Page 29 of The Flavor of Us

It’s unnerving, how quickly he seems to understand the energy in the room, how easily he adjusts to it. Like he’s absorbing every detail—where I’m standing, how I’m breathing, what kind of mood I’m in—before making his next move.

Ashton, on the other hand, is half-perched on the edge of the counter, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his bronze skin glowing under the soft kitchen lights. He’s piping something into tiny chocolate shells with a grin stretched across his face, his tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth as he works.

“Back so soon, Chef?” Ashton asks without looking up, but there’s a knowing edge to his voice like he can feel me watching him.

I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised. “Would you rather I leave you two unsupervised?”

Ryder’s lips twitch slightly—almost a smile—but he doesn’t stop whisking. Ashton, though? Oh, Ashtonsmirks. “I mean… depends on how much you trust us, darling.”

His voice is warm, low, and playful, but it sends a spark of something sharp through me. I roll my eyes, fighting down the flush threatening to creep up my neck. Tati isn’t the only one flustered with these men in my kitchen.

“Darling,” I repeat flatly, pushing off the doorframe and striding further into the kitchen. “If you set one thing on fire in here, I’ll have your head.”

Ashton grins wider, but Ryder clears his throat softly, cutting through whatever nonsense Ashton is about to fire back with.

“We’re working on a dessert concept for the trial menu,” Ryder says evenly. “Ashton insisted it would be the centerpiece.”

Ashton gestures grandly to the chocolate shells he’s been filling, his brown eyes flicking up to meet mine. “Insistedis a strong word, Chef Monroe. Istrongly suggestedit would be a showstopper.”

I can’t stop the small laugh that escapes me as I move to the other side of the counter, surveying their work. The chocolate shells are intricate—fragile-looking, with delicate swirls of caramelized sugar draped over them like lace. Whatever’s insidethem must be good because even without tasting it, the air is thick with the scent of rich chocolate, orange zest, and something…spiced.

“You better hope these taste as good as they smell,” I say, tapping one lightly with my finger.

“They will,” Ryder replies. “We don’t miss.”

His confidence hits me square in the chest, and for a brief moment, I let myselffeel it. The way Ryder’s calm steadiness grounds me. The way Ashton’s playful energy keeps the air light, even when the stakes are high.

It feels like… balance.

I shake the thought away, turning toward the stove and pulling out the fresh ingredients I’d prepped earlier. There’s an entrée I’ve been working on—something Ashton swore would “win over the entire board.” It’s not that I don’t trust his instincts, but… No. That’s a lie. I do trust him. Both of them.

That’s what’s throwing me off.

I’m used to fighting for every inch of ground in this industry, used to Alphas undermining me, second-guessing me, talking over me. But Ryder and Ashton? They’re just… here.They’re following my lead, slipping into my kitchen like they’ve always belonged. It’s disarming.

I focus on chopping herbs, the rhythmicthud, thud, thudof the knife against the cutting board grounding me. Unfortunately, the solace I usually find in my kitchen is nowhere to be found. Their presence and heavy scents are distracting and knowing that I’m just as bothered as Tati is, is messing with my head.

The knife slips.

It’s barely a flicker of movement, but the sharp edge skims past my knuckle, and I flinch, jerking my hand back just in time to avoid drawing blood. I’ve never made such a rookie mistake before, my focus anywhere but in the kitchen where it should be.

Before I can even process what happened, Ryder is at my side. He crosses the kitchen in two steps, his large hand wrapping around my wrist while his other plucks the knife from my trembling fingers. “Sit.” His voice is low, steady, and carries an authority that settles deep in my chest. I freeze, my lips parting slightly as I stare up at him. “Sit,” he commands again, his blue eyes locking onto mine with a sharpness that leaves no room for argument.

But I’m Carleen Monroe. I don’t get told what to do in my own kitchen. My spine straightens, and my mouth opens to protest, but Ryder tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

“You don’t need to prove yourself here, Carleen.”

The words hit me harder than I expect them to.

You don’t need to prove yourself.

Not in my kitchen. Not inmyspace. Not to them.

My shoulders slump slightly, the weight of his words pressing into me, and without realizing it, I’m lowering myself onto one of the stools by the island. Ryder places the knife safely on the counter, his sharp gaze never leaving mine as he takes a small step back, arms crossing over his chest.

The tension in the room is palpable. Ashton, who’s been buzzing with energy and sharp wit, doesn’t say a word. He’s watching Ryder carefully, his arms still folded, a flicker of something serious in his warm brown eyes. My chest rises and falls too fast, my breathing shallow as I try to find my footing again. I try to sigh—to exhale all thistension, all this heat—but it comes out… well, it comes out sounding far more like amoanthan I intended.

Ashton’s lips part slightly, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as his eyes flicker to me, but—for once—he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t crack a joke.

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