Page 86 of Worth the Fall

The screen stays quiet, no immediate response, which isn’t surprising. Miguel’s been busy settling into his new job, not to mention juggling everything with Felicity. Still, the tiniest flicker of disappointment dances in the back of my mind. I shake it off, slipping the phone into my purse.

"Focus, Mason," I mutter to myself, turning back to the stack of files on my desk.

But focusing feels impossible. Between the adrenaline from the celebration and the lingering warmth from last night’s conversation with Miguel, my thoughts keep drifting.

Iunlock Miguel’s apartment door, practically bursting with excitement. My heels click against the hardwood as I step inside, already imagining his reaction when I tell him about the Simmons account. He’ll be proud, grinning that slow, warm smile of his, probably teasing me for downplaying it.

But my triumphant mood lasts all of two seconds before I’m hit with a wave of something acrid.

Smoke.

The smell is unmistakable—burnt something. My nose wrinkles as I take another step in, and that’s when I hear it: the high-pitchedbeep-beep-beepof the smoke detector.

"Miguel?" I call, coughing slightly as I wave at the faint haze in the air. "What’s going on?"

There’s no answer, so I drop my bag on the couch and head toward the kitchen, my heart racing slightly. I round the corner to find Miguel standing on a chair, fanning the smoke detector with a cookie sheet like his life depends on it.

"What the—" I start, coughing again.

"Mia!" he exclaims, jumping slightly at the sound of my voice. His head jerks down, and he nearly clocks himself on the ceiling.

"What’s happening?" I ask, trying not to laugh as I take in the scene: the smoke detector blaring, a pan on the stove emitting a pitiful wisp of smoke, and Miguel’s face somewhere between panicked and guilty.

"I can explain!" he says, frantically waving the cookie sheet.

"Is something on fire?" I ask, coughing again as I step closer.

"No! Well, not anymore," he mutters.

That’s when I spot it—a charred lump on the counter that might have once been food. It’s unrecognizable, but the smell leaves no doubt.

I burst out laughing, unable to help myself. "Oh my God, Miguel, did you try to cook?"

He shoots me a look, the kind of look that says, “Not helping, Mason.”

"It’s not funny," he says, his voice tight as he keeps fanning the alarm.

"It’s a little funny," I say, grinning. "I didn’t even know you used your kitchen for anything other than coffee."

"I use my kitchen," he says defensively, hopping down from the chair to glare at the still-blaring smoke detector. "It’s just?—"

"You’re not good at it?" I offer helpfully.

He points the cookie sheet at me. "You’re supposed to be supportive right now."

I laugh again, stepping closer to inspect the carnage on the counter. "What even is this?"

"It was supposed to be chicken," he mumbles, his shoulders slumping slightly. "And risotto."

"Risotto?" I repeat, trying and failing to keep a straight face. "Who are you, Gordon Ramsay?"

"Apparently not," he mutters, and the sheer look of distress on his face makes me stop laughing—mostly.

"Hey, it’s not a big deal," I say, reaching out to touch his arm. "We can order takeout. Or I can cook something. You know, something edible."

But instead of laughing, Miguel groans, rubbing a hand over his face. "No, Mia, it needs to be perfect."

That throws me. I blink at him, my own laughter fading. "What do you mean?"

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