized we all hated the culture. We wanted somethingdifferent. A place built on mutual respect, not fear. We pooled our savings, looked at a map, and picked Fox Hollow. It had the charm, the space, and the potential. Fallon brought the butchery skills, Knox the culinary strategy, and I brought the sugar.”
“That’s pretty cool, chasing your dreams like that.”
He shrugs like it was a simple decision, but I can hear the pride in his voice. “We opened Blade & Butter, and somewhere along the way, we became a pack. It wasn’t a formal thing. It just happened.”
“That’s amazing,” I say softly. I watch him as he talks, the way his eyes light up. It’s clear he loves them. “You built a family.”
“Yeah.” He sets his mug down. “We did.”
He turns to the island and removes the foil from the plate. The smell hits me instantly—cinnamon, brown butter, yeast, and sugar. It’s intoxicating.
“Okay,” he says, picking up a small ladle. “I made a cream cheese glaze with a pinch of sea salt, just like I told you.”
He drizzles the glaze over the buns. It’s thick and white, pooling in the spirals of the dough. He slides the plate toward me.
