Page 25 of The Sweet Chef and the Corporate Queen

When I emerge, Mia is standing by the window, looking out at the mountains. "Mom," she says without turning around, "can we stay here longer? Like, after your business meetings are done?"

The question catches me off guard. "What? No, sweetheart. We have to go back to New York on Sunday. I have meetings all next week."

"But it's so nice here," she persists, turning to face me with a pleading expression. "And Evie said we could come back anytime. She said they have special weekend packages for families."

Something twists in my chest at the hope in her voice. "We can discuss visiting again sometime, but we can't extend this trip."

She sighs dramatically. "Fine. But I'm going to miss everybody. Especially Declan. He promised to teach me how to make homemade pasta next time."

Next time. The words echo in my mind as we head downstairs for dinner, Mia chattering excitedly about her day while I nod and respond on autopilot.

There won't be a next time. There can't be. Not when a simple kiss on a footbridge was enough to shake the foundations of the life I've so carefully constructed.

No, I decide as we enter the dining room. Better to end this now, before anyone gets hurt. Before Mia gets any more attached. Before I make another mistake I can't undo.

Chapter Eight

Declan

Three dozen blueberry muffins, two quiches, and a mountain of hash browns later, I'm still watching the dining room entrance. It's 8:47 a.m., and Jules Sinclair is officially avoiding me.

I know this because I've seen every member of her executive team come through for breakfast. Some twice. I know this because Mia appeared at 7:15, escorted by an assistant who explained that "Ms. Sinclair had an early conference call" and would "grab something later."

I know this because the kiss we shared on that footbridge has been replaying in my mind on endless loop, along with her hasty retreat afterward.

"You're burning the bacon," Georgia comments, nudging me aside to rescue the smoking pan. "That's the second batch this morning. What's up with you?"

"Nothing. Just distracted."

"Uh-huh." She gives me a knowing look. "Wouldn't have anything to do with a certain CEO who's suddenly taking breakfast in her room, would it?"

I don't answer, focusing instead on the fresh batch of bacon I've started. Georgia, mercifully, drops the subject and moves on to plating orders.

When the breakfast rush finally slows, I take a tray of fresh pastries to the conference rooms, ostensibly to restock the refreshment table. Purely professional. Definitely not hoping to run into Jules.

But the Pine Room, where her team has been meeting, is empty except for a lone staff member collecting coffee cups.

"They moved to the outdoor deck for morning sessions," she informs me when I ask. "Something about 'taking advantage of the inspirational mountain setting.'"

The deck, of course. As far from the kitchen as possible while still on lodge property.

By lunchtime, I'm torn between frustration and a grudging admiration for Jules' tactical avoidance skills. The lunch buffet is set up in the main dining room, but she arrives late, fills a plate quickly, and retreats to a table surrounded by her team before I can even step out of the kitchen.

I catch only a glimpse. Jules has her hair pulled back in its usual sleek style. Her posture is perfect, her focus entirely on whatever her CFO is saying. If not for the slight tension around her eyes when she glances toward the kitchen, I might believe yesterday never happened.

"Declan!" Mia's voice breaks through my thoughts as she appears at the kitchen entrance, her designated sous chef apron tied around her waist. "I finished my lunch! Can I help?"

I can't help but smile at her enthusiasm. "Perfect timing. We're making apple turnovers for the afternoon break."

She skips into the kitchen, climbing onto her step stool with practiced ease. We fall into a comfortable rhythm—me slicing apples, her measuring spices for the filling.

After a few minutes of happy chatter about her morning art class, she asks suddenly, "Are you coming to visit us in New York?"

The question catches me off guard. "What?"

"After we go home," she clarifies, carefully adding cinnamon to our mixture. "Mom said maybe we could come back here sometime, but I thought maybe you could visit us too."

Something tightens in my chest. "Did she really say you could come back?"

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