The door shut behind the last student with a soft click that sounded, to my ears, like a death knell.
It was just me and Maeve now.
My heart decided this was the perfect moment to learn tap dancing. I wiped my hands on my apron, then immediately regretted it because now there was a faint smear of drakroot sauce and panic.
Maeve didn't move at first.
She stood at the front of the room, one hip against the counter, arms crossed, face perfectly neutral. Those purple eyes of hers pinned me in place, sharp and unreadable. Instructor mode. Fully activated. It was like the air between us turned colder by three degrees.
"Come here," she said.
Not loud. Not soft. Just that low, lazy tone that meant she was choosing every word.
I swallowed. "Yes, chef."
My feet carried me forward on instinct—years of training and fear and… something else. The classroom felt huge suddenly.
