Page 48 of Sweet Sinners
Trust doesn’t come easy in this house.
The only one who doesn’t look at me like I might snap at any moment is the gardener. We’ve spent hours working side by side, hands in the dirt, sweat in our eyes. Joe is a a no-bullshit kind of guy, straight to the point, which I appreciate more than I’d ever admit. I don’t knowif he likes me, but we have an unspoken understanding. We don’t fill the air with unnecessary conversation. We just work. That’s enough.
He’s been showing me the lay of the land, what to trim, what to leave alone, what’s growing wild and unwelcome.
The greenhouse is the only place that makes me feel… steady. I don’t know if it’s because it reminds me of my mother or if it’s just the distraction I need to forget how my life turned out this way.
Angel’s trumpet is my latest discovery. My favorite, actually. It’s beautiful—delicate, otherworldly—but also deadly. Ingesting even a small amount could kill you, so I have no idea why my mother was growing it. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she did. Either way, I can’t stop looking at it.
It reminds me of Cali.
I’ve taken extra care of it. It’s sensitive to the cold, so I’ve been making sure it’s protected. The gardeners have kept it thriving all these years, but now, I want to be the one to look after it. I want to see it bloom under my hands.
I want to hold it.
I want to witness how beautiful it can become when it’s nurtured properly.
Even if it kills me.
I scan the recipe again, double-checking that I haven’t missed anything. The stew simmers, rich and fragrant, the steam curling into the air. I grab a spoon, give it a cautious taste, then reach for the spices, tweaking until the balance is just right. A little more heat, a little more depth. I let the spice settle on my tongue, that slow burn I’ve missed more than I realized.
God, I forgot what this felt like. The freedom to experiment, to build flavors, to savor something just because I can.
“Hard at work, I see?”
Cali’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I glance back, smirking. “Hope you’re in the mood for Korean.”
Her brows lift in curiosity. “Can’t say I’ve tried much.”
I stir the pot, letting the thick broth coat the spoon. “This one’s a winner, cheesy, comforting. You’ll like it.”
She steps closer, drawn in by the aroma, and I catch the way her eyes flicker with something softer, something warmer. “Connor, you should seriously consider becoming a chef,” she muses. “You love it, you’re good at it, and…” She trails off, watching me, her expression shifting into something I can’t quite name. “You always seem more at peace when you’re cooking.”
For a second, the air between us changes.
Her gaze meets mine, deep and unwavering, pulling me in. Her lips part slightly, a breath slipping free, her cheeks tinged with the softest blush. It’s nothing. It should be nothing. But suddenly, it’s everything.
I swallow hard, my throat tight, my pulse tripping over itself.
Clearing my throat, I force out a rough, “I enjoy it.” My voice comes out lower than I intended. “Not sure anyone would actually hire me, though.”
She tilts her head, considering.
I exhale, giving a small shrug, the words slipping out more easily than I expected. “I love playing with flavors. And now that I’m…out, I have so much more to work with. I missed food that actually tastes good—not just the kind that keeps you alive.”
Her lips press together, her eyes searching mine. “Connor…” she whispers.
I shake my head, turning back to the stove. “Food…it’s something everyone takes for granted until it’s gone,” I admit quietly. “The flavor, the luxury of taking your time with a meal, actually tasting the heat, the sweetness, the salt, it’s all a privilege.” I pause, my grip tightening on the spoon. “And it’s the one I missed the most.”
Cali doesn’t say anything right away, but I can feel her watching me, like she sees the parts of me I try to keep hidden. And for the first time, I don’t hate it.
"Like I said, you should be a chef."
I counter with a wry smile, "And like I said, who the hell would hire me?"
Cali’s voice dips, softer now, carrying something dangerous. A promise, a temptation. "I can always flex my power, you know. You’ve helped me so much."
