Page 21 of The Flavor of Us

“Exactly.” His voice sharpens, the authority in it impossible to miss. “Your name was referred to me by someone I trust. I took a look at your portfolio, your reviews, your work—and let me be clear, Ms. Monroe, we don’t usually extend offers to chefs outside our inner circle. But… you impressed me.”

I exhale slowly, my chest tightening with a mix of nerves and excitement. Impressing the head of Culinova is no small feat. They’re on the face of every culinary magazine, showing off their competitions and events in a way that I’ll never reach on my own. “Thank you, Mr. Alexander. I’d be honored to work with Culinova.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he replies. “I’m sending two of my best to assist you—Ryder and Ashton St. James. They’ll be working with you on logistics, prep, and quality control during your trial week. They’re efficient, professional, and sharp as knives. You’ll be in good hands.”

Ryder and Ashton St. James. The names ring faint bells—well-known chefs and event coordinators in their own right. Alphas, from what I remember. And if they’re part of Culinova’s top team, they’re damn good at what they do.

“I look forward to meeting them,” I say, my voice steady despite the way my mind is already spinning with prep ideas and menu drafts. Only a week to prepare the biggest menu of my entire career. Fuck, I need to go shopping for ingredients.

“We have your address down as 356 Hedon Lane, Apt 32, correct?” I manage a yes but it’s almost as if my response isn’t important. “They’re on their way, then. I hope everything works out, Ms. Monroe.”

The second I hang up the phone with Robert, I realize two very important things:

One—this could be the biggest break of my career. Two—I might’ve just signed my death warrant.

“They’re on their way,” I mutter to myself, staring down at the now-ominous black screen of my phone.

They’re on their way.

As inRyder and Ashton St. James—Culinova’s golden boys, the Alphas who could probably turn water into wine and raw dough into a Michelin-starred dish.

And they havemy home address.

Myapartment.

The two-bedroom apartment where my Beta is still asleep in a nest tucked into a closet and where my fridge is stocked withleftover sourdoughand eggs. Well, there's other items as well but not nearly on the level of motherfucking Culinova's golden boys. I glance at the clock above the stove.7:06 a.m.

The St. James are coming here,now.

“Shit. Shit.Shit.”

My brain goes into overdrive and I’m already moving before I realize what I’m doing. I shove the plates of breakfast off to the side, rushing toward my room to grab clean clothes and a towel. I can’t meet two of the most influential Alphas in the culinary world wearing sweatpants and yesterday’s eyeliner.

I slam the bathroom door shut, lean against it for half a second to catch my breath, and then turn on the shower. The water is ice cold because of course it is. “Goddess, give me strength.”

I don’t think I’ve ever taken a faster shower in my life. My hair is barely rinsed and I’m still scrubbing shampoo out of my ear asI wrap a towel around me and rush back into my room. I pull on black tailored pants and a crisp white button-up, rolling up the sleeves to my elbows. Professional, clean, sharp.

I pause at my reflection, my face still flushed, my hair damp and curling slightly against my forehead. It’ll have to do. And now it’s time to wake up my sweet Beta so she’s not thrown off when the two most important people of my career show up in my kitchen.

I’m definitely going to die today.

Chapter ten

TATI

The smell of toast and something warm and buttery drags me out of sleep. My nest is soft, cozy, and honestly? I could stay here forever. But the scent keeps pulling me—carbs and something savory, with just a faint hint of citrus.

A shadow falls across the doorway of my room and then there’s Carleen. Hair still damp from a rushed shower, sleeves rolled up on her crisp button-up, and a sharpness in her brown eyes that meansbusiness.But when she looks at me, when she takes in the sleepy mess I am, her whole face softens.

“Morning, sunshine,” she murmurs, stepping forward and kneeling next to my nest.

“Morning…” I croak out, voice raspy and thick with sleep.

Before I can fully process what’s happening, Carleen leans in and starts pressing quick, feather-light kisses all over my face—my forehead, my cheeks, the tip of my nose. I giggle and squirm,trying to push her away, but she just huffs out a warm laugh and keeps going.

“Alpha!” I whine, burying my face in my hands.

“Up and at ’em, sweetheart,” she says, her voice lilting with amusement. “I’ve got a busy morning, and you’re coming with me—well, to theliving room,at least.”

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