Chapter 14: Love on the Burner

“Are we really ready for this?” Luca asked as he adjusted his crisp black apron, embroidered with Chef of Love in cursive gold thread.

Amara smirked, already wearing her matching one that read Head of the Kitchen… and the Relationship.

She stood at the front of the newly arranged classroom at La Cucina di Famiglia, now glowing with soft fairy lights and the scent of fresh rosemary and red wine reduction.

Twelve couples stood at their stations, some holding hands, some already bickering over who would chop the onions.

“This is either going to be magical,” Amara whispered to Luca, “or the fastest path to six breakups in one night.”

He grinned. “Either way, they’ll leave full.”

Thirty Minutes In: Mayhem Ensues

“NO, DEREK! You don’t just pour the wine into the sauce like that!”

“I thought it said half a bottle!”

“That’s for drinking, not the stew!”

Across the room, a woman in pearls and heels was aggressively mashing potatoes while her husband tried to read the instructions upside down.

At another station, a tattooed biker named Mo was whispering sweet nothings while his girlfriend, Ivy, chopped garlic with terrifying precision.

Meanwhile, a couple in their seventies Gloria and Frank—were completely ignoring the lesson and slow-dancing near the soup pot.

Amara and Luca exchanged a glance.

“This is chaos,” Luca murmured.

“This is romantic chaos,” Amara replied with a grin. “Exactly what I was going for.”

Amara's First Lesson

She clapped her hands. “Okay, everyone! Remember  tonight isn’t about making the perfect plate. It’s about making it together. If you cry, it better be from the onions. And if you argue, it better end with a kiss!”

Someone shouted, “That’s easy for you to say, you're pregnant and glowing!”

Amara laughed. “Trust me, being eight months pregnant and watching your partner forget how to boil water? It’s not always glowing. Sometimes it’s just sweat and sarcasm.”

The room erupted in laughter.

Luca stepped beside her, slipping an arm around her back.

“And now,” he said, “we’re going to work on our pasta folding. Think of it like a love letter you can eat. If your ravioli leaks, your relationship might too.”

More laughter.

“Just kidding,” he added. “But seriously, seal those edges.”

Toward the End

As the pasta cooked and wine glasses emptied, the energy shifted from chaos to cozy. Couples leaned into each other. Some wiped flour from noses, others shared bites between smiles.

Amara stood in the back, hand resting on her belly, watching Luca guide a pair through a tricky sauce technique.

And suddenly, emotion swelled in her chest.

She had done this.

They had taken heartache, uncertainty, fire—literal and emotional—and turned it into community.

Into laughter.

Into love.

After Everyone Left

The kitchen was a mess. Dishes stacked, countertops dusted in flour. But neither of them moved.

They stood in the quiet hum of the room, hands linked, hearts full.

“That was insane,” Luca said, brushing a smudge of chocolate from her cheek.

“It was perfect,” Amara said.

“I never thought I’d teach people how to fall in love while flambéing chicken.”

She laughed. “Welcome to domestic bliss, chef.”

He turned her gently toward him, resting his hands just above the baby bump. “You know something?”

“What?”

“I don’t care if we ever open another restaurant. If we never go back to New York, Paris, or Tokyo. This right here is the life I want.”

Her eyes welled. “Me too.”

“You, me, Noah. Our little pastry-in-the-oven. A classroom full of chaos. That’s the dream.”

She smiled, tears falling.

“You’re crying.”

“I blame the onions,” she whispered.

He kissed her then slow, soft, tender. Not the kind of kiss that ignites sparks, but the kind that keeps the fire going.

Just Before Midnight

They sat barefoot on the counter, splitting a leftover panna cotta, Amara’s feet in Luca’s lap, and the baby giving little kicks every few minutes.

He touched her belly gently. “You think the baby’s already a foodie?”

She grinned. “If they’re anything like you, they’ll be tasting truffle oil before they can talk.”

Luca raised his spoon. “To us. To the kitchen. And to the kind of love that survives burnt bread and bruised egos.”

She clinked her spoon against his. “And to doing it all again next week.