Chapter 3 Unwanted Offerings

Skye's POV

Sarah's words still rang in my ears long after she'd left. I aggressively reorganized my kitchen cabinets for the third time, trying to drown out her voice with the methodical sound of ceramic mugs being arranged by size and color.

"Mom and Dad wouldn't want..." I mimicked under my breath, slamming a cabinet harder than necessary. "Well, Mom and Dad aren't here to have an opinion, are they?"

The moment the words left my mouth, guilt crashed over me. I gripped the counter, forcing myself to breathe the way my therapist had taught me. In for four, hold for four, out for four.

A knock at my door made me jump, scattering my carefully ordered thoughts.

"Ms. Mitchell?" Zane's voice. Because of course it was. "I brought you something."

I stared at the door, debating whether to pretend I wasn't home. But the smell seeping under my door was making my stomach growl traitorously. Something rich and garlicky that reminded me of Sunday dinners from before...

"I know you're in there," he continued, his voice warm with amusement. "I can hear you reorganizing your kitchen."

Heat flooded my cheeks. "I'm busy," I called back, cringing at how defensive I sounded.

"Too busy for peace offerings? It's sofrito - a sauce that's basically happiness in a jar. Great for writing fuel."

The way he said it - playful but genuine - made something flutter in my chest. I squashed it immediately. "I don't need-"

"Found it!" A new voice chirped, followed by the jingling of keys.

My door swung open to reveal a tiny woman with purple-tinted hair and more vintage jewelry than a thrift store. Behind her stood Zane, looking equal parts amused and horrified.

"Ruby!" he hissed. "You can't just-"

"Mrs. Garcia gave me the master key for emergencies," the woman - Ruby - announced, bouncing into my apartment like she owned it. "And this is definitely an emergency. You two need to sort out this noise situation before someone" - she looked pointedly at me - "commits the perfect crime."

I backed away, my heart racing. "Get out. Both of you."

Ruby's expression softened as she took in what must have been obvious panic on my face. "Hey, it's okay. I'm Ruby Chen - food blogger, professional peacemaker, and your new best friend whether you like it or not."

"Ruby," Zane's voice had lost all its playfulness. "Back off."

Something in his tone made me look at him. He was watching me with those warm brown eyes, and there was understanding there that made my throat tight.

"She's right," he said quietly. "We should go. But..." He held out a glass container filled with what looked like a vibrant red sauce. "At least take this? Consider it an apology for the noise."

The container sat between us like a peace treaty. Part of me wanted to refuse it on principle. But another part - the part that remembered how food could bring people together, how it had always been Dad's way of showing love - made me reach out.

Our fingers brushed as I took the container. His were warm, slightly calloused. Chef's hands.

"Thank you," I managed.

"SKYE!" A teenage voice shouted from the hallway. "Are you killing Zane? Because I need him alive for Thursday's dinner!"

A lanky boy with a mop of dark hair skidded into view, followed by a quieter girl about the same age. Both wore clothes that had seen better days.

"Tommy," Zane sighed, "what did we say about volume control?"

"Sorry," Tommy stage-whispered. "But Maria's never had your paella, and I was telling her about Thursday, and-" He stopped, finally noticing the tension in the room. "Oh. Um. Are we interrupting something?"

"We were just leaving," Ruby announced, hooking her arms through Tommy and Maria's. "Come on, kids. Let's go help Marcus organize the spice rack."

As they filed out, Zane lingered in my doorway. "The sofrito's good on eggs," he said softly. "Or just with bread. Or..." He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up further. "Just try it? Please?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice. He smiled - a real smile, not the confident grin from earlier - and followed his friends.

Alone again, I stared at the container in my hands. The sauce inside looked like sunset in a jar, flecks of herbs catching the light. Despite myself, I opened it and inhaled.

The smell hit me like a memory: Mom in the kitchen, Dad telling stories while he chopped vegetables, the pantry door open and welcoming instead of...

A crash from next door made me drop the container. It hit my counter with a crack, red sauce splattering across my pristine white cabinets like...

No. Not blood. Just sauce. Breathe. In for four, hold for four...

But the memories were already rising like flood waters: the sound of breaking glass, Mom's scream, the pantry's dark embrace as I huddled behind shelves of pasta and canned goods, trying not to breathe...

Another crash, followed by laughter and apologies. Music started up again, softer this time but still there. Always there.

My hands shook as I reached for my phone. I had two options: call Sarah and admit she was right, that I couldn't handle this, or...

My finger hovered over Mrs. Garcia's number. One call and I could file an official complaint. Get the music shut down, restore my quiet, protect my peace.

But Tommy's eager face flashed in my mind. Maria's shy smile. The understanding in Zane's eyes.

The sofrito dripped steadily from my cabinet, marking time like a broken metronome.

And then, because the universe had a sick sense of humor, my phone lit up with a text from my editor: "Where's my draft? Also, just heard about a fascinating case. Local chef running illegal operation out of apartment. Could be perfect inspiration for your next book..."

I stared at the message, then at the sauce on my wall, then at the thin barrier between my sanctuary and whatever chaos Zane Rodriguez was brewing next door.

The smart thing would be to call Mrs. Garcia.

Instead, I found myself googling "what is a supper club?" and trying very hard not to think about why.