The Arrangement

Chapter 30

The kitchen was too clean. Too perfect. All pristine surfaces and matte-black fixtures, the kind that looked fingerprint-proof and barely used. John Black stood in the middle of it, hands resting on the cool quartz countertop, wondering if he liked it. He couldn't decide. It was luxurious, yes — an ultra-modern Airbnb Luxe perched high in a mixed-use tower across from The Edge in Santa Monica. It was a bachelor's dream, but it lacked character. It was all form, no soul. Then again, maybe that was the point.

This wasn't home.

Which was why it worked.

On the counter in front of him, a row of glass prep bowls caught the light from the window, ingredients sorted and waiting. The risotto components sat neatly, staged like he was filming a cooking segment — aromatic, creamy, rich. Everything was ready.

Except the onion.

John smiled to himself. The onion had been her assignment.

Soulful, vintage Marvin Gaye played low in the background. "If This World Were Mine." It colored the air with slow, sensual warmth. John smiled to himself. This wasn't about a flashy gesture. It was about intention. About creating a moment worth remembering.

Then, he felt her.

Warm arms slipped around his waist from behind. A chin pressed lightly between his shoulder blades. A single onion appeared in his peripheral vision, held out like an offering.

He took it from her hand without turning around, setting it gently with the others.

"Evs," he said, smiling now. He didn't need to look — he knew her touch. Knew her scent. Knew the way she moved like a whispered song.

She let go reluctantly and circled him, pausing to take in the scene: the view of the ocean through floor-to-ceiling glass, the carefully arranged ingredients, and the seductive swirl of music in the background.

"Wow," she said, eyes sweeping the room, then landing back on him. "Is this a cooking lesson or an audition for Top Chef?"

"I'm just setting the mood," John said. He held up an apron. "For the lady of the hour."

She gave a theatrical gasp when she saw the word Evs embroidered across the pocket. "Shut up."

He tied it on her slowly, fingers brushing along her hips, letting them linger just long enough to draw a reaction. She tilted her chin up, lips grazing his cheek. "I hope this lunch lives up to the setup."

"Oh, it will," he promised. "We're making a classic risotto. With scallops. Perfectly seared. And you"— he pointed at her playfully —"are the sous chef."

"I don't chop," she said, stepping closer, teasing.

"I'll guide you."

He stood behind her, arms enveloping hers. They moved as one.

He showed her how to dice the onion evenly — "not too fine, let the sweetness come through" — and how to gently sweat it in olive oil with a touch of butter until translucent. Marlena stirred the shallots and garlic, taking in the soft hiss of aromatics hitting the heat.

"Wine next," he said, handing her the glass.

She poured in a stream of dry white, the alcohol hitting the pan with a sizzle that made her jump.

"Just like that," he murmured, his breath warm near her ear. "Now stir. Slowly. Let it absorb."

The moment hung heavy. She stirred while he guided her hand, his palm over hers, his body flush against her back. Heat simmered on the stove and between them.