Page 34 of Dreams and Desires

He looks at me, not joking. “The pie. The way you work. You’re hired.”

“Oh.” My voice is small. I step back slowly, needing the space. “This still has to stay professional.”

“It can,” he replies. “But let’s not lie to ourselves, Juniper. There’s something here.”

I shake my head. “There’s nothing between us.”

His smile is soft, not mocking. “Sure.”

I turn to go, not trusting myself to stay in this kitchen one second longer.

Before I reach the door, he steps close again—not too close. He gently sets my glasses back on, his fingertips brushing the side of my face. He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t push.

“Go home,” he says quietly. “Rest. You’ve had a long day.”

I leave without looking back. My heart’s still racing.

Outside, the air feels colder than before. I can’t tell if I’m shaking because of the wind—or because of him.

Chapter Sixteen

Juniper

Since Zade dropped the idea of the resort and focused on turning The Opal into a five-star hotel, I seriously began considering working for him. My decision isn't swayed by the kisses he gave me, although those moments linger in my mind more than I care to admit. This job is an opportunity I can't afford to pass up.

On my first day in the kitchen, the atmosphere buzzes with anticipation. The countertops gleam, the scent of fresh ingredients fills the air, and the staff hustles around like they’re in a high-energy dance.

I’m introduced to the team, a group of passionate, skilled individuals who welcome me warmly. “Hey, Juniper, I’m Marco,” says a tall, dark-haired guy with a charming smile. His eyes sparkle with mischief and warmth.

“Nice to meet you, Marco. I’m excited to be here,” I reply, feeling a sense of camaraderie already forming. The energy in the kitchen is contagious, and I can’t wait to dive in.

As the morning progresses, I dive into my work, preparing a variety of desserts.

A petite, red-haired woman named Sophie works next to me; her movements are quick and efficient. “Your apricot pie from the interview was amazing. Mr. Patterson had us try it once you left,” she says, glancing over with a friendly smile.

Just the mention of that apricot pie leaves me sweating, and I clear my throat. “Thanks, Sophie. I’m glad you liked it.” I say, trying to control the tremor in my voice.

As I work, I notice the intricate dance of the kitchen staff. Each person moves with purpose, their actions synchronized like a well-rehearsed ballet. Marco expertly flips a pan of sautéing vegetables, the aroma making my stomach rumble. Sophie pipes delicate rosettes of buttercream onto a row of cupcakes with precision. The pastry section, where I’m stationed, is a haven of creativity and focus. My hands move swiftly, rolling out dough for croissants and folding it over layers of butter with meticulous care. I shape the pastries, feeling the smooth, cool dough under my fingers. The repetition is soothing, each motion a step toward perfection.

“Juniper, can you pass me the vanilla extract?” Sophie asks, not missing a beat in her work.

“Sure,” I reply, reaching for the bottle and handing it to her. “Here you go.”

“Thanks. By the way, where did you learn to bake?” She inquires, her eyes curious.

“I actually learned from the best. My mentor owns a café in Silverton; that’s the talk of the town. I also attended several baking workshops. I’ve always loved baking—it’s a form of art for me,”I explain, but in my heart, I fear that they might judge me because I know everyone here is a trained and qualified chef, and I’m the odd one out with my background.

But what Sophie says next puts me at ease. “That’s amazing. Baking is definitely love. We’re lucky to have you here,” she tells me with a genuinely warm smile.

As the morning flies by, I move on to making a selection of tarts. I prepare the buttery crusts, blind-baking them to a perfect golden brown. The smell of the pastries fills the kitchen, mingling with the scent of fresh fruit and caramel. I fill the tart shells with rich vanilla custard, carefully arranging sliced strawberries and kiwi on top. The colors are vibrant, and the presentation is meticulous. I catch Marco watching me as I work, a grin spreading across his face.

“Damn, Juniper, you know what you’re doing. Those tarts look amazing,” he says, like he actually means it.

“Thanks, Marco. I just hope they taste as good as they look,” I reply, my cheeks warming at the compliment.

“They will,” he assures me with a wink.

By lunchtime, I’ve managed to prepare an array of pastries that fill the kitchen with a mouth-watering aroma. The staff gathers to taste my creations, their expressions lighting up with delight.

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