Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
Hiro. . .
My heart ached. “Thank you for helping me today.”
"Kenji needs you. I need you. The Claws, Fangs, and yes even the Roar needs you.” Hiro pulled me back into that ocean breeze hold.
My breath caught.
“Which means it's okay for you to need us too."
I closed my eyes.
"You're not alone in this. Whatever horrors live in your head. . .they're our horrors now too. We share them."
“Oh, Hiro.” Calm spread through my chest. “I needed this.”
“Good.” He shifted a little. “But more important, sis. What are you cooking? It smells so good in here.”
"I’m surprised you think it smells good because I ruined the oxtail."
A surprised laugh rumbled through his chest, and then he let me go. "Then we'll make more."
“Fact. We’ll just make more.”
He released me and rolled those massive shoulders like he was settling back into his body.
Then, Hiro actually looked at the kitchen—not just scanning. His gaze moved across the prep stations where ingredients still sat in neat little bowls. The pastry station with its miniature tarts. The sample plates arranged for tasting. The sauces and doughs.
"Wait." His brow furrowed. "What is all this?"
"We've been testing dishes all morning. Small batches of everything for the cocktail party."
“For the Claws?”
I winked at him. “Is there any other cocktail party I’m supposed to be doing?”
“Better not be.” His eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. "These are samples?"
“Yes.”
Hiro was already heading for the food.
“Oh, wait a minute. No. Hiro, stop!”
Chapter nine
Quality Assurance
Nyomi
Fast, Hiro moved toward the nearest station, where the honey-bourbon glaze still sat in its small bowl beside pieces of test karaage—Japanese fried chicken, cut into bite-size chunks, marinated in soy, ginger, and garlic, then dusted in starch and fried until the coating turned shatter-crisp while the meat stayed juicy and tender inside.
And Hiro was on his way to fill his mouth with all of it.
I headed over too. "Hiro, don't touch anything."
Too late.
He'd already grabbed a piece of karaage, swiped it through the glaze, and popped it into his mouth.
Damn it.
His eyes closed. A sound came out of him that was low and borderline obscene.
"Mmmm." He chewed slowly. "Nyomi. What the fuck are you about to do to us?"
"The goal is to surprise you, so don’t try anything else—"
“You’re crazy.” He was already reaching for another piece of karaage.
"Hiro!" I lunged toward him, but he danced away with surprising grace for a man his size, the second piece of chicken already disappearing between his lips.
“Are you freaking serious right now?” I placed my hands on my hips. “No more.”
"This is unbelievable." He spoke around the chewing with zero shame. "The heat at the end—it builds. And what’s that. . .bourbon?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you use bourbon?”
“Because my grandmother is from the South and she’s the one who taught me how to cook. And there. . .they put bourbon in food the way most people put salt in theirs.”
He licked the glaze off his thumb slowly. Then he looked at the bowl again—calm, confident, already planning the next theft. “When am I going to meet your grandmother?”
“So, you can bother her about another cocktail party? No.” I chuckled. “You’re not meeting my grandmother.”
“After this war, I will be visiting her. Word spreads. I know where she lives. I’ve got a plate and a plan.”
I blinked. “What does that mean?”
“There’s been talk about her cooking for her security team.”
“Talk?”
Hiro nodded like this was national intelligence. “Lots of talk about peach cobbler and cornbread.”
“Okay. Stop right there.” I pointed at him. "I know one thing. You all better not bother my grandmother or I'm going to be fighting every last one of you."
He quirked his brows.
I pointed at him harder. "And I will win. Because I fight dirty and none of you will see it coming."
“But we all know that Kenji’s Tiger has claws.”
“And don’t forget.”
Hiro eyed the bowl some more. “The bourbon in the glaze, you can taste it but it doesn't overpower—"
"Those were samples. For testing."
"Then, consider them tested. I’m quality assurance.”
“Oh really?”
He touched his chest. “This is a heavy burden I carry for my men."
"You look really burdened."
"It's my cross to bear." He scanned for his next target. "What else do you have?"
"Nothing for you."
But he'd already spotted the mac and cheese croquettes—golden and crispy, arranged on a small plate near the prep station.
"Oh hell no." I stepped between him and the plate. "Absolutely not."
"Just one."
"No."
“Do you know who I am?”
"You're fucking Hiro. A food goblin. Apparently."
"I prefer 'culinary enthusiast.'"
"And I prefer guests who don't steal my test batches' but here we are."
“I’m in charge of the Claws. If you are going to feed my men, then I am supposed to approve each dish. This is our way.”
“I think that’s bullshit and you just made it up.”
He smirked. “Can I get half of one of those things over there.”