Page 14 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas
So I’d said yes. And now I was stuck with a commitment I didn’t have time for and couldn’t gracefully back out of without seeming like the flaky omega everyone probably already assumed I was.
I arranged my tools with more force than necessary, each item placed precisely because at least I could control this small corner of my increasingly chaotic life. Eight-inch Wüsthof chef’s knife, freshly honed on my ceramic steel. Cutting board positioned at the correct height, damp towel underneath to prevent slipping. Small bowls for mise en place, because proper organization was the foundation of any successful dish.
The familiar ritual did nothing to settle my nerves this time. I had three contractor bids sitting on my laptop that needed comparison and response by tomorrow, a health department inspection report full of compliance requirements that made my head spin, and approximately zero bandwidth for playing teacher to an alpha who’d probably lose interest after one lesson anyway.
My phone buzzed again.Bringing some things from my last foraging trip. Thought you might find them interesting.
Despite my stress, curiosity flickered. Jace had mentioned his foraging work when we’d talked at the market, connecting his ranger knowledge to food sourcing in ways that had actually sounded fascinating. The sweet boy who’d followed me around my grandmother’s garden had grown into a man who understood seasonal ingredients and sustainable harvesting.
Which was exactly the kind of thinking that could keep me distracted from business planning I couldn’t afford to postpone.
The sound of his truck in my driveway made my pulse quicken for reasons I refused to examine. Through the window, I watched him approach, moving with that easy outdoorconfidence, carrying what looked like a small basket covered with a cloth.
He knocked, and I forced myself to open the door with something approximating enthusiasm instead of the resentment I’d been nurturing all morning.
“Hey,” he said, his smile warm and genuine and completely oblivious to my internal turmoil. “Thanks again for agreeing to this. I know you’re busy with the bistro planning.”
The acknowledgment of my time constraints actually helped. At least he wasn’t assuming I had endless free hours to dedicate to his education.
“Come in,” I said, stepping back. “What did you bring?”
He set the basket on my counter and pulled back the cloth with the kind of reverence usually reserved for precious artifacts. “Late chanterelles from the north ridge, some black trumpet mushrooms from the oak grove near Whisper Creek, and wild rosemary that’s still going strong despite the cold nights.”
The mushrooms were beautiful, earthy golden chanterelles with their distinctive trumpet shape and darker, more delicate black trumpets that looked like they’d been harvested with expert care. The rosemary gave off that sharp, resinous scent that always made me think of Mediterranean cooking and warm summer nights.
“These are incredible,” I said, professional interest temporarily overriding my stress. “You found all of this locally?”
“Within five miles of town. The chanterelles are past their peak season, but there’s a grove that gets afternoon sun and holds moisture longer than most spots. The black trumpets grow in a mycorrhizal relationship with the oaks, so once you know where to look, you can harvest sustainably for years.”
His excitement was infectious, the way it had been when he was eight and showing me the “secret” patch of wild strawberrieshe’d discovered. I found myself genuinely curious despite my determination to stay detached.
“So what do you want to learn today?” I asked, refocusing on the teaching plan I’d reluctantly prepared.
“Everything.” His grin was slightly sheepish. “But specifically, knife skills. I can field-dress a deer and filet a trout, but I have no idea how to approach that squash properly.”
At least he was honest about his limitations. I selected my favorite chef’s knife, the weight of it familiar and comforting in my palm despite the chaos of everything else in my life.
“This is where we start,” I said, settling into teaching mode because it was easier than thinking about permit applications. “How you hold your knife determines everything about your efficiency, safety, and final results.”
I demonstrated the proper grip, thumb and forefinger controlling the blade while the other three fingers wrapped around the handle. “Pinch grip, not fist grip. Your hand becomes an extension of the blade.”
Jace watched with the same concentrated attention I remembered from childhood, completely present in the moment. “Like holding my field knife for precision work instead of batoning firewood.”
“Exactly.” The comparison was apt, connecting to his existing expertise in a way that would make the technique click faster. “Your outdoor experience translates directly. It’s all about control and respect for the tool.”
I handed him my second-best knife, hyperaware of his fingers brushing mine during the transfer. The contact sparked something that made me step back quickly, needing space.
Focus. I was teaching, not getting distracted by attractive alphas when I had real work waiting.
“Feel the balance point?” I guided his positioning without quite touching. “There. Now show me how you’d approach the squash.”
He positioned himself at my cutting board, and I had to admit his natural stance was good. “Like this?”
“Perfect. You’ve got natural knife posture.” I moved to stand beside him rather than behind, maintaining the professional distance I needed. “Now, butternut squash intimidates most people, but once you know the technique, it’s straightforward.”
I demonstrated on my own squash, knife moving with practiced precision. “First, we remove the stem end. Clean cut, straight down. This creates a stable base so the squash won’t roll.”
The blade sliced through dense flesh with a satisfying thunk, the mechanical action providing temporary relief from the stress that had been building all morning.
