Page 53 of Knot Going Down (OlympicVerse #3)

LUCAS

T here’s a difference between a cruise ship kitchen and a kitchen kitchen, and this one makes that painfully clear.

The countertops are built for elbow-brushing.

The oven is basically child-sized. And the five of us are attempting to cook a full dinner like we’re the poster pack for a functional found-family sitcom.

Spoiler: we’re not.

Gunner’s stationed by the fridge like the self-appointed kitchen supervisor, ears perked every time a knife hits the cutting board. Ava’s taken charge, of course. Her hair’s twisted up in a knot so tight it probably requires engineering, and she’s holding a wooden spoon like a weapon.

“We’re making a real meal tonight,” she says, eyes scanning us like a drill sergeant on her last nerve. “No snacks. No cereal. Something with vegetables and actual seasoning.”

Declan’s already halfway through dicing chicken breasts like he moonlights on a cooking competition show. His sleeves are rolled, his brows furrowed, and his knife is moving with precise, deadly elegance. Honestly, it’s really fucking hot. And unfair.

I’m stationed at the end of the counter with a cutting board for limes and a bowl full of tortilla chips. Because I maintain that chips are emotionally adjacent to dinner, and also because no one’s stopping me.

Emily clings to a bottle of white wine like it’s a flotation device. “House rule,” she declares. “No blood.”

“And no fire.” Ava gives Emily a pointed look, then hands Knox a butter knife.

I wonder if she doesn’t trust him with the few sharp knives the kitchen is equipped with.

“You’re on mango duty,” she says to Knox.

“Declan’s got the chicken. Emily’s on wine, general emotional support, and looking really damn cute.

” She pats Emily’s ass affectionately. Emily smiles shyly in response.

“I handle the sides,” Ava adds before turning her attention to me.

“Lucas, you’re on limes and making sure no one dies. ”

“Delegation,” I say, tossing a lime from one hand to the other. “We are growing.”

Watching Knox try to peel the mango with a butter knife is like watching a baby giraffe learn ballet—confident, chaotic, and deeply concerning.

He grips the fruit like it personally offended him and starts peeling from the top down with wild bravado. The mango shoots out of his hands mid-slice, performs an elegant, tragic arc, and smacks the oven door with a slap that sounds wet and accusatory.

Gunner trots over, sniffs it like he’s conducting forensics, then pointedly ignores it, clearly unimpressed with tropical produce.

I don’t even flinch. “Five-second rule if you lick it clean.”

Ava sighs like she’s babysitting toddlers. “You do not pit a mango like an avocado, Knox.” She picks up the fruit, rinses it off, and hands it back to him.

“Fruit anatomy is fake,” he mutters. “I’m not taking the blame for inconsistent produce.”

Emily pops on the counter, refilling my white wine without request. I appreciate her looking out for me and my beverage. She does the same for Ava, giving the omega a peck on the cheek.

“I’m glad you cook, Ava, because all I can manage is microwaving with flair,” Em admits.

“You burn,” Declan mutters, still focused on his knife work. “I heard about the crème br?lée.”

She rolls her eyes but offers him the wine bottle like a peace offering. “Still love me?”

I freeze my zesting. I’m not sure she meant to say that. I’m positive she didn’t mean to say that.

Declan doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay on her, utterly unreadable, like he’s trying to decide if he should speak or stay silent. Whatever’s in his head, it doesn’t make it to his mouth.

Instead, he steps in and kisses her. Slow. Sweet. The kind of kiss that tries to smooth over sharp edges.

I refocus on my limes, trying not to smile. But the air in the kitchen has shifted. I clear my throat dramatically. “Cool. So we are kissing in front of the sauce now? Good to know. I will just make out with the teriyaki glaze next time I want emotional closure.”

Ava snorts. “Please don’t. Declan’s sauce is the best thing I’ve had in my mouth in days. Show some respect.”

“What about my sauce? I’m offended on a personal level,” Knox scoffs, then winks, still fighting his mango and forcing his gaze away from Declan and Emily.

Ava chucks her hand towel at him, which Knox lunges for, causing him to drop the mango, which again hits the floor with a suggestively wet splat. Emily cracks first, her laugh spilling over like bubbles in sparkling water, and the rest of us follow, the awkwardness dissolving like sugar in hot tea.

Ava confiscates the mango and re-directs Knox to set the table.

After cleaning the fruit again, she starts chopping and tossing mango cubes into a bowl with surgeon-level precision.

She’s in full boss-mode, a highly alpha-y omega, muttering about acidity balance like she’s Gordon Ramsay’s prettier, angrier cousin.

Done with my limes, I sidle up next to her and lean in like I am trying to charm a bear. “If I compliment your knife skills, do I get to steal bites of mango?”

“Do you want fruit or my approval?”

“I’m not saying no to either.” Watching her work is a delicious turn-on.

Raising a hand, she offers me a single cube like a grudging reward. “Chew quietly.”

I lick my snack from her fingers and offer her my limes in return, trying not to groan as a hit of her scent meets my nostrils far too close to the curve of her neck.

Bumping me out of the mini kitchen with his hip, Declan opens the oven, peers at the poultry inside, and curses under his breath. “It’s not browning. This oven is an insult.”

“We are on a boat,” I remind him, passing Knox the paper napkins.

He closes the oven with a sigh and leans on the counter beside me. “This was supposed to be simple.”

I glance at the chaos surrounding us… Ava barking instructions, Emily pouring more wine, Knox pretending his forks are weapons, and I grin. “We are five disasters with boundary problems trying to make mango chicken. Simplicity left the boat three meltdowns ago.”

Emily clinks her wine glass against mine. “To boat dinners.”

“To not dying of food poisoning,” Ava adds.

“To the mango,” Knox says solemnly, holding up a pit like he’s giving a eulogy.

Declan rolls his eyes, but I catch the tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

We eat late, crowded around the tiny table with plates on laps and our knees knocking under the surface.

The chicken is a little overdone, but Declan’s teriyaki glaze is sex on a spoon, and Ava’s mango salsa is divine, and no one is bleeding from an inadvertent knife accident.

Gunner curls up under the table with his chin on Knox’s foot, catching crumbs and salivating each time Knox slips him a chunk of chicken.

It’s loud. It’s messy.

It’s ours.

And for one warm, ridiculous evening, we’re not fugitives or law enforcers or secrets wrapped in too much perfume. We’re just... together. Us.

Which, let’s be honest, is probably the most dangerous thing we’ve done all week.