Page 23 of The Sweet Chef and the Corporate Queen

"Jules," he says softly, and something in his tone makes me look up.

The setting sun illuminates his face, turning his eyes to warm amber. He's looking at me with an expression I haven't seen in years. There’s genuine interest, unhurried and attentive.

"I had a nice time today," I say, wincing internally at how formal it sounds.

"Getting lost in a rainstorm?" His smile is gentle, teasing.

"Finding shelter," I clarify. "The conversation."

"Me too." His thumb brushes lightly over my knuckles, sending an unexpected thrill up my arm.

I should step away. Release his hand, cross the bridge, return to the retreat and my carefully ordered world. Instead, I remain rooted in place, caught in his gaze.

"You have raindrops in your hair," he says, his free hand lifting to brush a strand back from my face.

The touch is feather-light, but it sends heat blooming across my skin. Time seems to slow, the rushing water beneath us the only sound in a suddenly quiet world.

When he leans toward me, it feels as inevitable as gravity. His lips meet mine softly, hesitantly, giving me every opportunity to pull away.

I don't.

Instead, I find myself leaning into the kiss, my free hand resting lightly against his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken beneath my palm. The kiss is gentle at first, a question rather than a demand, but when I respond, it deepens with surprising intensity.

For one suspended moment, I allow myself to simply feel. The warmth of his mouth, the strength in his hand still holding mine, the dizzying sense of falling despite standing perfectly still.

Then reality crashes back like a second storm.

I'm kissing a man I barely know, a man ten years my junior, a man who lives in a world completely separate from mine. A lodge chef with no ambitions beyond his mountain kitchen. A man my daughter is already becoming attached to after just three days.

Panic surges through me, and I pull back abruptly, breaking the kiss.

"I'm sorry," I say, taking a step backward. "That was a mistake."

Hurt flashes across his face before he carefully masks it. "A mistake," he repeats, his voice neutral.

"We got caught up in the moment. The storm, the isolation..." I'm babbling, making excuses as I continue retreating. "It doesn't mean anything."

"Doesn't it?" His question is quiet but direct.

"No," I say firmly, more to convince myself than him. "It can't. I'm leaving in three days. I have a company to run, a life in New York."

"I'm not asking you to abandon your life, Jules."

"Aren't you?" The words come out sharper than intended. "What else could possibly come from this?"

He doesn't answer immediately, his expression thoughtful rather than offended. "I don't know," he finally says. "But I think it could be worth finding out."

"I don't have the luxury of romantic uncertainty," I say, turning to cross the rest of the bridge. "I have responsibilities, plans. A daughter who needs stability."

"A daughter who's happier here than I've seen her since you arrived," he points out, following me. "Who's thriving with a little less structure and a little more spontaneity."

The observation stings because it's true. "That's not fair."

"Neither is dismissing what just happened as meaningless because it doesn't fit into your five-year plan."

We've reached the other side of the bridge now, standing at the edge of the lodge grounds. Staff members are visible on the terrace, and I instinctively step further away from him, maintaining a professional distance.

"This conversation is over," I say with finality. "We have three more days of this retreat, and I'd appreciate it if we could keep things professional from now on."

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