Page 10 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas
Small-town information networks. I’d forgotten how efficiently news traveled in places like this.
“No, they’re right. I ran a kitchen for a few years.” I kept my tone light, not ready to get into the Vincent Carmichael disaster with someone I barely knew. “Now I’m thinking about opening a place here in Hollow Haven. A bistro, actually. Just started the planning process.”
His whole face lit up. “That’s amazing. The town could really use that. Micah’s bakery is great, but he’s focused on pastries and bread. A bistro would be a welcome addition to us culinary-challenged residents.”
The enthusiasm was genuine and warming. “I aim to please,” I joked. “I want to do a farm-to-table approach. Seasonal menus, local sourcing when possible. I’m actually looking at Micah’s old location, before he expanded. The building’s been sitting empty since he moved to the bigger space last year.”
“Oh, the Martinez building?” Jace nodded knowingly. “Good location. Right on Main Street.”
“Exactly.” I paused, then added, “Hence the market research.”
“That’s one thing about mountain agriculture. Short growing season means people really know how to make the most of what works.” He shifted his coffee cup, looking slightly nervous. “Actually, I was hoping I’d run into you. I wanted to ask you something.”
The tentative tone caught my attention. “Okay?”
“The thing is,” he continued, still looking awkward in an endearing way, “I find incredible ingredients all the time when I’m out on patrol. Wild mushrooms, herbs, edible plants. But I wouldn’t know what to do with them beyond throwing them in scrambled eggs or instant ramen.”
Interest sparked despite my packed schedule. “What kind of mushrooms?”
“Chanterelles, black trumpets, chicken of the woods depending on the season. There’s an oak grove near Whisper Creek that produces oyster mushrooms from late spring through fall.” His enthusiasm grew as he talked about his work. “I can identify what’s safe to eat, I know sustainable harvesting practices from my forestry training, but actual cooking? That’s completely outside my skill set.”
My chef’s brain immediately started planning dishes. Chanterelle risotto, black trumpet cream sauce, oyster mushrooms sautéed with wild herbs. Those were premium ingredients that could define the bistro’s menu, create the kind of unique offerings that made restaurants destination-worthy.
“And you just leave them out there?” I couldn’t help the note of horror in my voice.
“Usually, yeah.” He looked genuinely pained by this admission. “It feels wrong every time, like I’m wasting something the forest is offering. But I don’t have the skills todo them justice, and it seems disrespectful to harvest something I’m just going to ruin with poor technique.”
“That’s criminal,” I said, more forcefully than I’d intended. “Those are premium ingredients that most chefs would kill for, and you’re just leaving them in the woods.”
“I know.” He looked genuinely distressed by this failure. “It feels wrong every time I pass a good patch. Like I’m disrespecting what the forest is offering by not knowing how to use it.”
We’d reached the vegetable vendor, and I busied myself examining late-season squash while my mind raced through possibilities. Local foraging would be perfect for the bistro. Farm-to-table was expected now, but forest-to-table could be a real differentiator. Wild mushrooms, foraged herbs, ingredients that told a story about the mountain landscape. It would have to be done in a sustainable way though. A way that would protect the habitat and growing patterns.
But I didn’t have time to learn foraging on top of everything else. The permit applications alone were overwhelming, and I was still trying to figure out contractor estimates and health department requirements.
“What if,” Jace said carefully, like he was testing out an idea that might get rejected, “you taught me some basic cooking? Proper knife skills, how to prepare wild mushrooms, seasonal techniques. And I could show you the foraging spots, teach you sustainable harvesting practices.”
The offer was tempting and terrible in equal measure. I didn’t have time to teach cooking lessons when I had a business to launch. But a reliable source of foraged ingredients could be exactly what the bistro needed to stand out.
“I don’t know,” I said, selecting a perfect sweet potato and trying to calculate the time commitment. “I’m prettyoverwhelmed with the bistro planning right now. Permits, contractors, equipment sourcing, menu development.”
“I get that.” He didn’t push, just accepted my hesitation like it was reasonable. “Well, the offer stands if you ever have time. No pressure either way.”
The thing was, cooking classes had been part of my original business plan, something to build community engagement and create additional revenue streams. Practicing with Jace as a student would actually be a big help for me.
“How many lessons were you thinking?” I asked, my practical side warring with my instinct to protect my limited bandwidth.
“Whatever works for your schedule. Once a week? Every other week? I’m flexible.” His eagerness was endearing, reminding me again of the boy who’d begged to help in the kitchen even when his “help” mostly involved creating more work. “And I promise I’ll be a dedicated student. I want to learn this stuff properly.”
A woman approached the vegetable stall, and I moved aside to let her browse while I processed Jace’s offer. Teaching cooking wouldn’t be difficult exactly. I’d done culinary demonstrations before, knew how to break down complex techniques into manageable steps. And he’d be a motivated student, not some bored spouse dragged to couples cooking classes.
“Let me think about it,” I said finally, because I couldn’t quite bring myself to say no outright. “I need to see where I am with permits and contractor schedules. Maybe in a week or two?”
“Absolutely.” His smile was understanding rather than disappointed. “No pressure, Talia. The offer stands whenever you have time.”
He started to leave, then turned back with that same earnest expression I remembered from childhood. “For what it’s worth, I think what you’re doing with the bistro is really impressive.”
“Thank you,” I managed, throat suddenly tight. “That means more than you know.”
