Page 30 of The Sweet Chef and the Corporate Queen

"People like you," he repeats, shaking his head. "Jules, did it ever occur to you that maybe you're not as different from the rest of us as you think? That maybe you deserve happiness as much as anyone else?"

"I am happy," I insist. "I have a successful company, a beautiful daughter, a life I built myself."

"And you're terrified of anything that might disrupt that carefully controlled existence." It's not a question. "Even if that something might actually add to your life rather than derail it."

For a moment, I allow myself to imagine what it might be like. The longing that rises in my chest is so acute it's almost painful.

"It doesn't matter," I say finally, the words tasting like ash. "Our worlds don't mix, Declan. They just don't."

"They already have," he points out. "The moment Mia stepped into my kitchen. The moment you kissed me back on that bridge."

"That was a mistake."

"Was it?" He steps closer, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of cinnamon and cedar that clings to him. "Tell me you felt nothing when I kissed you. Tell me you haven't thought about it every hour since. Tell me honestly that you don't feel this connection between us, and I'll walk away right now."

I open my mouth to deliver the denial that will end this, free us both from this impossible situation. But the lie sticks in my throat.

"I can't do this," I whisper instead, hating the vulnerability in my voice. "I can't be what you want."

"You don't know what I want," he says softly. "Because you haven't asked. You've been too busy telling yourself all the reasons this can't work to actually consider how it might."

The hallway suddenly feels too small, too intimate. I step back, needing distance from his perceptiveness, from the truth I'm not ready to face.

"I have to go," I say, my CEO voice returning like armor. "My team is waiting."

"Enjoy the rest of your retreat, Ms. Sinclair," he says formally, his expression shifting. "The farewell dinner menu will be excellent, I assure you."

Chapter Ten

Declan

The farewell dinner service is in full swing, and I'm on autopilot. Sear the scallops. Plate the microgreens. Drizzle the sauce. My hands move with practiced precision while my mind replays my conversation with Jules from earlier today.

"Our worlds don't mix, Declan. They just don't."

I wipe down a spattered edge of a plate with a clean cloth. Perfect presentation matters, especially tonight. The Sinclair Enterprises executives deserve a memorable final meal, even if their leader has made it abundantly clear that Mountain Laurel Lodge—and its chef—are merely a pleasant detour before returning to real life.

"Chef, table four is asking about the wine pairing," Georgia calls from the pass.

"Pinot noir with the duck, sauvignon blanc with the scallops," I respond automatically. "The sommelier card is on each table."

Georgia lingers, concern evident in her expression. "You okay? You've barely said ten words all service."

"I'm fine." The lie comes easily after years of kitchen professionalism. Never let personal problems affect the food.

But I'm not fine. I'm a million miles from fine.

I'm falling for a woman who's leaving tomorrow. A woman who's convinced herself that whatever exists between us isn't worth exploring. A woman whose daughter has somehow worked her way into my heart in less than a week.

Through the kitchen window, I catch glimpses of the farewell dinner. Jules sits at the head table, nodding at something her CFO is saying. She hasn't looked toward the kitchen once. She's wearing a simple black dress, elegant and understated. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders like it did the night on the terrace when we shared cider.

Mia sits beside her, fidgeting in a dress that matches her mother's. Even from here, I can see she'd rather be in the kitchen with me than at the formal dinner. Twice already she's waved when she caught me looking, and twice Jules has gently redirected her attention.

"Order up for the Sinclair party," I call, sliding the final plates onto the pass. "Georgia, you deliver these."

"That's the head table," she says, surprised. "You always handle VIP service yourself."

"Not tonight."

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