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I’ve been carrying a torch for him for most of the five years we’ve been friends. It’s embarrassing, really, how little it’s faded, even after he made it clear we weren’t going to happen. The one time I’d worked up the courage—well, okay, the one time I’d gotten drunk enough—to tell him how I felt, he’d turned me down so gently it made it hurt worse.

“You’re amazing, but it’s just not like that for me,” he’d said. And then, as if to twist the knife, he’d added, “But I’d really like to stay friends.”

Somehow, we’d made it work. We’d stayed close, navigating the awkwardness until it faded. These days, it’s almost easy to forget how much I wanted him—still want him. Almost.

“You’re staring,” Kiefer says without looking up, his voice snapping me out of my thoughts.

“What? No, I’m not.”

“Uh-huh.” He shoots me a knowing look over his shoulder, and my face heats.

“Just… appreciating the magic,” I mumble, gesturing vaguely to the spices.

“Right,” he says, smirking again before turning back to the task at hand. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and start chopping those onions? Small dice, yeah?”

I grab a knife and try to focus, but it’s hard when he’s so close, his scent—clean and warm, with just a hint of something spicy—filling the small kitchen. I’m not proud of my obsession, but I’ve replayed that scent in my head more times than I care to admit. It’s ridiculous how much space he takes up in my brain.

We work side by side in a surprisingly smooth rhythm, Kiefer guiding me through the steps with patience I didn’t know he had. “You’ve got a decent chopping technique,” he says, watching me dice onions. “For someone who’s usually better at running his mouth.”

I glare at him, but a smile tugs at my lips. “Running my mouth is a talent, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, leaning a little closer as he checks the onions. “Not sure it’d win any culinary awards, though.”

“Careful,” I warn, brandishing my knife. “I’m armed.”

He chuckles, a low, warm sound that sends a shiver down my spine. “Relax, Gordon Ramsay. You’re doing fine.”

We chat as we cook, falling into an easy rhythm. When the topic drifts to weekend plans, he surprises me. “I’ve got Sunday off for a change,” he says casually. “Fancy doing something?”

I blink at him, caught off-guard. “Uh, yeah, sure. What did you have in mind?”

“Dunno,” he says, glancing at me. “We could figure it out. Something low-key.”

Something is in his gaze that makes my stomach flip. It’s probably just my imagination, but for a moment, it feels like he’s looking at me differently. More softly, maybe.

Then he reaches out, his fingers brushing my cheek. “You’ve got something here,” he murmurs, swiping at what turns out to be a streak of flour.

The touch is tender, lingering just long enough to make my heart skip a beat. “Nothing in the recipe calls for whatever that is,” he teases, his voice low.

I laugh nervously, trying to ignore the way my skin tingles where he touched me. “Well, it’s my signature ingredient. Chaos.”

His eyes drop to my mouth, and for a split second, I swear we’ve entered an alternate dimension. The air between us feels charged, like something unspoken is hovering on the tip of his tongue.

Just then, there’s a knock on my door. The spell breaks, and I practically leap away from him. “That’ll be my folks,” I say, my voice higher than I’d like.

Kiefer steps back, giving me space. “Right. This is almost ready to serve.”

I nod, trying to calm the frantic beat of my heart as I head to the door. Whatever just happened… I’ll have to figure it out later.

ChapterTwo

Kiefer

It doesn’t matter that I’m pretty sure what I salvaged tastes nothing like machboos—though to be fair, I’ve never tried the authentic dish, let alone made it before—but Carol and Ben don’t seem to mind all that much.

What they did mind, though, was me trying to escape after helping their only son.

For the third time, my wine glass is topped up. I should say no, since I drove here, but I can order an Uber. Plus, I can’t remember the last time I simply sat and relaxed. Work has been manic. The bar where I’m a chef might not carry any Michelin stars, but I’ve worked hard at building the reputation and fine-tuning the menu over the past seven years since relocating to Gympie. What that means is I’m always busy, and I kind of have an inability to let go and step away.