Chapter 7 – Clash in the Kitchen

I’m not saying my cooking style is messy… but if the Food Network ever needed a show called “Cooking in Controlled Chaos,” I’d be their girl.

The kitchen smells amazing—garlic sizzling in butter, onions softening, pasta boiling away—and also looks like a rainbow exploded in it. Cutting boards with half-chopped vegetables, a smear of tomato sauce on the counter, an open bag of shredded cheese leaning against a box of crackers that I may or may not have been snacking on mid-recipe.

Emily sits at the counter, swinging her legs and grinning like this is the most fun she’s had all week. “Can I stir again?”

“Absolutely,” I say, handing her the spoon. “You’re the official sauce queen.”

She dips it into the pan, stirring carefully while I grab a handful of fresh basil and start tearing it over the pot. Leaves scatter across the stovetop, some fluttering to the floor. Oops.

That’s when Liam walks in.

He stops dead in the doorway, eyes scanning the room like he’s just walked into a crime scene. “What… happened in here?”

“Cooking,” I say cheerfully, reaching for the salt. “You should try it sometime.”

He blinks at the counter, then at the sauce-smeared spoon in Emily’s hand. “Are those… scissors next to the bread?”

“Yes. They’re clean.”

“Why are there scissors next to the bread?”

“Because I used them to cut open the cheese bag. Obviously.”

His mouth opens, then shuts again like he’s not even sure where to start. “You know there’s such a thing as a knife, right?”

“Knives are for amateurs,” I reply, tossing the basil stems into the sink.

Emily giggles, still stirring the sauce. “Daddy, Zara’s cooking is fun.”

“Fun isn’t the word I’d use,” he mutters, stepping forward like he’s about to perform a rescue mission.

I catch him reaching for the sauce pot and block him with my spoon. “Nope. You don’t get to touch. You’re the guest in my kitchen right now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “My kitchen.”

“Our kitchen,” I correct with a smile. “And Emily and I are the executive chefs today. You’re on dish duty.”

His expression suggests he’s seriously considering kicking me out just to save his countertops. “How do you even cook like this? You’ve got three cutting boards going at once. And are those measuring cups in the sink already?”

“I measure by instinct,” I say, sprinkling a totally unmeasured amount of pepper into the sauce. “It’s an art.”

“It’s chaos,” he replies flatly.

Emily chimes in with a singsong, “I like chaos.”

I grin at her. “Me too, kid.”

While the pasta drains, I grab a pan to toast some bread, but apparently that’s the breaking point for Liam.

“You’re using my cast iron for garlic bread?” His voice goes all tense, like I’ve just threatened national security.

“Yes,” I say, already slathering butter across the slices. “It’s perfect for it.”

“It’s for searing steaks. You don’t put garlic butter in—”

“Oh, relax,” I interrupt, dropping the bread into the hot pan. “You’ll survive.”

Emily leans toward me, whispering loudly, “Daddy’s really picky about his pans.”

“I can tell,” I whisper back, and she bursts out laughing again.

Liam glares. “You two are conspiring against me.”

“Absolutely,” I say without shame.

By the time everything’s ready, the kitchen looks like the aftermath of a small hurricane. Liam stands there in silent horror while Emily and I plate up spaghetti and garlic bread, proud as can be.

“This,” I announce, setting his plate in front of him with a flourish, “is love on a plate.”

“It’s something on a plate,” he mutters, but he still takes a bite.

Emily watches him like her life depends on it. “Do you like it?”

His jaw works slowly as he chews. “It’s… fine.”

“Fine?” I gasp. “That is not fine spaghetti. That’s magic spaghetti. That’s joy spaghetti.”

“It’s a little heavy on the garlic,” he says, completely missing the point.

Emily frowns at him. “I like the garlic.”

“Thank you,” I say, high-fiving her across the table. “See? Someone here has taste.”

The rest of the meal goes the same way—Emily and I talking and laughing, Liam muttering under his breath and pretending he’s not enjoying it. When dinner’s over, I stand up and dust my hands off.

“Your turn,” I tell him, gesturing at the towering pile of dishes.

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. Executive chefs don’t clean. That’s the rule.”

Emily nods seriously. “It’s the rule.”

He looks between us like he’s trapped in some alternate reality where I make the rules in his own house. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re washing the dishes,” I reply sweetly.

He grumbles the whole time, clanking plates into the sink while I help Emily pack away leftovers. Every time I “accidentally” leave a utensil on the counter instead of handing it to him, she giggles like it’s the best prank in the world.

When the last pan is scrubbed and the counters wiped, Liam turns to me. “Next time, I’m cooking.”

I smile innocently. “Can’t wait.”

But the truth is, the idea of him in the kitchen feels… dangerous in a way I don’t want to unpack right now.

I’m still thinking about it when Emily tugs on my sleeve. “Can we make cookies tomorrow?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “We’ll make the kitchen look even worse.”

Liam groans. “I’m moving out.”

“Good luck finding somewhere with a better sauce queen,” I shoot back.

He shakes his head and walks out, muttering something about “health code violations.” Emily and I dissolve into laughter.

But later, when I’m alone at the sink rinsing my glass, I hear footsteps behind me.

“Zara,” Liam says, his voice low enough that I can’t read it.

I turn, towel in hand. “Yeah?”

He studies me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

Then he says, “You’re trouble,” and walks away without another word—leaving me standing there, heart pounding, wondering exactly what kind of trouble he means.