Page 62 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

I nearly sliced through a tomato wrong. “It’s not a date.”

He turned back, walking backward now like he had all the time in the world. “Call it whatever makes you feel comfortable, boss, but you’re still going out with me tonight.”

The audacity. The infuriating confidence.

And gods help me… the tiny, traitorous flutter in my chest.

By the time we wrapped for the day—just shy of five—I was running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the stubborn willpower of a woman who refused to crumble in front of her staff. It had been a short shift technically, but it felt like we’d lived through an entire damn war. The kitchen was spotless, orders fulfilled, fridges restocked, and half the team already gone home to nurse their collective trauma with wine and sleep.

I leaned against the prep table, scrubbing a hand down my face when I noticed him.

Sebastian.

Lingering.

Of course he was.

He leaned with too much ease against the counter across from me, arms crossed, eyes already on me like he knew exactly what I was about to say.

“I’m going home to take a shower,” I started, pulling off myapron, “then I’ll come over to your place and we’ll… do this.”

His brow rose with that infuriatingly amused look he always wore when I acted like I wasn’t halfway to combusting just from standing next to him.

“Actually,” he said, slowly, “I have to swing by my cousin’s hotel real quick. Adrian wants to talk, shouldn’t take long. Can you pick me up from there?”

I exhaled. “Yeah, sure.” I turned on my heel to leave, but paused, glancing over my shoulder. “If I show up in sneakers and jeans, is that going to ruin your alpha ego? I’ve been on my feet all day and I’m not in the mood for heels.”

He grinned, that wicked glint flickering behind his lashes. “You could show up in your uniform for all I care. Hell, just the chef jacket and nothing underneath works too.”

I gave him a look. “Please don’t give me a reason to cancel last minute.”

He straightened, pushing off the counter, all wolfish charm and dark promise. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I told myself this wasn’t a date.

So why did I spend almost twenty minutes staring at my closet like it was a multiple-choice exam that determined my future?

First came the automatic reach for my usual power look: cream blazer, silk blouse, slim trousers. Too polished. Too CEO. I shoved it aside.

Next came a flirty green wrap dress that hugged every curve like a promise. I held it up, felt my pulse kick, imagined Sebastian’s eyes sliding over it.

“No,” I said then tossed it back on the hanger with a muttered, “Get a grip, Ada.”

Jeans. Sneakers.

That was the plan. Keep it simple. Keep it safe.

Still, it took five pairs of jeans before I settled on the dark-wash skinnies that hit right at my ankle—snug, flattering, but casual enough to sayI’m here for shawarma, not seduction.I paired them with a fitted white tee and threw a cropped black leather jacket over the top. The sneakers were white, pristine—thank you, obsessive cleaning habits.

I straightened my hair until it lay glossy down my back, then, on a whim, painted my nails a deep emerald to match the tiny stud in my nose.

Not a date, my ass.

I was slipping my keys into my purse when my smartwatch buzzed—an obnoxious reminder I’d programmed myself. Pill time.

Suppressants. Stronger dosage. Necessary, according to my doctor, after what she diplomatically called “heightened stress and hormone fluctuations.” I called itsurviving in a kitchen full of alpha egos and last-minute disasters.

I stood in front of the cabinet, fingers brushing the small white bottle, and just… paused.

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