Jordan POV
Was it too much to ask that, just once in my life, a charming prince or a Chef Ogre might rescue me at the very last second? Apparently, yes. I must have two left feet. And, of course, having Chef Adam's eyes locked on me at that precise moment didn't help either.
I tripped. Tried to catch myself with my hands, but ended up face-first in the grass, dirt smeared everywhere. Perfect. One of those moments when all you want to do is dig a hole and disappear.
As if the sprinkler system deciding to put on a show and drench us all wasn't enough. No. I had to top it off with the cherry: falling flat on my face in front of Chef Adam.
"You okay?" I heard his deep voice.
"Yes!" I blurted out too fast. Lie. Obviously. Of course I wasn't okay. I was soaked, my face filthy, and my dignity in shreds. Every time I think it's impossible to be more embarrassed in front of him, the universe proves me wrong.
Suddenly I felt him near. He crouched down and held out his hand. The movement was so gentle that, for a second, it almost looked like a scene from a romantic film. Almost. Because if it were a film, I wouldn't have fallen. He tried. I know he tried, but he hadn't been close enough to catch me.
My cheeks burned, but I took his hand. He pulled me up and, instead of letting go right away, he held on for a few seconds, keeping me in an embrace that seemed to shield me from the cold and the humiliation. Even with his soaked shirt, a strange warmth spread through my body.
And before I could even process the closeness, he was already leading me to the porch, away from the artificial rain. In his arms. My heart sped up.
"Oh my goodness, darling, you're drenched!" Margaret exclaimed the moment we reached her. "Girls, up to Mel's room and change your clothes. You're all wet. Adam, Cameron… you too! Kevin will find something for you."
That was when I felt his arms release me. Odd. Because even soaked and shivering, I'd felt… warm. Too warm.
I sneaked a quick glance at him. He smiled at me. A short smile, almost encouragement.
And that's when I thought: I must've hit my head when I fell. There's no other explanation.
"You look pretty, Jo." Mila told me, with that sincere smile that could melt anyone. She's ten, in that phase where she asks anything that pops into her head, no filters.
A few minutes ago, when I stepped into Mel's bathroom and caught sight of myself in the mirror, I couldn't believe anyone had seen me like that — soaked, dirty, a mess. Now, after a hot shower, I felt a little better. Mila's smile helped too. But there was another problem… I was in a dress.
Melissa is slimmer than me, so not a single pair of trousers fit. At least she found this dress tucked away.
Me and dresses don't mix. Neither do skirts. They're recipes for disaster, and the ingredient list is long. I've learned from experience that nothing good happens when I wear one. I'd already had my share of chaos today… but just in case, I double-checked that the dress wasn't tucked into my underwear. Yes. That's happened.
Mila and Melissa had also changed and dried their hair, though they hadn't needed full showers like me. In the middle of it all, I forgot to ask something that had been nagging at me.
"So you're Mila's aunt?"
Melissa nodded, running her hand fondly through the girl's hair, but before she could answer, Mila piped up herself:
"My mom was Auntie's sister. She's in heaven… she died." I froze, breath caught by the blunt innocence. "Is your mom in heaven too?" she asked right after, unhesitating.
"No," I whispered, swallowing hard.
"Let's go downstairs… before Mrs. Margaret comes up here to scold us," Melissa said, breaking the silence. Mila was already dashing down the hall toward the kitchen.
"Surprised?" she asked me suddenly.
Very. I was still trying to process the image of Chef Adam playing in the garden with his niece when I realized that his niece was also hers. They weren't just longtime family friends. They were family.
And then there was my fall. And his warm embrace. Yes. Still processing that too. Warm. Good. Strange?
"Yes, but… why didn't you ever tell me?"
"It never came up." She shrugged. "Everyone in Rosehill knows. But we don't really talk about it much… because it always ends up being about Kate." She sighed deeply. "My sister."
I didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry" felt too small. It's not like I could truly grasp what Melissa felt. I was lucky in that way: I still had all my family close — or close enough — alive.
My sister and I had drifted apart, true, but she was still alive. We'd lost the bond… though I don't know if we ever had one. I was five when our parents split. But she's alive. My mother too — even if I only see her once a year, she's alive.
"She was special. I miss her so much. No one talks about her… sometimes it's like she vanished."
"You can talk to me, Mel." I said, giving her a timid smile, leaning in to hug her.
"You don't know what you're getting into. I can be worse than Mila," she teased, already laughing.
We ended up giggling together until we heard Margaret's voice from downstairs, that unmistakable motherly tone about to scold. Something I never had, but it warmed me anyway. We grinned at each other and went down together to the dining room. What had briefly felt heavy lightened again.
We walked in still laughing. Melissa, ahead of me, was immediately met with her mother's scolding. Everyone was already seated, but I barely had time to take in the room, the atmosphere, because I saw him.
My eyes went straight to him, as if pulled.
And he was looking at me. A steady, intense look, with a glint I couldn't decipher. It nearly stole my breath. I blushed, of course. Heat surged to my cheeks… and not just my cheeks. My heart thudded, betraying me.
Working with the great Chef Adam had always been a dream, even with his impossible temper. Because he was good. Really good. Not just image or marketing. I'd seen him cook years ago, one of the rare times I visited the capital. I'd just turned eighteen, he was still starting out, but the dish I tasted marked me so deeply that since then, every one of his recipes that reached the public, I tried to recreate.
I was a fan. Not obsessive, of course. Okay… maybe just a little. But not of the man himself — of the talent. The recipes. Sometimes I didn't get it right the first time, but when I did… it was divine.
Yes, I admire him. But that's all, right? Just admiration… right?
"Sit down, dear." Margaret's voice tugged me back to reality. Finally, I looked around. And lucky me: my seat was next to Chef Adam. Between him and his brother. When had Melissa slipped to the other side, already beside Mila? I smiled shyly, greeted everyone, and sat down.
And my body reacted strangely, as if it had a will of its own, the moment I sat beside him.
Actually, lately, my mind seemed to spin too much around him too. Either cursing his bad temper or… damn it, Jordan… imagining him shirtless. Or remembering the warmth of his embrace.
No. No, no, no. Definitely don't go there.
Imagining your Chef shirtless, hugging you, is not a good path. Not good at all. Right?