Chapter 16 — Burnt Batter

POV: BEATRIX

Practice started that same evening in the kitchen, and it went badly within about ninety seconds.

I had raided a cookbook shop that afternoon and come back with three different beginner recipes, each supposedly labeled "easy" on the cover, though Nikolai eyed them as if they might be lying.

Nikolai stood at the stove in a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, staring down at a pan like it had personally wronged him. He'd changed out of his suit for the occasion, which felt like its own kind of commitment. I'd never seen him in anything other than something tailored before tonight.

Ivy sat on the counter with a clipboard she'd found somewhere, appointed head judge for the evening, and I stood a safe distance away, trying not to laugh already.

"It's just butter," I said. "You melt it. That's it. That's the whole step."

"I am aware of what butter does," Nikolai said, not looking up.

He turned the burner on, waited exactly four seconds, decided nothing was happening fast enough, and turned it up higher.

Eleven seconds later, the smoke alarm went off. It wasn’t the kind that just beeped. It screamed, high and relentless, echoing off every hard surface in that huge kitchen until it felt like the whole house was yelling at us.

It didn’t stop, and Ivy jumped down from the counter, squealing with laughter, while Nikolai stood there holding a pan of what had once been butter and was now closer to charcoal, looking genuinely offended by the noise coming from the ceiling.

"Open a window!" I shouted over the alarm, already grabbing a dish towel to wave under the detector.

"I know how to open a window," he shouted back, opening one anyway. The two of us stood there fanning smoke toward it while the alarm screamed, and Ivy laughed so hard she had to sit back down on the floor.

It took nearly a full minute for the noise to stop. When it finally did, the kitchen went quiet except for the low hum of the vent fan, and I looked over at Nikolai.

He stood there with a ruined pan in one hand and faint smoke still curling from the stove, his hair slightly disheveled from flailing his arms around. 

Something about the whole image of him, the most controlled man I had ever met, completely defeated by butter, hit me all at once.

I laughed. Really laughed, the kind that comes from deep in your chest and doesn't stop right away, the kind I hadn't done once in four years with Julian because there was never anything to laugh about, or, if there was, laughing at the wrong moment always cost me something later. 

I used to check his face first before I let myself react to anything, just to make sure laughing wouldn't become a problem later.

I hadn't thought about that habit in weeks. Standing in a smoke-filled kitchen, I realized I hadn't checked anyone's face first tonight at all. I'd just laughed.

Nikolai looked at me like he wasn't sure whether to be offended or pleased.

"It's not that funny," he said, though something at the corner of his mouth was fighting him on it.

"It's extremely funny."

"The recipe said medium heat."

"You had it on high."

"I adjusted for time."

"That's not how heat works."

"It should be……"

Ivy, still on the floor, wheezed something about how we were absolutely going to lose.

I wiped my eyes and walked over to try again, pulling out a knife and a cutting board this time, deciding butter could wait until his confidence recovered a little. "Here. Let's start smaller. Can you at least chop an onion without causing a structure fire?"

"I have chopped an onion before." He said

"Show me."

He picked up the knife the way I imagine he picked up most things: with total confidence and absolutely no technique, fingers curled the wrong way around the handle, wrist locked stiff instead of loose. 

I watched him for a second, deciding whether to say something or just let him find out the hard way. 

Ivy, thankfully, was too busy writing something dramatic on her clipboard to notice the danger. I stepped up beside him before he could make his first cut and put my hand over his, adjusting his grip and guiding his fingers into a proper hold around the blade.

"Like this," I said. "Curl your fingers under. Guide with your knuckles, not your fingertips, or you'll lose one of them."

He went very still.

His hand was bigger than mine, warm under my palm, and it took me a second longer than it should have to remember why I'd walked over here in the first place. 

I was close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough to catch the faint char still clinging to his shirt from the butter disaster, and for a second, neither of us moved. 

My hand was still resting on top of his on the knife, and the kitchen was suddenly much quieter than a room with a cooling smoke detector had any right to be.

****

POV: NIKOLAI

I’ve handled negotiations with armed security at the door. I’ve sat across from men who could bankrupt me with a single word.

None of that prepared me, honestly, not even close for Beatrix’s hand over mine, showing me how to hold a kitchen knife. It’s funny how you think you’re immune to certain things until they just aren’t true.

Every instinct screamed not to react, not to move. I told myself it was just so I wouldn’t mess up the grip she showed me. Truthfully, I just wanted to stay right there. 

I’d spent years training myself not to flinch or give anything away, but in that moment, her voice soft by my ear, her fingers warm on mine, I felt every bit of it.

She was the one who finally broke the spell, clearing her throat and stepping back. 

A few seconds later, everything felt normal again, or at least it tried to. She avoided my eyes for the next few moments, and I had to admit that, even as I lifted the knife, I already missed the touch of her hand.

“Okay,” she said, sounding a little too chipper. “Try it now.”

I chopped. It wasn’t pretty; the pieces were all over the place, but I kept all ten fingers, so I took that as a major win.

“Better,” Beatrix said.

“Are you actually evaluating, or just being nice?”

“Bit of both. Honestly, you didn’t cut yourself. I’ll call that progress.”

Next, batter. Ivy declared cake mix non-negotiable basic skills only.

We made it through the dry ingredients, which felt like a small miracle. But then I misjudged the bowl, and suddenly flour covered the counter, the floor, and, impressively, Ivy’s nose.

She was right up close, taking her judging seriously, and ended up with a mask of batter.

Beatrix gasped and laughed as she cleaned up, while I stood there wondering how I’d lost to a bowl and a measuring cup twice in one night.

Ivy was completely unfazed. She wiped the batter from her nose, tasted it, and passed honest judgment as only she could. 

“We are so doomed. Like, national television trainwreck doomed.” 

Chef Marco’s going to hug us on TV out of pity. He hugs all the losers, though. He’s sweet like that.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said.

“I’m just being realistic,” she replied, already climbing back onto the counter with her clipboard, ready for another round of judging. “You’ve got eight days. I believe in you—a little.”

Beatrix laughed again, that full, real laugh, and I caught myself looking at her more than the batter or the mess. Whatever TV disaster was coming, it already felt like I’d gained something more valuable than a trophy.

“Eight days,” I reminded everyone. “Eight days to not embarrass myself on live television.”

“Seven,” Ivy corrected. “Today didn’t count. You wasted it on butter.”

“I wouldn’t call it wasted. I did learn something about heat.”

“You learned that fire is loud; that’s not exactly culinary wisdom,” Ivy shot back.

Beatrix gave me a grin and brushed flour off the counter, and for the first time, I caught myself thinking that maybe losing wasn’t so bad. 

There was something about being here, right now, laughing between disasters, that felt better than any win I’d ever imagined. 

Whatever happened a week from now, champions or total failures, I was already looking forward to every practice in between. And that, I realized, meant more to me than I was ready to admit.