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“Holy shit,” she breathes when it ends. “Lila, this is huge!”
“I know!” I clutch her arm. “But can I even handle something this big? It could be dozens of people, multiple courses...”
“Of course you can,” she says firmly. “You’ve been training for this your whole career. Plus, you’ll have help. You don’t have to do this alone.”
I hug her impulsively, flour dust and all. “You’re the best.”
“I know.” She pulls back, grinning. “Now call them back before they change their minds!”
But even as I dial Hunter Henson’s office, my thoughts keep drifting to Luke—to the kiss we shared and to the complications he can’t explain.
Focus, I tell myself firmly. You have a chance at your dreams here. Don’t let anything, or anyone, distract you from that.
Even if that anyone has the lightest blue eyes you’ve ever seen and kisses like he wants to devour you.
The setting sun slants through my kitchen windows as I chop vegetables, steadfastly ignoring the fact that I’m making way too much food for one person. The knife moves rhythmically against the cutting board—carrots, celery, onions—the foundation of a simple yet classic meal, and definitely not because Luke mentioned once that one of his favorite comfort foods was his mom’s chicken in gravy recipe.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, tossing the vegetables into my Dutch oven. The aromatics hit the hot oil with a satisfying sizzle.
I know Luke’s flight gets in around seven—not that I checked the arrival times or anything. And I’m definitely not timing this dinner to be ready around then. That would be pathetic, considering how I walked away from him on the beach and considering he has a girlfriend.
Considering everything.
Still, my hands move with practiced efficiency as I brown the chicken, deglaze the pan with wine, and add the herbs. The familiar routine of cooking usually centers me, but today, it doesn’t seem to behelping.
I’m determined to keep things strictly platonic. So why am I cooking for him? Because it’s Luke, and he’s always hungry. And I’m a chef and just being neighborly. Right?
Or maybe he was telling the truth. I mean, I’ve not even seen him kiss Crystal; she just does those little air kisses—isn’t that a sign? Could there still be a chance…
No. I cut that thought off before it can take root. Hope is dangerous when it comes to Luke Sterling.
Back in the kitchen, the rich aroma of the cooked chicken fills the air. I taste-test the flavor, adjusting the seasonings automatically. It’s perfect—the wine is mellowed into a velvety sauce, the herbs bright but not overwhelming, and the chicken practically falls off the bone.
I’ve made dinner, and it just happens to be enough for two.
“This is getting embarrassing,” I tell my empty kitchen. But I’m already reaching for containers and planning how to package everything.
I add fresh green beans with toasted almonds because they need to be eaten tonight while they’re crisp-tender. A warm baguette, because what’s chicken without bread to soak up the sauce—what Luke calls gravy? And because I’m apparentlygoing all in on this bout of temporary insanity, I throw in a slice of the chocolate tart I made this afternoon.
The basket I use for picnics sits on my counter, mocking me with its perfect size for this definitely not-planned care package.
“I’m just being neighborly,” I say out loud, carefully arranging everything inside. “That’s all.”
It’s ridiculous, really. We’re just friends. But even that feels like shaky ground after the kiss on the beach and the early morning text that’s been looping through my head on repeat. I shouldn’t care this much. I shouldn’t be cooking extra food just in case he comes home hungry—but let’s face it, Luke’salwayshungry. And I definitely shouldn’t be standing here, debating whether leaving it at his door is a thoughtful gesture or a completely transparent one.
Neighbors regularly make dinner for each other after sharing one smoking hot kiss and then explicitly stating they need space—right?
Who am I kidding? I like cooking for Luke! So, I grab a notecard, then spend an embarrassingly long time staring at it. What do I write? ‘Welcome back’ sounds too intimate. ‘Hope your flight was good.’ sounds like I’ve been tracking his travel schedule (which I haven’t… not really). ‘Thought you might be hungry’ is just... No.
Finally, I scribble‘Tested a new recipe. Let me know what you think. - L.’
There. Casual. Professional, even. Just a chef looking for feedback. Right!
I check the time—7:15 PM. My heart does a little flutter. Luke’s flight should have landed by now despite the traffic delays. Which means he’ll be home soon unless...
Unless Crystal met him at the airport, unless they’re having a romantic welcome-home dinner together, or unless—“Stop it,“ I order myself firmly.I already cooked it. Letting it go to waste now would just be silly.
Wouldn’t it? “Just drop off the food, Lila, then leave.”