Page 37 of Stolen Dreams

I like an unreserved man. A man willing to open himself up to vulnerabilities. A man unafraid to flaunt every facet of himself, including the side most are taught to suppress because it makes them appearweakorless than.

“As you said, there’s nothing to apologize for.” The corner of his mouth tips up in a crooked smile. “I agree with you.”

My eyes dart between his as my brows pinch together. “Agree?”

With indiscernible ease, he leans closer, invades my space, breathes my air. “I’d rather feel all those things than nothing at all, too.”

I suck in a sharp breath as he straightens and inches back. Several heart-pounding seconds pass as I stand slack-jawed and speechless. Dumbfounded. Unable to articulate a coherent thought or find my voice.

No man has stunned me silent before, not like this.

A click sounds behind me, and I turn to see a shock of red hair. Eyes scanning the room, Phoebe Graves enters with a bag slung over her shoulder and a semi-cheerful smile on her face. Although Phoebe and I are descendants of the founding families,we aren’t familiar with each other beyond names and basic public information.

Most of her life, Phoebe has been dubbed themost frigidperson in Stone Bay. Until a little more than a year ago, most people—including myself—steered away from her. With a single glare from her harsh gaze, she would’ve turned anyone to ice.

It took a serial killer threatening to rob her of someone she’d fallen in love with—Delilah Fox, another of the Seven—to thaw her arctic heart.

I’m still a bit hesitant on how much I share or interact with her. A tiger may not change its stripes, but I’d like to think perhaps she was a chameleon blending in with her environment until ready to show her true self.

Phoebe scans the room full of kids, then breathes easier when she spots me and Ray. She crosses the room for us, smiles… and it appears genuine. Happy. A touch skittish.

“Kaya.” She tips her head in my direction then turns toward Ray. “Tré,” she greets. “Great turnout.”

Brows pinched in confusion, Ray tilts his head. “What brings you in, Phoebe?”

Phoebe glances to the front of the room, where the kitchen is, and juts her chin. “Chef Beaulieu asked me to come in, take pictures, and write up a feel-good story for the Gazette on the restaurant’s first cooking classes.”

Ray peers over his shoulder at the front of the room as his fingers rub his palms at his sides. When he turns back to us, he rolls his shoulders and nods, his expression vacant and all business.

“He mentioned the paper, but I missed the details.” He folds his arms over his chest. “Seats are assigned. Look for an empty spot without a tent card,” he says, voice colder than usual.

Phoebe rolls her eyes. “I’m glad to be here, too,” she says in a mocking tone, then gives us her back. Hiking the bag higher on her shoulder, she wanders off to a table in the corner.

The desire to console Ray once she’s out of earshot blooms in my chest. Words dance on the tip of my tongue, eager to comfort him. Tell him not to worry about the nosy reporter and focus on why he’s here—to do what he loves and share it with the next generation.

On instinct, I reach out and rest a hand on his forearm. The heat, the hum, the undeniable connection we shared moments ago flares back to life. An inferno blazes anew. Tingles ripple up my arm to my chest. Need pools low in my belly.

I yank my hand away and swallow. Watch as his hand flexes then extends at his side. Inhale a slow, deliberate breath as I meet his mystified gaze.

“Focus on why you’re here and ignore the rest.” My voice is sandpaper as I clutch my left wrist and stroke the beads on my bracelet. “You’ll do great.”

The lines around his eyes deepen as a soft smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks.”

“Chef Calhoun,” Chef Beaulieu calls. “Shall we begin?”

With a wink, Ray walks off and I take my seat. Tucker gives a gleeful “Yes!” when he learns we are at the same table. Everyone quiets down, and I turn my attention to the front of the room as Ray greets the group.

After introductions, Ray, Fin, and André outline some of theboringbut important safety measures the kids will learn this week before the fun starts. They share the kitchen tools we will use, how sharp the knives and graters are, and how important it is to focus on your tasks and hands.

Fin abandons the counter to hand out thickly sliced cheese as Ray instructs everyone to pick up the butter knife at their setting.

“Before we introduce sharp knives, we’ll practice basic techniques with gentler tools,” Ray says as he picks up his own butter knife. He shows the kids how to hold it properly, where to place their other hand, and how to cut without hurting themselves.

The entire time, I salivate in my seat at how capable he is. Peek at him every once in a while from under my lashes. Do my best to focus on why I am in this room.

I’m here to assist, to work, not ogle.

Although the kids didn’t cook anything today, lunch is served before class ends.

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