Page 13 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

She was already in the office when I walked in, perched at her desk in leggings and a De la Vega tee, scrolling through invoices with the focus of someone born to manage chaos.

She blinked when she saw me. “You’re here early.”

I handed her the cup. She took the drink, sipped, and eyed me suspiciously. “You good?”

“Fine.”

“Youtexted melast night that I’m in charge of wrapping the Laurent event. I figured you were getting lucky.”

I gave her a sharp look over the rim of my coffee.

She grinned, unbothered. “What? I assumed some Alpha was blowing your back out. You haven’t had a night off in months.”

“Jesus, Mila.”

She just kept sipping, eyes innocent. “Am I wrong?”

We’d been friends for eight years—since the beginning, when De la Vega Events was just me, a Craigslist convection oven, and a dream I was too stubborn to let die. Mila had beenfresh out of culinary school, and I’d convinced her with one check that bounced twice and a promise we’d make it.

Now she ran the place with me. Partner in everything but title.

“Get in my office,” I muttered, already climbing the stairs to the loft.

She followed, no questions—just that same raised brow and a look that saidyou’re about to tell me something big.

I shut the door behind her and took a seat at my desk, the faux-leather chair creaking as I sank into it. I adjusted my glasses with a sigh.

Mila leaned against the desk, crossing her arms.

“Okay, boss. Spill it.” Her tone was casual. But her eyes were sharp. “What’s going on?”

I stared at my coffee. Then at her.

Then back at my coffee.

Because the wordsI accidentally slept with our new sous-chefsounded even more disastrous in the daylight.

I narrowed my eyes at Mila, fingers tightening around my coffee cup like it might anchor me to what little sanity I had left.

“Did you hire a Laurente to work for us?”

Her smile appeared instantly, proud and smug—until it faltered. “Wait. How do you know that?”

I stared at her, unblinking.

“That was supposed to be my big surprise,” she muttered, more to herself than to me. “I had this whole reveal planned. You ruined it.”

“Mila.” My voice came out flat, sharp. “Why? How?”

She straightened, defensive now but still calm. “In my defense, he had a great resume. Le Cordon Bleu, L’Oustau de Baumanière. He cooked for me and Stuart the other night after his trial run—he made this duck confit with a roasted cherry demi-glace and a delicate sweet potato purée spiked withcardamom and orange zest. I swear to god, Ada, it was finger-licking good. Like...obscene.”

I dropped my head back against the chair with a groan. “No. No, no, no...”

“He has this little trick—he adds just a dash of cinnamon to the sauce,” she went on, oblivious to my existential collapse. “Not enough to identify it, but just enough to make the flavor pop. It’s magic. I licked the plate. Stuart licked his plate. And I do not let that man lick anything in front of guests.”

“Mila,” I said, pained.

She threw her hands up. “What? He’s charming, he’s funny, he’s talented, and he has a personality that would actually work in this kitchen. For once. Do you know how many chefs we’ve gone through this year?”

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