“Tell me which one to choose,” I asked, holding my hands out to her.
She rose and came to stand in front of me, taking my hands in hers and squeezing. “When the time comes, you’ll know.”
I pulled my hands away. “You don’t know, do you? You don’t know which path is the right one.”
“I won’t until you do.”
“Awesome. Cal, I love you, I really do, but have you ever heard the phrase no news is good news? If you can’t tell me my destiny, and you don’t know the right path for me, why did you tell me any of this at all?”
“You need to know that a time will come when there will no longer be one option or the other, and it will have been decided for you. If I tell you there are two paths, it is in your power to guide your destiny and not have it guide you.”
I heaved a sigh. She meant well, but the last thing I wanted to hear was that my life was going to get even more complicated.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you more,” she added.
“So am I.”
“But you can’t escape this. You will have to choose.”
Turning away, I moved towards the exit. “I guess I’ll burn
that bridge when I get there.”
“I’ll see you soon, Secret.”
Looking over my shoulder, I gave her a weak smile. “You would know.”
Chapter Eight
Dinner was turning into an unmitigated disaster.
Unlike Desmond, who was gifted with otherworldly cooking skills, Lucas was not a natural in the kitchen. I was sitting on a high barstool, elbows perched on the central island, watching as he dug himself deeper and deeper into the grave of embarrassment. I could have offered to help, but I wasn’t exactly the most skilled chef myself. I didn’t need to be. There are only so many ways one can serve blood. Hot, cold or fresh from the tap. And it took thirty-eight seconds to make a steak to my satisfaction.
Lucas and I had been in his kitchen for almost an hour, and by now I felt like we were filming an outtake reel for a home-cooking show.
“Lucas, it’s really sweet—”
“I’ve almost got it,” he said, rushed panic edging his voice.
Perhaps it was better to avoid soothing his bruised ego.
He opened the oven door and smoke billowed outwards. The only time I’d ever seen someone burn something so badly it smoked was the last time Nolan used Keaty’s kitchen and managed to ruin French fries. Cupping my chin in my hand, I let out a huffed sigh, which masked the laugh I was having a hard time keeping in.
With no oven mitt, he reached in to pull out the tray containing our dinner. At first I assumed he couldn’t possibly be stupid enough to grab a blistering-hot metal rack with his bare hands, so I didn’t say anything. But as he got closer, I realized he was just flustered enough to have forgotten Kitchen Basics 101.
“No,” I shrieked, vaulting myself over the island and kicking the oven door shut. The metal door skimmed Lucas’s hand, and he jerked it back, giving me a hard look. My hip was pressed against the oven, ensuring he didn’t make another grab for the door until he understood what an idiot he’d almost proven himself to be.
He looked from me to my empty stool, which was still wobbling from my sudden exit, and his eyes widened. Over the island, a hanging rack of copper pots was swaying, creating a jangling symphony of metal against metal.
“How did you…?”
“I’m pretty fast when I need to be.”
“But…”
The oven mitts were on the marble countertop next to the stove, and I shoved them into his hands. “You might want to remember those next time.”
A squeak from the kitchen door made us both look up. Dominick Alvarez stood in the open door, arms crossed over his chest, his blond hair flattened on one side and sticking up at the back like he’d just rolled out of bed. He was glowering at us with a serious, disapproving expression that was belied by the mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.