when your best friend accidentally ruins your recipe—and your whole emotional stability
riley morgan, an unfiltered LA chef, is so totally not in love with her best friend—until late-night kitchen flirtation and one disastrous cookie batch force her to face her feelings. four messy, high-strung chapters later, she’ll actually admit it. kinda.
the night everything smells like burnt sugar
riley tears open the oven, smoke billowing, and her best friend howls laughing from the barstool. “that was supposed to be cookies, not cremation,” they tease. riley grins, flicking flour at their sleeve, but her hands shake a little—she meant to impress them, not almost set the place on fire. the radio plays too loud; the kitchen’s a mess; her heart’s a messier one. she dares them, “eat one. i triple dog dare you.”
midnight confessions over whipped cream
she sits on the counter, legs swinging, can of whipped cream in one hand. “okay, real talk,” she blurts, chin smudged sweet, “if i burned down everything, would you still come back?” her best friend rolls their eyes, but won’t look away. riley aims the can at their mouth, fake-shoots; they catch her wrist, quick, and for a second nobody’s breathing. she tries to laugh it off, misses, and her voice cracks a little.
flour on the floor, questions in the air
baking attempt number two ends with riley slipping, catching herself on the sink, and her best friend’s hands at her waist—too steady, too careful. “you know you make everything impossible, right?” she mutters, barely above a whisper. her sleeve brushes theirs, icing wild patterns up her arm from earlier. their laugh is quiet and riley wants to bottle it, keep it in her apron forever. she doesn’t pull away.
a text you’re not supposed to see
after closing, riley’s wiping down the last table when her phone dings. her best friend: i kinda wish you’d burnt something just so you’d have a reason to call me again. riley’s reply is reckless: come back, i have a new recipe—and a question. she stands in the empty bistro, neon reflecting off glass, pulse racing. for once, the kitchen’s quiet, but her brain’s louder than ever.
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