Fated in New Orleans

22

Rhea froze mid-chew, staring into the empty paper tray like it had personally betrayed her. “No,” she whispered. Then louder—much louder—“NO! They’re gone?! All the hush puppies are gone!”

Beau snorted. “Yeah, because you ate most of ’em, drama queen.”

Rhea whipped around, scandalized. “Excuse me? That’s slander. I was pacing myself!”

Miles lifted a brow, amused. “Pacing yourself? You downed half the basket before anyone else got a second one.”

“I was sampling for quality control!” she argued, gesturing grandly with the last crumb between her fingers. “You’re welcome for making sure they weren’t poisoned!”

Salem tried—and failed—to keep a straight face. A snort of laughter slipped out mid-sip, and she immediately choked on her drink, coughing and half doubling over.

Rhea narrowed her eyes, hands on her hips. “Don’t you dare laugh, Salem. I suffered for this pack’s safety!”

Between coughs, Salem wheezed out, “Suffered? You inhaled six hush puppies before I blinked!”

Beau leaned against the counter, grinning wide. “She’s got a point, cher. Pretty sure you set a new record.”

Rhea dramatically flung herself into the nearest chair, sighing loud enough to rattle the cabinets. “I’m betrayed. Y’all are lucky I share my talent with you at all.”

Miles chuckled, shaking his head. “Talent? For what—eating or denial?”

River, who’d been quietly sipping his drink through the chaos, finally set it down with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “At least she’s consistent,” he said dryly. “First she steals the food, then the spotlight.”

Rhea gasped, pointing at him like he’d just joined the enemy. “Et tu, River?”

Salem, recovering from her choking fit, raised her glass. “Welcome to the dark side, Alpha. We’ve got hush puppies—well, had hush puppies.”

Miles laughed low under his breath. “Guess we’ll need a peace offering next time. Maybe order double.”

“Triple,” Salem corrected, eyeing Rhea. “And someone hide a batch before she gets to it.”

Rhea glared at her, half playful, half threatening. “You’re just jealous I have good taste.”

Beau tossed her a napkin, still grinning. “Nah, we’re just impressed your metabolism hasn’t filed for divorce yet.”

That set everyone off again—Miles leaning back in his chair, River shaking his head with quiet amusement, and Salem laughing so hard she had to brace herself on the counter.

Rhea tried to hold her glare, but the corner of her mouth twitched until she gave in, laughing too. “Fine,” she muttered. “But next time, I’m ordering my own batch. No sharing.”

Salem smirked. “You say that every time.”

Rhea pointed a finger at her, mock-serious. “Yeah, but this time, I mean it.”

River’s eyes glinted as he raised his drink. “That’s what you said about the last dozen hush puppies.”

The whole kitchen erupted in laughter again, the easy kind that came only when the danger had passed — replaced by teasing, warmth, and the kind of chaos that felt a lot like home.

Once the laughter finally died down, the kitchen was a comfortable sprawl of half-empty containers, empty cups, and the lingering smell of fried food. Salem was wiping her hands on a towel when Rhea’s phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at the screen, frowned, then blinked twice.

“Uh… Salem?” she said slowly, scrolling through the notification again. “You wanna tell me when exactly you bought a bourbon distillery?”

Salem froze mid-motion, towel still in hand. “…What?”

Rhea tilted the screen toward her. “It says you finalized ownership of a small-batch distillery in Baton Rouge. You as in ‘Salem Broussard, queen of caffeine and chaos,’ not some other Salem.”

Miles straightened from where he’d been leaning against the fridge. “You own a distillery?”

River raised an eyebrow, calm but clearly intrigued. “That’s new information.”

Beau was already grinning. “Well damn, cher, are we about to be drinkin’ your private stock?”

Salem made a face, rubbing at the back of her neck. “That… might’ve happened the night before we came here.”

Rhea’s jaw dropped. “You mean that night? When we cracked open that experimental bourbon and I woke up under the kitchen table hugging a mixing bowl?”

Salem smirked. “The very same.”

Miles chuckled, crossing his arms. “You bought a whole distillery drunk?”

“I didn’t mean to!” Salem protested, trying not to laugh. “We were tasting the new batch—Rhea said, and I quote, ‘we should just buy the whole damn place.’ Next thing I know, there’s a contract in my inbox and a ‘welcome to the family’ email from the owner.”

Rhea threw her hands up. “You listened to me? That was bourbon logic, Salem! I say a lot of things after three glasses!”

Beau was practically howling with laughter. “You drunk-purchased a business. That’s legendary.”

River’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through his composure. “And yet,” he said quietly, “I can’t even be surprised.”

Salem huffed, though her own grin was threatening to show. “In my defense, it’s profitable. And the bourbon’s good.”

Rhea pointed accusingly. “You didn’t even tell me! I could’ve designed the label or something. You know—‘Bourbon & Bad Decisions: A Salem Broussard Story.’”

Miles snorted. “Fitting name.”

Salem finally cracked a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re all impossible. I’m not naming it that.”

Rhea leaned against the counter, eyes dancing. “Too late. I’m trademarking it. You’ll thank me when the bottles sell out.”

Beau wiped a tear from laughing too hard. “Only this crew could turn a near-drowning, fried gator dinner, and a bourbon hangover into a business venture.”

River lifted his glass, smirking just slightly. “To Salem’s accidental empire,” he said.

Rhea raised hers immediately. “And to my terrible influence!”

Salem groaned, clinking her glass against theirs. “Never drinking with you again.”

“Liar,” Rhea shot back, grinning.

And when Miles leaned in to add, “Next round’s on you, boss,” Salem just sighed — but there was laughter in her eyes again, warm and bright beneath the kitchen lights.