Chapter Two – The Challenge
The kitchen buzzed with excitement as Chef Marco clapped his hands, his booming voice silencing the chatter.
"Tonight, we focus on pasta. But—" he paused dramatically, his dark eyes sweeping the room, "—you will not be cooking alone. Each dish will be made in pairs. One plate, two chefs. Passion and cooperation must be tasted in every bite."
A ripple of surprise moved through the class. Amira's stomach sank. She didn't even need to look up to know who fate was about to throw her way.
And sure enough, when her gaze shifted across the room, Daniel was already smirking at her, that infuriatingly smug look plastered on his face as he strolled straight toward her station.
"Lucky us," he said smoothly, sliding beside her as if the spot had been reserved just for him. "We make a great team… even if you don't know it yet."
Amira gritted her teeth, setting the flour and eggs on the counter with more force than necessary. "Don't talk. Just cook."
Daniel chuckled, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. "Bossy. I like it."
She cracked the eggs into the bowl, whisking with sharp, practiced movements, as though the rapid rhythm could drown him out. But Daniel wasn't the kind to be ignored.
"You knead dough like a pro," he said, leaning against the counter. His gray eyes glinted with mischief. "Bet you don't just bring heat to the kitchen."
Her cheeks flushed, but she masked it with a glare. "If you don't start pulling your weight, you'll find out exactly what these hands can do."
He laughed again, low and deep, the sound vibrating straight through her. Then, without asking, he slid in closer, pressing his hands into the dough beside hers. Their fingers brushed—just for a second—but the spark was undeniable. It jolted through her like static, unwanted and impossible to ignore.
"Watch where you put your hands," she muttered, yanking hers back.
"Maybe you should stop pretending you don't like it," he murmured, his voice dropping to something softer, more dangerous.
Her pulse kicked up, but she forced herself to look away. No. She refused to let Daniel Walker get under her skin. This wasn't attraction. It was irritation. That's what she told herself, over and over.
Together, they rolled the pasta, their movements gradually falling into a rhythm. At first, the dough resisted them, stubborn and uneven, but with each press of their palms, it began to smooth out. The steady motion forced them into a kind of reluctant harmony—push, fold, turn. Their hands brushed again and again, and every accidental touch made Amira's skin prickle. She tried to focus on the texture of the dough, on the flour sticking lightly to her fingers, but Daniel's nearness made concentration impossible. He hummed under his breath, some tune she didn't recognize, and the sound annoyed her almost as much as it calmed her.
"Stop humming," she muttered, refusing to look at him.
"Why?" he asked lazily, not missing a beat. "It's helping the dough relax. Maybe it'll help you, too."
Her glare could have cut steel, but Daniel only grinned wider. When she turned her head away, she caught a glimpse of Javier at the far station, watching them with narrowed eyes. Whispers rippled around him, other students glancing between their work and the unlikely pair at her station. Heat flared in Amira's cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from the sharp realization that every move they made together was being studied, measured, judged.
And still, Daniel leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "Ignore them. It's just us and the dough right now. Nothing else matters."
Amira's stomach fluttered despite herself, and she dug her fingers harder into the dough, as if force alone could crush the unwanted feeling building inside her.It was almost natural—annoyingly natural. Amira hated how easy it was to fall into step with him, as though they'd been cooking side by side for years.
When the sauce began to bubble, she focused on the pan, willing herself not to notice how close he'd leaned in. His presence was everywhere, warm and sharp, like spice clinging stubbornly to the air.
"Everyone's watching," Daniel whispered near her ear, his breath brushing her skin.
Her hand froze mid-stir. She could feel the eyes of other students sneaking glances, whispers traveling from station to station.
"They probably think I'm tolerating an arrogant partner," she replied coolly, lifting her chin.
Daniel smirked as he stirred the sauce with practiced ease. "Or maybe they see it—the spark between us. The heat we can't hide."
Her chest tightened, half with anger, half with something she couldn't bring herself to name. She hated that his words lingered, curling through her like steam rising from the stove.
As Chef Marco circled back to inspect their work, Amira forced her thoughts into the pasta. She would not let him win. She couldn't.
But deep down, even as she tasted their sauce and felt the undeniable charge in the air, she knew the truth.
She wasn't just fighting Daniel anymore. She was fighting herself.
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