The scent of lemon zest and rosemary danced through the air, mingling with the soft hum of jazz streaming from the Bluetooth speaker perched on the marble countertop. Aracely Dela Mora leaned over a plate with meticulous focus, her brow furrowed in concentration as she placed the final sprig of thyme on a seared salmon filet. The plate was a canvas, and dinner was her art.
She stepped back and admired her creation. “Boom,” she said to no one in particular. “Michelin star on a Tuesday.”
From across the room, Valeria Rivera leaned against the archway, arms crossed, wearing a smug smile. “You say that like you don’t make food magic on Mondays too.”
Aracely smirked. “That was a one-time truffle risotto miracle. Don’t jinx me.”
They laughed, and Valeria sauntered over, snagging a grape off a cheese board on the way. “This client better tip in diamonds. Or a vacation to Italy. I could really use a vacation.”
“You always could,” Aracely replied, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Tonight’s client is one of those finance types. Stiff collar, big wallet. The usual.”
Just as she turned back to tidy the counter, her phone buzzed with a number she didn’t recognize. She glanced at it, hesitating. “Should I?”
Valeria wiggled her brows. “Might be a billionaire looking for a personal chef. Or your long-lost soulmate.”
Aracely rolled her eyes and answered. “Aracely Dela Mora speaking.”
“This Coach Brooks. Harrison Brooks. You got a minute?”
She blinked, caught off guard by the gravelly voice. “Uh, yes. Of course. What can I do for you, Coach?”
“You come highly recommended. I’m in need of a personal chef. Someone discreet. Flexible. Creative. And with the patience of a saint.”
“All of which sounds suspiciously like a trap,” Aracely quipped, earning a stifled snort from Valeria.
Coach Brooks didn’t laugh. “You’d be cooking for one of my players. Star athlete. High profile. Strict dietary needs.”
Aracely straightened, intrigued despite herself. “What kind of dietary needs?”
“Let’s just say he eats like he’s stuck in 1999 and refuses to evolve.”
“You’re serious?”
“As a heart attack. Kid’s got talent for days but won’t eat anything unless it comes in a paper box or is shaped like a dinosaur.”
Aracely pressed her fingers to her temple. “Coach, respectfully, I don’t do Lunchables.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to make him want to eat what you cook. Make him crave it.”
“That sounds like a miracle, not a job.”
“I’ll pay you well. Generously. And there’s a performance bonus if you get him to eat one damn vegetable.”
Aracely looked to Valeria, who mouthed, Do it. Then to her phone again. “Alright. I’ll take the meeting. But if your player throws a tantrum over spinach, I’m out.”
Coach chuckled—just a little. “Fair enough. Can you meet at the training facility tomorrow? Noon sharp.”
“I’ll be there.”
The Next Day
Aracely arrived at the New Orleans Saints training facility in her best casual-professional: sleek black pants, white blouse, hair in a low bun, and the faintest touch of red lipstick. She carried a leather-bound portfolio with sample menus, though she had no idea what she was walking into.
The facility was massive and buzzing with energy. She was led through the maze of corridors until she stepped into a state-of-the-art kitchen that smelled faintly of burnt toast and protein powder. A man stood with his back to her, tall and broad-shouldered in athletic shorts and a team hoodie.
“You the new chef?” he asked without turning around.
“Not yet,” she replied. “I haven’t decided if you’re worth the trauma.”
He turned then, and Aracely was momentarily thrown. Travis Delgado was even more striking in person. Clean-cut, strong jawline, sharp brown eyes that flicked over her with amused interest.
“You’re funny,” he said, crossing his arms. “That’ll last a week.”
“Oh, I plan to outlast you,” she shot back.
Coach Brooks entered just in time to catch the tail end of the exchange. “Good. You’ve met. Aracely, this is Travis Delgado. Travis, meet your new personal chef.”
Travis looked her over again. “She got a name like a dessert. Fitting.”
Aracely raised a brow. “You got a name like a soap opera villain. Fitting.”
Coach groaned. “God help me.”
But Travis’s mouth curved into a slow, genuine grin. Aracely’s heart, annoyingly, skipped.
She cleared her throat. “Alright, Delgado. What am I working with here?”
“Box mac and cheese. Dino nuggets. Buttered noodles. PB&J—grape jelly only. No crust.”
She blinked. “That’s...a toddler’s dream menu.”
He shrugged. “It’s what I like. Been working fine for twenty-eight years.”
“That’s because no one’s dared challenge your palate.”
Travis leaned in slightly. “You volunteering to challenge me, Chef Dessert?”
“You’ll know when I do,” she replied sweetly, matching his grin with one of her own.
Coach Brooks looked between them and sighed. “Lord have mercy, what have I done?”
As Aracely walked out of the facility later that day, the afternoon sun warm on her skin, she pulled out her phone to text Valeria.
ARACELY: Met the player.
VALERIA: And???
ARACELY: He’s impossible. Infuriating.
VALERIA: Hot?
ARACELY: Unfortunately.
VALERIA: So… fun begins?
Aracely smiled to herself and slid the phone back in her pocket.
“Let the games begin,” she whispered.
Aracely shoved open the door to her apartment, her tote bag slipping from her shoulder and thudding against the hardwood floor. The scent of Valeria’s citrus-scented candle greeted her from the kitchen, but she ignored it. All she wanted was a glass of wine, a long shower, and perhaps—if the culinary gods allowed—amnesia.
Before she could even toe off her shoes, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen.
Javier.
Of course.
She swiped to answer and sank onto the couch, tossing one arm over her eyes.
“¿Cómo te fue, Chef Estrella?” came her brother’s voice, smug and too chipper for her current emotional state.
Aracely groaned dramatically. “You mean besides being assigned to the most stubborn man-child in the NFL? Oh, peachy.”
Javier laughed on the other end. “So it was that bad?”
“He asked me if I could make macaroni and cheese without the ‘fancy cheese,’ Javier. And don’t get me started on the dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets request.”
“You’re lying,” he said between snickers.
“I wish I were.” She sighed, finally letting her arm drop. “I walked in there ready to impress. And instead, I’m googling how to plate hot dogs without losing my will to live.”
“Sounds like a fun challenge,” he teased. “Maybe try a deconstructed Lunchable next.”
Aracely narrowed her eyes, even if he couldn’t see it. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I mean… just a little.” He paused. “But seriously, is he that picky? I thought you said he was a grown man.”
“He’s got the palate of a second grader,” she muttered. “And the attitude to match.”
“But he’s not yelling at you, right?” Javier’s tone shifted slightly, the teasing lifting just enough to make room for concern. “No diva antics?”
“No yelling. Just… a lot of side-eye. And sarcasm. He thinks I’m too much, I think he’s emotionally attached to Chef Boyardee.” She sat up straighter and pushed her curls off her face. “It’s fine. I’ll adjust. I’ve cooked for celebrities, politicians—even that one moody Broadway actor who only ate food in shades of beige. I can do this.”
“Atta girl,” Javier said warmly. “You always did like a challenge.”
“This isn’t a challenge, Javi. This is culinary sabotage. I swear, if I ever see another box of instant mashed potatoes again…”
He chuckled, then asked gently, “But you’re still taking the job, right?”
Aracely hesitated.
“I don’t know. It’s not what I expected. And I kind of wanted this one to be… different, you know?”
“You mean less chaos?” Javier offered.
“Yeah. Or at least chaos I could sauté and turn into something gourmet.”
There was a short silence on the line before he replied, “Maybe it still can be. You just met the guy. Give it a week. Besides, you’re Aracely Dela Mora. You made that one food critic cry with a grilled peach once. You’re a magician.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “He cried because it was spicy and he was a coward.”
“Still counts.”
A beat of quiet passed between them, comforting and familiar.
Then, Aracely asked softly, “Do you ever miss it? Playing?”
Javier was quiet for a second. “Every damn day.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I got out with my knees intact and a new purpose. And now I get to yell at athletes in suits instead of cleats. It’s not a bad trade.” His voice lightened again. “And hey, at least one of us is still in the game.”
“Technically, I’m just feeding the game,” she muttered.
“Feeding the star player. That’s a big deal.”
She exhaled slowly. “It is. And I want to make it work. He just makes it really hard.”
“You always were stubborn.” Javier’s voice softened. “But so is he, sounds like. Maybe you two are more alike than you think.”
“Please don’t curse me like that.”
He laughed again. “You’ll be fine, hermanita. Just don’t poison him, and you’ll survive.”
Aracely smirked. “No promises.”
After hanging up, she stood and wandered into the kitchen, flipping on the lights. Her eyes fell on a cookbook she’d left open on the counter earlier that morning—pages filled with intricate recipes and gourmet ambitions.
She stared at it a moment.
Then grabbed a notebook instead and scribbled down: Comfort Food with a Twist. Make it playful, nostalgic—but sneak in flavor.
She would figure him out. Just like she always did.
Even if it meant buying dinosaur cookie cutters of her own.