and deeper into the grave of embarrassment. I could have offered to help, but I wasn’t exactly the most skilled chef myself. I didn’t need to be. There are only so many ways one can serve blood. Hot, cold or fresh from the tap. And it took thirty-eight seconds to make a steak to my satisfaction.
Lucas and I had been in his kitchen for almost an hour, and by now I felt like we were filming an outtake reel for a home-cooking show.
“Lucas, it’s really sweet—”
“I’ve almost got it,” he said, rushed panic edging his voice.
Perhaps it was better to avoid soothing his bruised ego.
He opened the oven door and smoke billowed outwards. The only time I’d ever seen someone burn something so badly it smoked was the last time Nolan used Keaty’s kitchen and managed to ruin French fries. Cupping my chin in my hand, I let out a huffed sigh, which masked the laugh I was having a hard time keeping in.
With no oven mitt, he reached in to pull out the tray containing our dinner. At first I assumed he couldn’t possibly be stupid enough to grab a blistering-hot metal rack with his bare hands, so I didn’t say anything. But as he got closer, I realized he was just flustered enough to have forgotten Kitchen Basics 101.
“ No ,” I shrieked, vaulting myself over the island and kicking the oven door shut. The metal door skimmed Lucas’s hand, and he jerked it back, giving me a hard look. My hip was pressed against the oven, ensuring he didn’t make another grab for the door until he understood what an idiot he’d almost proven himself to be.
He looked from me to my empty stool, which was still wobbling from my sudden exit, and his eyes widened. Over the island, a hanging rack of copper pots was swaying, creating a jangling symphony of metal against metal.
“How did you…?”
“I’m pretty fast when I need to be.”
“But…”
The oven mitts were on the marble countertop next to the stove, and I shoved them into his hands. “You might want to remember those next time.”
A squeak from the kitchen door made us both look up. Dominick Alvarez stood in the open door, arms crossed over his chest, his blond hair flattened on one side and sticking up at the back like he’d just rolled out of bed. He was glowering at us with a serious, disapproving expression that was belied by the mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.
He couldn’t have appeared more different from his brother. In fact, he could have easily been mistaken for Lucas’s brother instead of Desmond’s.
“I can’t leave you two alone for a night?” he scolded.
“Lucas can’t cook.”
“I could have told you that.”
The wolf king glowered at us, but with the haze of gray smoke clouding the room, the evidence was stacked against him. He didn’t argue.
Dominick came into the kitchen and, with one hand on either side of my waist, moved me away from the oven. He relieved Lucas of the oven mitts, then placed the charred remains of our dinner on the counter. It had once been a lovely roast, but now it was a blackened hunk of beef that didn’t resemble anything more than a funeral pyre.
“Sit,” the royal bodyguard insisted, and both Lucas and I did as we were told, perching side by side at the island.
For the next half hour, Dominick proved Grace Alvarez didn’t raise any slackers when it came to kitchen prowess. The short werewolf navigated the room with ease and confidence, mixing sauce and braising meat like he could do it in his sleep. A smirk of approval painted my lips when I watched him barely touch our steaks to the pan before declaring them perfect.
He set two plates in front of us, each with a large steak in red wine sauce and a side of whiskey-glazed baby potatoes. The kitchen no longer smelled of smoke and frustration, and even Lucas was smiling and laughing as Dominick told us a story about how badly his little sister Penny had once burned a batch of chocolate-chip cookies.
When all was said and done, Dominick placed a
Lucas and I had been in his kitchen for almost an hour, and by now I felt like we were filming an outtake reel for a home-cooking show.
“Lucas, it’s really sweet—”
“I’ve almost got it,” he said, rushed panic edging his voice.
Perhaps it was better to avoid soothing his bruised ego.
He opened the oven door and smoke billowed outwards. The only time I’d ever seen someone burn something so badly it smoked was the last time Nolan used Keaty’s kitchen and managed to ruin French fries. Cupping my chin in my hand, I let out a huffed sigh, which masked the laugh I was having a hard time keeping in.
With no oven mitt, he reached in to pull out the tray containing our dinner. At first I assumed he couldn’t possibly be stupid enough to grab a blistering-hot metal rack with his bare hands, so I didn’t say anything. But as he got closer, I realized he was just flustered enough to have forgotten Kitchen Basics 101.
“ No ,” I shrieked, vaulting myself over the island and kicking the oven door shut. The metal door skimmed Lucas’s hand, and he jerked it back, giving me a hard look. My hip was pressed against the oven, ensuring he didn’t make another grab for the door until he understood what an idiot he’d almost proven himself to be.
He looked from me to my empty stool, which was still wobbling from my sudden exit, and his eyes widened. Over the island, a hanging rack of copper pots was swaying, creating a jangling symphony of metal against metal.
“How did you…?”
“I’m pretty fast when I need to be.”
“But…”
The oven mitts were on the marble countertop next to the stove, and I shoved them into his hands. “You might want to remember those next time.”
A squeak from the kitchen door made us both look up. Dominick Alvarez stood in the open door, arms crossed over his chest, his blond hair flattened on one side and sticking up at the back like he’d just rolled out of bed. He was glowering at us with a serious, disapproving expression that was belied by the mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.
He couldn’t have appeared more different from his brother. In fact, he could have easily been mistaken for Lucas’s brother instead of Desmond’s.
“I can’t leave you two alone for a night?” he scolded.
“Lucas can’t cook.”
“I could have told you that.”
The wolf king glowered at us, but with the haze of gray smoke clouding the room, the evidence was stacked against him. He didn’t argue.
Dominick came into the kitchen and, with one hand on either side of my waist, moved me away from the oven. He relieved Lucas of the oven mitts, then placed the charred remains of our dinner on the counter. It had once been a lovely roast, but now it was a blackened hunk of beef that didn’t resemble anything more than a funeral pyre.
“Sit,” the royal bodyguard insisted, and both Lucas and I did as we were told, perching side by side at the island.
For the next half hour, Dominick proved Grace Alvarez didn’t raise any slackers when it came to kitchen prowess. The short werewolf navigated the room with ease and confidence, mixing sauce and braising meat like he could do it in his sleep. A smirk of approval painted my lips when I watched him barely touch our steaks to the pan before declaring them perfect.
He set two plates in front of us, each with a large steak in red wine sauce and a side of whiskey-glazed baby potatoes. The kitchen no longer smelled of smoke and frustration, and even Lucas was smiling and laughing as Dominick told us a story about how badly his little sister Penny had once burned a batch of chocolate-chip cookies.
When all was said and done, Dominick placed a
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