Page 5 of The Sweet Chef and the Corporate Queen

"This might be a bit big," I warn, looping it over her head. The bottom edge pools around her feet like a fancy dress.

"I look like a real chef!" She twirls, nearly tripping over the excess fabric.

"Hold on." I grab a clean kitchen towel and fold it into a makeshift belt, cinching the apron around her waist so she won't trip. "There. Now you're officially my sous chef for the day."

"What's a soo chef?"

"Sous chef. It means you're second in command. The most important person in the kitchen after the head chef." I tap her nose lightly. "That's you."

Her face lights up with pride, and for a moment, I see Jules in her smile—not the tightly controlled businesswoman who just left, but something warmer hidden underneath.

"Now, let's get started on these cookies. Your mom's team is going to need brain food for all those important business discussions."

As we measure ingredients, I keep the conversation flowing, partly to make Mia comfortable and partly because kitchens shouldn't be quiet places.

"So what does your mom do at her company?" I ask, helping her level off a cup of flour.

"She's the boss of everything." Mia says this with matter-of-fact pride. "She makes decisions and tells people what to do and has meetings all day long."

"Sounds busy."

"Super busy. Sometimes she works on her computer until it's dark outside, and then it gets light again, and she's still working."

That explains the permanent furrow between Jules Sinclair's eyebrows. "What about you? What do you like to do when you're not being a world-class sous chef?"

"I like drawing and reading and playing outside." She carefully cracks an egg against the bowl, her tongue poking out in concentration. "But Mom says I have to do educational activities most of the time."

"Educational activities, huh? Well, baking is educational." I hand her a whisk. "You're learning measurement, chemistry, and patience all at once."

"Really?" Her eyes widen.

"Absolutely. Plus, you get cookies at the end, which makes it superior to most school subjects."

She laughs, and I realize I'm genuinely enjoying myself. There's something refreshing about Mia's presence in my kitchen. It’s a change from routine I didn't know I needed.

"Is your mom married? Besides to her job, I mean," I ask, trying to sound casual as I preheat the oven.

"Nope. It's just me and Mom." Mia focuses intently on whisking. "And Claire, our nanny. But she's with her mom at the hospital."

"That must be tough," I say carefully. "Just the three of you."

Mia shrugs with the resilience of childhood. "Mom says we're self-sufficient."

Self-sufficient. Such an adult word from such a small person.

"What about your dad?" I venture, then immediately regret it when her face falls slightly.

"He lives in California with his new wife and their baby. I visit on school breaks sometimes." She pokes at the dough. "He's really busy too."

"Well, his loss," I say lightly, redirecting her attention to the cookie dough. "Now for the most important part. How many chocolate chips do we add?"

"All of them!" Her sadness vanishes instantly.

"That's my kind of baking philosophy."

We fall into an easy rhythm, scooping cookie dough onto baking sheets, laughing when I pretend to be outraged that she's stealing more chocolate chips. The morning passes quickly, and before I know it, we've produced four dozen perfectly golden cookies, filled the bread baskets for lunch, and prepped the salad station.

"You're a natural," I tell her as she carefully arranges cookies on a serving platter. "I might have to hire you permanently."

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