Page 5 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas
“I’d like that.”
Hollis stood with fluid grace and moved to a shelf marked “Transitions and Transformations.” His fingers traced several spines before selecting a hardcover with an inviting dust jacket.
“Barbara Kingsolver,” he said, returning to set the book beside my tea. “‘Animal Dreams.’ About a woman who returns to her hometown to teach high school and ends up rediscovering herself through community connection. Kingsolver has a gift for writing about how place shapes purpose.”
I touched the book’s cover, already drawn to the promise of transformation through belonging.
“I should probably head home,” I said reluctantly, though every instinct screamed at me to stay in this sanctuary of warm light and patient understanding.
“Of course. But you’re welcome back anytime. I open at nine, close at seven, though I often stay later if someone needs a quiet place to sit.” Hollis paused, seeming to weigh his words. “I live in the apartment upstairs. If you ever find yourself needing sanctuary after hours, the side door is marked with a small brass plaque. Just knock.”
The offer hung in the air between us, generous and terrifying. A year ago, I would have heard a threat in those words. Now I heard only the kindness of someone who understood that healing sometimes required refuge.
“Thank you,” I said softly, meaning more than just the tea and book recommendation. “For all of this.”
“Welcome back to Hollow Haven, Talia. It’s good to have you home.”
Something in his tone made it sound less like politeness and more like prophecy.
I walked home through afternoon light that seemed gentler than this morning's harsh brightness, the Kingsolver novel tucked under my arm like a promise.
Halfway down Main Street, I stopped.
There, wedged between a pottery studio and a vintage clothing boutique, sat an empty storefront. Large windows looked out onto the street, currently covered with brown paper from the inside. A “For Lease” sign hung in the door, slightly crooked, with a local realtor’s number printed beneath.
Something pulled me closer. I pressed my face to the glass where the paper didn’t quite reach the edges, peering into the dim interior.
The space was raw but beautiful. Exposed brick on one wall, original hardwood floors that would gleam with proper care. High ceilings with old tin tiles that caught what little light filtered through. I could see through to what must be a back area—probably kitchen space, judging by the commercial plumbing fixtures visible along one wall.
My heart started beating faster.
I could see it. Not as it was, but as it could be. Warm lighting, not the harsh spotlights of Vincent’s restaurant. Mismatched chairs around wooden tables, the kind that invited lingering over coffee and conversation. Chalkboard menus that changed with the seasons, with what was fresh and available and inspiring.
Not white tablecloths and seventeen-dollar appetizers. Not molecular gastronomy meant to impress critics who'd never understand that food was supposed to nourish the soul, not just photograph well for Instagram.
This could be mine.
The thought hit me with such force I had to steady myself against the window. My own restaurant. My own kitchen. My own rules about what food should be and who it should serve.
I’d spent years in Chicago creating Vincent’s vision—elevated, exclusive, expensive. Food as a status symbol. Dishes designed to intimidate as much as satisfy. We’d earned a Michelin star, and I’d lost myself in the process, believing that prestige was the same as purpose.
But what if I didn’t want pretentious anymore? What if I didn’t want a gilded restaurant that only catered to people who could afford to spend two hundred dollars on a tasting menu?
What if I wanted to feed the produce manager at the grocery store who’d smiled at me at dawn? The woman I’d seen walking her dog past my cottage every morning? Hollis, who quoted poetry and served chamomile tea to anxious readers? Jace, who probably survived on trail mix and coffee during long ranger shifts?
What if I wanted to serve the town? The everyday people I lived with. Show them that good food didn't have to come with pretension? That nourishment could be both excellent and accessible, sophisticated and comforting at the same time?
My reflection stared back at me from the papered window, and for the first time in months, I recognized something in my own eyes. Not fear or exhaustion or the desperate need to please. But hunger. Purpose. The beginning of something that felt like hope.
A bistro. Not fine dining, but elevated comfort. The kind of place where you could come for a Tuesday night dinner and feel cared for. Where a businessperson could grab a quick lunch and where a family could celebrate a birthday without taking out a loan. Seasonal menus featuring local ingredients. Simple preparations that let quality speak for itself.
The kind of food I’d loved cooking before Vincent convinced me that accessible meant inferior.
I pulled out my phone and took a photo of the realtor’s sign, my hands trembling slightly. This was crazy. I’d been in Hollow Haven for three days. I had no business plan, no investors, no guarantee I could even make this work.
But I also had no boss telling me what to cook. No partner undermining my confidence. No critics to impress or stars to maintain. Just me and an empty space and a town full of people who needed feeding.
The name came to me like a gift, fully formed and perfect.
