Page 29 of The Sweet Chef and the Corporate Queen

"You kissed me back, Jules," he says simply. "That's not nothing."

I glance frantically down the hallway, terrified someone might overhear. "This isn't the place?—"

"Then where? You've been avoiding me for two days."

"Because there's nothing to discuss." I try again to move past him, but he shifts slightly, not quite blocking me but making it impossible to leave without acknowledging him. "Please move."

"Not until you talk to me. Really talk to me, not this corporate robot version of yourself."

Something inside me snaps at his words. "Corporate robot? Is that what you think I am? A woman who built a company from nothing, who supports her child as a single mother, who has actual responsibilities beyond creating the perfect trail mix?"

His expression softens. "That's not what I meant."

"No?" The anger feels good, safer than the other emotions churning beneath it. "You think because we shared a few conversations and one impulsive kiss that you know me? That you understand my life?"

"I think I understand more than you give me credit for," he says evenly. "I think you're scared."

"Scared?" I laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. "Of what? A vacation fling with the local chef? That's not fear, Declan. It's common sense."

A flicker of hurt crosses his face before he masks it. "Is that what you think this is?"

"What else could it be?" I gesture between us. "We live completely different lives in completely different worlds. I run a tech company in New York. You make pancakes in North Carolina."

"Wow." He steps back slightly, something hardening in his expression. "You really need to believe that, don't you? That I'm just some simple mountain cook who couldn't possibly fit into your important life."

The accuracy of his observation only fuels my defensive anger. "It's not about importance. It's about practicality. What exactly do you imagine happening here? That I'd uproot my entire life, my daughter's life, for someone I've known less than a week?"

"I never asked you to uproot anything," he says quietly. "I asked you to talk to me. To acknowledge what's happening between us instead of running from it."

"Nothing is happening between us," I insist, even as my voice wavers. "Nothing can happen."

"Can't, or won't?" he echoes his question from yesterday.

"Both," I snap. "My life is in New York. My company, Mia's school, everything that matters."

"Except maybe Mia's happiness," he says softly.

The observation hits too close to home, too near the doubts I've been fighting all week. "Don't you dare presume to know what's best for my daughter."

"I'm not presuming anything. I'm stating what I've seen with my own eyes." His voice remains calm, reasonable, which only infuriates me more. "She's blossomed here, Jules. And so have you, when you let yourself."

"This isn't real life," I say, gesturing toward the window, the mountains beyond. "This is a fantasy, a vacation bubble. Real life is schedules and responsibilities and hard work?—"

"And you think I don't know about hard work?" For the first time, an edge enters his voice. "Running a kitchen, maintaining a family business, pouring everything you have into creating something meaningful? You think that's not real life because it happens in mountains instead of skyscrapers?"

I falter, caught off guard by the quiet intensity of his response.

"You're so determined to prove this can't work that you haven't even considered what 'this' might be," he continues. "I'm not asking for forever, Jules. I'm asking for a conversation. For honesty. For you to admit there's something real between us, even if it's complicated."

"Complicated is an understatement," I say, my anger deflating slightly. "I leave tomorrow."

"I know that."

"And then what? Long-distance phone calls? Weekend visits? How long before that becomes too difficult, tooinconvenient? Before you resent the woman who's never available, always working, always somewhere else?"

Understanding dawns in his eyes. "Is that what happened with Mia's father?"

I look away, unwilling to let him see how close to the mark he's hit. "My point is that these things don't work. Not for people like me."

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