My lion knows better.
In my apartment, I hang the henley on the back of the door instead of tossing it in the laundry. I'll wash it tomorrow. Or the day after. It doesn't matter.
My phone buzzes.
Robin:Thanks again for coming tonight. Also you left your reading glasses on the kitchen counter like an old man. I'll bring them to the bar tomorrow.
I didn't even realize I'd taken them out of my pocket. Must have been when I was looking at the spice labels Robin was excited about, some high-end vanilla paste he'd ordered from Madagascar.
I type:Thanks.
Then delete it. Too short. Type:Thanks, I appreciate it.Delete that too. Too formal. Who am I, a customer service email?
I send:Don't lose them.
Robin:I would NEVER. They're my favorite thing about you. You look like a sexy librarian.
I turn my phone face down on the nightstand and stare at the ceiling.
Sexy librarian.
My lion purrs.
I'm in so much trouble.
Chapter 3
Robin
My alarm goes off at 4:15 AM and I lie there for exactly twelve seconds hating everything before my feet hit the floor.
Twelve seconds is my limit. Any longer and the bed wins, and the bed has never once paid my rent.
The house is dark and quiet. Ash's bedroom door is closed — Jason's boots are by the front door, which means he stayed over again, which means I need to be very quiet going past their room because the walls in this house are approximately one sheet of construction paper thick and I have heard things no brother should hear.
I shower fast, dress in my kitchen blacks, grab the coffee I prepped last night in the French press. Cold, but functional. Eating will wait until after the morning rush of prep — my stomach doesn't wake up until at least seven, and Gordon doesn't let us eat on the line anyway.
The drive to Gordon's catering kitchen takes twenty minutes in predawn traffic, which is to say no traffic. Justme and the Audi and the quiet hum of the road. Ash's car, technically — he bought it before deployment and I've been driving it for five years, but he still checks it for dents every time I come home. Control freak. Loving, terrifying control freak.
I park behind the building at 4:50. The kitchen lights are already on, which means Sarah beat me here.
"Morning." She's at her station, hair pinned under a bandana, prepping fruit garnishes for today's luncheon. Sarah is five foot two, covered in burn scars she calls "kitchen tattoos," and the only person in this building I'd trust with my good knife.
"Morning." I tie my apron, wash my hands twice because Gordon checks, and start pulling mise en place for the dessert course. Today's event is a corporate retirement party. Two hundred guests. Gordon wants individual plated desserts — chocolate mousse with a tuile cookie and raspberry coulis — plus a display cake that no one will eat but everyone will Instagram.
This is what I'm good at. This right here, in the quiet before the chaos. My station laid out with surgical precision — chocolate tempered and waiting, raspberries strained and reduced, sugar work cooling on parchment. My hands know this the way a musician knows scales. I've been in professional kitchens since I was a teenager, baking at home since I was old enough to reach the counter on a step stool. By the time I was twelve, Ash was eating my brownies instead of whatever frozen thing our dad's girlfriend of the month left in the freezer.
Food is love. That's not a metaphor. For me, it's a literal fact. I never learned to say "I care about you" with words that felt real, but I can say it with a perfectly laminated croissant. A birthday cake with someone's favorite flavor combination. Lion-shaped sugar cookies for a library story hour run by my best friend.
Salted caramel just because he mentioned liking it.
I shake that thought off and focus. Temper the chocolate. Test the consistency. Pipe the mousse into the molds with steady hands and a level of precision that would make Gordon cry if he ever bothered to watch me work instead of just critiquing the results.
Sarah and I fall into our rhythm. She handles savory prep, I handle pastry, and for an hour the kitchen is just the two of us and the sound of knives on cutting boards and the gentle percussion of pans.
"So," she says, slicing strawberries into fans without looking. "How was the dinner?"
I told her about the pride dinner last week. Edited version; motorcycle club guys who are friends, cooked for them as a thank you for helping me move. No mention of the fact that they're lion shifters. No mention of the fact that one of them has hands I think about while falling asleep.