Page 8 of The Flavor of Us

And okay, maybe I’m staring at her arms. And maybe her shoulders. Andmaybeher mouth. But can anyone blame me?

She glances up just as I lick my lips, and her eyes go wide, her cheeks immediately turning a deep, rosy red.

“Tati!” Her voice is sharp, embarrassed, and it makes me grin like I’ve just caught her doing something scandalous.

“What?” I say innocently, pushing off the archway and sauntering into the kitchen. “I was just watching, Alpha. You looked… focused.”

Her mouth opens like she wants to argue, but then she just huffs out a breath and looks back down at the plate. “I was plating. Not exactly sexy, sweetheart.”

“Debatable,” I murmur under my breath as I slide onto one of the barstools, leaning forward on my elbows. “So, what did you make? It smells amazing.”

Carleen’s lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile, and her eyes flick up to meet mine again. “It’s beef bourguignon… with a twist.”

“Beef…what now?” I blink at her and she actually laughs this time, this low, warm sound that makes my stomach flip.

“Beef bourguignon,” she repeats, slowly. “It’s a French stew. Slow-cooked beef, red wine, onions, mushrooms…”

She keeps talking, but I’m already distracted by the plate she’s sliding in front of me. The sauce glistens under the light, the meat practically falls apart on sight, and the smell—oh, the smell. Without thinking, I grab a forkful, scoop anentire biteinto my mouth, and nearly moan right there at the counter.

“Oh.Oh my goddess.” I slap my hand on the countertop as I chew, eyes closed in pure, unfiltered bliss. “Carleen, what the hell. Did you put crack in this?”

She lets out a sharp breath, half frustration, half amusement as she stares at me. “Tati… you justinhaledthat bite. Did you even taste it?”

I look up at her, cheeks full, blinking innocently. “Yeah. It tasted like heaven.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose, muttering something about ‘heathens’ and ‘no respect for art’ under her breath, but I just grin and hold out my fork. “More, please.”

Her brown eyes flick to mine, and she looks almost pained, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “Tati, food like this is meant to besavored. You don’t just shovel it in like it’s drive-thru french fries.”

I gasp dramatically, clutching my chest. “I’ll have you know Ilovedrive-thru french fries.”

“That’s not the point,” she grumbles, turning to grab the pot from the stove and scooping more onto my plate. “What I do… it’s a craft. It’s about flavors, balance, layers. You’re supposed toexperienceit.”

I nod solemnly as I stab another piece of beef with my fork. “Carleen, Irespectyour craft. I really do. But food is also meant to beenjoyed. And if it’s not enjoyable, then what’s even thepoint of eating it?” Carleen’s still staring at me, her brown eyes locked onto mine like I just said something wild. And okay, maybe I did, but it was the truth.

Her brows pull together, her lips parting like she wants to say something, but no words come out. She juststares. I flash her a grin, trying to ease whatever storm’s brewing behind those deep brown eyes. “Don’t look so surprised. I meant it.”

She doesn’t reply, just leans against the counter with her arms crossed over her chest, her broad shoulders blocking out the kitchen light behind her. She’s got that look—the one that makes me feel like she’s seeing every inch of me, every thought in my head, every stupid little insecurity I’ve ever carried around.

But instead of letting myself get caught up in the intensity of her gaze, I laugh, stepping around the counter and straight into her space.

“Alright, enough brooding. You’re starting to look like a tortured anti-hero in a romance novel.”

Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t break the stare. I smirk and wink at her before turning my attention to the kitchen. Carleen’s kitchen, mind you. Herperfectkitchen, where everything has its place and every spice jar is alphabetized like it’s some kind of military operation.

I start rummaging through cabinets, pulling things out at random. My chaos has always intrigued her at the same time that it frustrates her.

“What are you doing?” she asks, a hint of amusement lingering in her words.

“Making something,” I reply vaguely, opening another cabinet and—jackpot—finding a fresh, homemade sourdough loaf sitting pretty on a wooden cutting board. The thing looks like it belongs in one of those fancy Instagram flat lays, but instead of grabbing it, I slide past and open the fridge.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Carleen says, straightening up as she watches me bypass her precious sourdough and grab a store-bought loaf that looks like it’s been sitting in the back of the fridge for a week. “Tati, what the hell are you doing?” she asks again, her tone edging closer to exasperation as I grab a few more random ingredients—cheese, butter, some garlic paste, and what looks like leftover pasta sauce.

I drop everything on the counter with a loudthudand grin up at her. “Just watch, Chef Carleen. Sit back, relax, and let me show you someBeta magic.”

Carleen’s frown deepens as she glances at the chaos I’ve unleashed on her pristine kitchen counter. “You’re going to usethatbread instead of the sourdough? Are youseriousright now?”

I hold up the store-bought loaf dramatically like it’s the hero of this story. “This, my dear Alpha, isdeliciousness in the making. Trust the process.”

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