Page 16 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas
“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” he said quietly.
“Don’t I?” I added the diced squash to the pan, stirring to coat each piece with seasoned oil. “I ran away from Chicago with my reputation destroyed. Opening the bistro is the only way I can show that Vincent Carmichael didn’t break me completely. Even if it is just to myself.”
The words hung between us, more honest than I’d intended to be. But something about Jace’s patient attention made me want to explain, to confess the fear that drove every frantic hour I spent on business planning.
“He didn’t break you,” Jace said with absolute certainty. “He tried, but you’re standing in your own kitchen teaching someone who’s honored to learn from you. That’s not broken, Talia. That’s rebuilding.”
But everything that needed rebuilding had to be broken first, that’s what Jace was forgetting. The thought slipped throughmy mind as I added the Carnaroli rice to the pan, each grain carefully toasted before adding stock. Everything I did these days was intentional, calculated to minimize risk and maximize control. Even this cooking lesson, which I’d agreed to because it felt safer than the vulnerability of actual connection.
“Now we add stock one ladle at a time,” I explained, forcing my attention back to technique and changing us back to a safer subject. A subject I could always rely on. “You can’t rush risotto. It requires patience and constant attention.”
“I can do that,” Jace said, taking over the stirring when I offered the wooden spoon. “I can give patience if that’s what you need.”
I tried not to read into what he was saying, but it was impossible not to.
We fell into a comfortable rhythm, taking turns stirring while I added stock and adjusted seasoning. The meditation of the process slowly dissolved my earlier tension, replacing it with something that felt almost like peace.
“These mushrooms you brought,” I said during his turn with the spoon. “Could you get more? Consistently, I mean?”
His eyes lit up. “Absolutely. I know probably twenty good foraging spots within park boundaries. Ramps in spring, various mushrooms depending on season, wild herbs, even some edible flowers if you wanted to get fancy. All above board and legal as well,” he added with a wink.
“That’s exactly the kind of local sourcing I want for the bistro,” I said, genuine excitement creeping into my voice. “Farm-to-table isn’t just trendy anymore, it’s what people expect from good restaurants. Having a reliable foraging connection would set us apart.”
“Us?” he asked carefully.
I hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t meant to imply partnership or ongoing collaboration when I’d been so focused on maintaining professional boundaries.
“The bistro,” I corrected. “I meant the bistro would benefit from your foraging expertise.”
“Right.” He didn’t sound convinced, but he didn’t push. Just kept stirring the risotto with steady attention while I regrouped.
We finished the dish in companionable quiet, and when I plated two portions with professional attention to presentation, I found myself actually looking forward to his reaction.
Jace took his first bite, and his expression transformed into something close to reverence.
“Holy hell, Talia. This is incredible.”
The praise hit harder than it should have, warming something in my chest that had been cold since Chicago. “You really think so?”
“I think you’re going to have people lining up around the block when the bistro opens. This is the kind of food that makes you rethink everything you thought you knew about what cooking could be.”
We ate together at my small table, the afternoon light slanting through windows while Jace enthusiastically demolished his portion and praised every bite. And for the first time since I’d agreed to this lesson, I felt something other than worry about the time commitment.
Maybe teaching didn’t have to be a distraction from building my business. Maybe it could be about building a connection more than the community ones I’d been planning for the business.
“Same time next week?” Jace asked as he helped clean up, not presuming but clearly hoping.
I should say no. I should protect my time and energy for the mountain of work waiting. But looking at his hopeful expression,remembering how good it felt to share what I loved with someone who genuinely appreciated it, I found myself nodding.
“Same time next week. But you’re bringing more foraged ingredients, and we’re going to talk seriously about a supply arrangement for the bistro. If you have time for that sort of thing.”
His answering smile was bright enough to power the entire town. “Deal. And Talia? Thank you. Not just for the lesson, but for taking time you don’t really have. That means more than you know.”
After he left, I stood in my kitchen surrounded by the lingering scents of our cooking lesson. Then I returned to my laptop and the permit applications that wouldn’t complete themselves, but somehow the work felt less overwhelming than it had that morning.
Maybe I didn’t have to choose between building my business and building connections. Maybe, if I was very careful and very intentional, I could do both.
One perfectly seasoned risotto at a time.
