Page 15 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas
“Your turn.”
His first cut was cautious but accurate, following my demonstration exactly. “Like establishing a stable base camp before moving higher up the mountain.”
“Now we separate the neck from the bulb.” I showed him the division point, how to use the knife’s full length for efficiency. “The neck is solid flesh, easy to peel and dice. The bulb has the seed cavity, so we’ll handle that differently.”
We worked side by side, and despite my worries about the time commitment, I found myself settling into teaching mode. Jace asked good questions, listened carefully to my explanations, and never once made me feel like I needed to prove my knowledge.
Which was surprisingly refreshing after months of second-guessing every professional decision.
“Peeling technique,” I continued, selecting my four-inch paring knife. “Keep your thumb out of the blade path. Small, controlled strokes, following the curve.”
His attempts were clumsy but determined. I resisted the urge to take over, letting him work through the challenge even though my inner perfectionist cringed at his inefficiency.
“Frustrating when you know what you want to do but your hands won’t cooperate,” he muttered.
“Like learning to read animal sign,” I offered, remembering our childhood conversations. “You know there’s information there, but it takes practice to train your eyes to see it.”
He looked up, surprise and pleasure mixing in his expression. “You really do remember that summer.”
“Of course I do.” The admission came easier than I expected. “You made me explain everything three times and took notes in that little field journal you carried everywhere.”
“I still have that journal. Your grandmother’s recipe for blackberry pie is in there, and about fifty pages of plant identification notes you taught me.”
Something warm unfurled in my chest despite my determination to stay focused on business instead of nostalgia. This was why I’d agreed to the lesson, I realized. Because Jace represented a time when cooking was about joy and connection instead of professional validation and spectacular failure.
“Half-inch dice for risotto,” I said, demonstrating the technique and trying to ignore the emotional undertow. “Consistent size means even cooking. Rock the blade, don’t chop. Let the weight of the knife do the work.”
He mimicked my movements, his cuts improving with each attempt. “There’s rhythm to it. Like the rhythm of hiking, finding that pace you can maintain for hours.”
“Everything in cooking has rhythm,” I agreed, moving to the stove. “Chopping, stirring, even seasoning. You learn to feel when something’s right.”
I heated olive oil in my favorite heavy-bottomed pan while he finished his dice, the familiar ritual of building flavors grounding me in the present moment instead of the anxiety spiral that usually occupied my thoughts.
“Now we build the soffritto,” I said, adding diced onion to the hot oil. “Italian flavor base. Onion, celery, carrot. The foundation for hundreds of dishes.”
“Like establishing a healthy forest floor,” Jace said, watching the onions turn translucent. “Get the base ecosystem right, everything else can thrive on top of it.”
The metaphor actually worked, connecting his ranger knowledge to cooking in a way that showed he was really trying to understand. I found myself actually enjoying the teaching despite my earlier resentment. This was what I’d missed in Chicago. The simple pleasure of sharing knowledge with someone who genuinely wanted to learn, who saw cooking as connection rather than commodity.
“Sweat the onions, don’t brown them,” I instructed, adjusting heat by sound and smell. “We want translucent, not caramelized.”
He leaned over my shoulder to watch, close enough that I caught his scent again. Pine and cedar, something clean and outdoorsy that made my omega instincts purr with approval despite my determination to stay professionally detached.
“Tell me about the bistro planning,” he said, surprising me with the subject change. “How’s that going?”
The question made tension flood back into my shoulders. “Complicated. The old bakery space is perfect, but the permit requirements are overwhelming. The health department has three separate inspection phases, the electrical systemneeds upgrades to handle commercial equipment, and every contractor I’ve talked to is booked through summer.”
“That sounds stressful.”
“It is.” I stirred the aromatics more vigorously than necessary. “And I probably shouldn’t have agreed to teaching lessons when I have so much other work to do.”
The admission slipped out before I could stop it, revealing the resentment I’d been trying to hide.
Jace was quiet for a moment. “Do you want to cancel? I mean it, Talia. If this is adding stress you don’t need, we can reschedule or just forget the whole thing.”
The offer was genuine, no wounded pride or manipulation, just honest concern for my wellbeing. Which somehow made me feel worse about my attitude.
“No,” I said, more firmly than I meant to. “I need this, actually. Something that’s not about permits and inspections and trying to prove I can build a business from scratch.”
