= Sarah POV =

  I picked up a fork and started exploring the dishes spread out before me, each one a small masterpiece. Chris expined that the upcoming ga featured a fusion of European and Middle Eastern cuisine, designed to cater to the event's diverse attendees. My pte began to fill as I took in the variety of textures and aromas: a refreshing Mediterranean sad with crisp cucumbers, tangy cherry tomatoes, and a light drizzle of lemon and olive oil; a perfectly pan-seared fish, its golden crust flecked with herbs that released a heady aroma of thyme and rosemary; warm, pillowy pita bread served alongside creamy, nutty hummus; and a roasted chicken, its skin glistening and spiced with a fragrant blend of sumac and paprika. Each dish told a story, a perfect harmony of culinary traditions.

  Chris had thoughtfully brought home single portions of everything, ensuring the spread wasn’t overwhelming yet still indulgent. It felt like a feast, intimate but grand in its presentation, and we savored each bite together.

  "This is incredible. If this is the kind of food your hotel serves, it’s no wonder you’re booked solid. Your clientele probably has their reservations locked in until five years from now," I said, leaning back in my chair with a satisfied sigh. My stomach was comfortably full, but the fvors still lingered on my pate, tempting me for just one more bite.

  Chris sat back as well, picking her teeth with a toothpick in her usual unbothered manner. "Thank you, but I’m not entirely satisfied. The chicken needs a longer brine. It’s not as tender as it should be, and it’s catching in the teeth. That’ll be a problem for some of our older patrons."

  I smiled at her critique, crossing my arms as I leaned forward. "You’re always thinking about others. That’s what makes you so good at your job. Every fine detail is taken into consideration."

  Chris tilted her head and gave me a small smile, folding the toothpick into a piece of tissue. "I asked you to critique the food, not the chef. But thank you. It’s nice to know someone notices how much work goes into this." She rose from her seat, gathering the dishes with a practiced efficiency. "If you’d be so kind as to wait on the couch, I’ll be right back with your surprise."

  I reached for some of the ptes to help, but stopped when Chris raised a brow, her expression half-amused, half-disapproving.

  "I can help," I said, my voice bordering on a pout.

  "That’s sweet, but these ptes are from the hotel—irrepceable. I’d rather not risk one ending up in pieces. Just take a seat. That’s help enough." She winked as she carried the dishes toward the sink, her movements fluid and confident.

  Reluctantly, I did as I was told, flopping onto the couch with a mock sulk. My fingers drummed idly against the cushion as I looked around for something to occupy my hands and mind. My eyes nded on a coffee table book about photography, its glossy cover gleaming in the dim light. I reached for it, curious, but before I could open it, the doorbell rang, its sharp chime breaking the quiet ambiance of the room.

  I jumped up and eagerly went to greet whoever was at the door. When I opened it, a delivery man stood there, holding a medium-sized parcel in his hands.

  “Package for… Pi—“ he began, but I quickly hushed him, stepping forward to grab the box.

  “It’s me, it’s me. Where do I sign?” I asked hurriedly, my voice a little higher than intended.

  The delivery man blinked, caught off guard by my enthusiasm, but then shrugged and handed me the clipboard and pen. I scrawled my signature quickly, passed it back, and shut the door before he could ask any more questions. Clutching the parcel, I sank to the floor, my fingers gripping the edges tightly.

  “Who was that?” Chris’s voice broke through my thoughts. She appeared around the corner, drying a dish with a towel, her sharp eyes flicking down to the box in my p.

  I jumped up, almost dropping it, and quickly pressed the side with the name and address against my chest. “Oh! Just a delivery. Something I ordered a while ago,” I said with a nervous ugh, trying not to sound as guilty as I felt. “I—I’ll just put this away and open it ter.”

  Chris paused, her eyes narrowing slightly before she gave a small shrug. “Ah, alright,” she said, turning back toward the kitchen as if nothing were amiss.

  I exhaled in relief and darted to my room. Sliding the package under my desk with the address hidden, I wiped my sweaty palms on my shorts and grabbed my phone from the charger. Trying to calm my racing heart, I plopped onto the couch and opened a phone game, hoping a few rounds would help me settle down before Chris started asking more questions.