Page 35 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

“This is fine,” I muttered to myself, hair sticking to my forehead, spoon in one hand, whisk in the other. “This is totally fucking fine.”

At some point, I must’ve turned on the stand mixer without the splash guard, because the wall behind me was now a Pollock painting in buttercream. And the langoustine cigars? I didn’teven attempt those tonight. I’d already accepted that frying crustaceans in my emotional state could only end in disaster. Or fire. Probably both.

Probably both.

Still, I wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet.

I pulled another chocolate mold from the shelf, checked the temper on my ganache—again—and attempted the plating one more time, this time holding my breath like that would somehow make my hands steadier.

I had just set the second quenelle—lopsided, but at least solid this time—when a voice behind me cut through the silence.

“You’re dragging the spoon too slow. That’s why it looks like melted soap instead of ice cream.”

I froze.

My spine snapped straight, and I turned to find Sebastian leaning in the doorway like he owned the godsdamn building.

“What the hell are you still doing here?” I demanded, face flushing hot. My hand instinctively moved to block the plate like it was a crime scene and he was Internal Affairs.

He walked in casually, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt with that same maddening nonchalance he wore like a second skin. “Missed my first bus because I was late cleaning up, then missed my second one because I was standing back there watching you butcher my recipe.”

“Excuse me?” I snapped.

He cocked his head. “You heard me.”

“I was trying.”

“Well,” he said, grabbing one of the extra aprons off the wall, “you could’vetriedasking for help.”

“I don’t need help.”

He tied the apron around his waist. “Clearly.”

“I hate you.”

“I’ve been told worse.”

He moved past me without asking, brushing close enough that I caught his scent—warm spice, citrus, and the faintest hint of sweat. His wolf flickered against mine like a spark itching for oxygen. I stepped back.

“This is my kitchen.”

“And you’re clearly in over your head.”

I glared at him. “You’re not even supposed to be here.”

“Then call security.”

I didn’t move. Neither did he.

Then he reached for the chocolate mold and gently tapped the bottom. With one practiced motion, he unmolded a perfectly glossy cylinder and placed it dead-center on a clean plate.

My eye twitched.

“Fine,” I muttered, stepping back. “But don’t get smug.”

“Oh, Ada,” he said with a grin that should’ve been illegal. “It’s too late for that.”

And just like that, against every fiber of my stubborn, pride-ridden soul… I let him help me.

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