Page 24 of The Ex-cavenger Hunt

“Look at us,” I chuckle, giving him a once-over, my eyes lingering on the way the apron accentuates his broad shoulders and trim waist. “We could totally pass for culinary pros.”

Ethan smirks, his eyes glinting with mischief as he reaches out to adjust my hair net, his fingers brushing against my forehead in a fleeting moment of intimacy. “Speak for yourself,” he teases, his voice low and husky. “I’ve been told I have a natural talent for making things sizzle.”

I roll my eyes, fighting back a grin as I swat his hand away playfully. “We’ll see about that,” I counter, my heart fluttering in my chest as we sidle up to our designated cooking station, the countertop gleaming under the bright overhead lights. I can feel the warmth radiating from Ethan’s body, and I have to resist the urge to lean into him, to let his presence calm my nerves.

The ingredients for tonight’s menu sit colorfully arranged in little bowls, a rainbow of possibility waiting to be transformed by our novice hands. I stare at them, my brow furrowed in concentration, trying to mentally map out the steps to culinary success.

“Okay, so what’s first?” I murmur, poring over the recipe card that Marco has provided, my fingers tracing the elegant scrawl. But before I can even decipher the first line, disaster strikes. My hand slips, and a too-generous helping of salt cascades into the mixing bowl where sugar should have been. I gasp, my eyes widening in horror. “Ethan, I think I’ve started an impromptu science experiment,” I groan, my shoulders slumping in defeat.

He leans over, his chin nearly resting on my shoulder as he peers into the bowl with a bemused expression, his breath tickling my ear. “Well, if we’re aiming for a salted caramel effect, you’re on the right track,” he chuckles, his voice warm and teasing.

“Ha, let’s go with that.” I try to fish out the offending crystals with a spoon, my tongue poking out between my teeth in concentration, but it’s like trying to sift the beach through a tennis racket—futile and slightly ridiculous. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and frustration.

“Here, let me help.” Ethan reaches past me, his arm brushing mine, sending a strange little current zipping up my spine. I tremble, my skin tingling where we touched. Together, we attempt to salvage what we can, our hands bumping and grazing as we work, but it’s clear this mixture is destined for the trash.

“Next one will be better,” he assures me, his hand resting briefly on the small of my back, a gesture of comfort and support. I can’t help but admire his confidence. Or is it optimism? Either way, I’m grateful for it, his presence a steadying force in the chaos of the kitchen.

“Right, next one,” I repeat, already scooping flour into another bowl, my confidence renewed. But as I reach for what I think is baking powder, my hand closes around the jar of chili flakes instead. It isn’t until I’ve shaken a generous amount into the mix that I realize my mistake, the pungent aroma hitting me like a slap in the face.

“Uh, Ethan?” I say slowly, my voice wavering as I watch tiny red specks dot the flour like poppy seeds gone rogue. “How do you feel about spicy desserts?” I turn to him, my expression a mixture of sheepishness and barely contained laughter, my eyes watering from the spicy scent wafting up from the bowl.

Ethan’s eyes widen, a look of mock terror crossing his face as he takes in the chili-infused concoction. “We could fix it,” he suggests, his hand brushing against the small of my back, a gentle caress that I feel throughout my body.

“Let’s just . . . start from scratch, again,” I manage to say, my voice breathy and unsteady as I reach for new ingredients with a determination that feels almost like defiance. We’re going to get this right, mishaps or not. Ethan nods, his eyes locking with mine for a moment, a silent understanding passing between us, and we set to work once more, a pair of undaunted chefs on a quest for edible redemption.

Eggs crack, one after another, their contents meeting the bowl with an almost musical plop. Beside me, Ethan’s chuckle harmonizes with the rhythm, low and infectious, the sound sending a pleasant tingle down my spine. I glance over just in time to see his egg somehow missing the bowl entirely, its gooey insides sliding down the side of our workstation.

“Looks like your egg had a different plan,” I tease, biting back a full-blown belly laugh.

“Definitely staging a break for it,” he says, scooping up the runaway with a sheepish grin, his cheeks flushing adorably. “Maybe it knew we were about to turn it into something . . . unconventional.”

“Unconventional” is one way to put it. One look at our station—flour dusting every surface, including us, and bowls filled with questionable mixtures—is enough to send anyone running for the hills. Yet here we are, both of us covered in smudges and splatters, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this exhilarated, this alive.

Ethan reaches out, his thumb brushing gently against my cheek, wiping away a smudge of flour. My breath catches in my throat, my heart racing at his touch, and for a moment, the world around us fades away, leaving only the two of us, lost in each other’s gaze.

“You’ve got a little something . . .” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, his eyes darkening with an emotion I can’t quite place.

I swallow hard, my tongue darting out to wet my suddenly dry lips, and I can see Ethan’s eyes following the movement, his own lips parting slightly. The tension between us is palpable, electric, and I can feel myself leaning in, drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

But before anything can happen, a loud clatter from across the room breaks the spell, and we spring apart, both of us flushed and breathless. We turn back to our work, determination in our movements, but the memory of that moment lingers, a promise of what could be.

“Okay, what’s next on the list?” I ask, peering at the recipe through eyes narrowed against the threat of more airborne ingredients. My brow furrows in concentration as I try to decipher the handwritten instructions, the ink smudged from our earlier mishaps.

“Uh, that would be milk. But maybe double-check it’s not vinegar this time?” Ethan playfully nudges my shoulder, his touch sending a flicker of heat through my body.

“Ha-ha, very funny,” I retort, rolling my eyes dramatically. “My taste buds have officially gone on strike after that mix-up.” I grab the milk carton, double-checking the label with exaggerated care before adding it to the bowl, my tongue poking out between my teeth in concentration. Ethan nods approvingly, a mock-serious glint in his eyes.

“See? You’re a natural at this,” he encourages, his voice laced with humor, his hand resting briefly on the small of my back, a gesture of support.

“Natural disaster, maybe,” I shoot back, but I’m grinning from ear to ear. There’s something about this mess that feels right, like it’s painting a story of who we are: perfectly imperfect and unapologetically us.

“Ready for the mixer?” I ask, already reaching for the appliance, my fingers trembling slightly with anticipation.

As the beaters whir into action, flinging batter in a dramatic arc across the counter, we erupt into laughter once again, our voices mingling in a symphony of mirth. The kitchen may be a disaster zone, but it’s our disaster zone, a testament to the bond we share.

“Who needs a cooking class when you’ve got our special brand of slapstick comedy?” I quip, dodging a splatter of rogue dough, my heart racing with exhilaration. It’s a moment straight out of a sitcom, but there’s no canned laughter here—just genuine, unabated joy.

“Exactly,” Ethan agrees, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “And hey, if all else fails, we can always start a food fight. It’s about the only thing we haven’t done yet.”

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