Bittersweet Valentine (Valentine’s Sweethearts)

Chapter Two

Roman

I eased my rental car down Main Street, the fresh snow crunching beneath the tires. Ten years had softened the edges of my memories, but some things about Kings Valley remained unchanged—the historic brick buildings with their detailed cornices, the wrought-iron lampposts wrapped in evergreen garlands, the way smoke curled from chimneys against the crisp winter sky.

The silence struck me first. No horns honking, no subway rumbling underground, none of the constant percussion of city life I'd grown accustomed to in Boston. Just the soft crunch of snow and the distant sound of church bells marking the hour.

The Queens Inn rose before me, its Victorian architecture as impressive as ever. I'd booked a room there for the duration of my stay, though "booked" might be too formal a word for the conversation I'd had with Helen Worthington, who'd known me since grade school and insisted on giving me my "old usual room." As if I were just returning from a weekend away, not a decade of building a career that had taken me from Boston to New York to Chicago and back.

My editor at the Globe had raised an eyebrow when I'd pitched this story. "Small-town chocolate competition? Bit beneath your usual beat, isn't it?" But there was something about artisanal chocolate-making that fascinated me. The precision, the creativity, the way something as simple as cocoa beans could be transformed into art. The fact that it was in Kings Valley...well, that was just an interesting angle for the piece. At least, that's what I'd told myself.

I pulled into a parking spot and killed the engine, but didn't immediately get out. Across the street, a shop caught my eye. The Chocolate Hart. The name was painted in elegant gold lettering on the window, and through the glass, I could see display cases gleaming in the early morning light. My heart did a familiar flip as I spotted movement inside—a figure in a white chef's coat working at a marble counter, honey-blonde hair caught up in a neat bun.

Kandi.

She looked exactly the same and completely different. The teenage girl I remembered had grown into a woman who moved with confidence and precision, her hands sure as they worked with what looked like tempered chocolate. Even from here, I could see the expertise in her movements, the professional grace that came from years of training.

I hadn't known she was back in Kings Valley. Hadn't let myself follow her career after she'd left for Brussels, though I'd caught glimpses over the years—her name mentioned in articles about up-and-coming chocolatiers, a feature in a food magazine about artisanal confections. She'd done well for herself. Part of me had always known she would.

A tap on my window startled me from my thoughts. I looked up to find Liam Parker grinning at me through the glass, his breath fogging in the cold air. Rolling down the window, I mustered a smile despite the nervous flutter in my stomach.

"Well, well," he said, leaning against my car door. "The prodigal son returns. Here to shake things up at the chocolate competition?"

"Here to judge it fairly," I corrected, stepping out into the cold. "Good to see you, Liam."

We shook hands, and I noted the calluses on his palm—still working as a carpenter, then. Some things really didn't change. Liam had been my best friend in high school, the one person besides Kandi who'd known about my dreams of becoming a food critic. He'd also been the one to tell me I was an idiot for letting her go.

"Fair, huh?" His gaze flickered to The Chocolate Hart, then back to me. "That include your ex-girlfriend's shop?"

"I'm a professional," I said, probably too quickly. "Personal history won't factor into my judging."

Liam's laugh echoed off the snow. "Right. Because you've always been so objective when it comes to Kandi Hart."

Before I could respond, the door of The Chocolate Hart opened, and Meredith Plum stepped out, carefully cradling a stack of burgundy boxes tied with gold ribbon. She spotted us and waved; her smile warm but slightly reserved when it landed on me.

"Roman! Welcome home." She shifted the boxes to one arm to give me a quick hug. "Though I suppose it's Mr. Archer now, given your reputation."

"Just Roman is fine." I nodded at the boxes. "Business seems good at Sugarplums."

"Oh, these aren't ours—they're Kandi's creations. She supplies us with specialty chocolates." Meredith's eyes twinkled. "You should try them. Her maple caramels are to die for, and she's been experimenting with some interesting spice combinations lately."

The idea of Kandi experimenting with spices brought back another memory—her parents' kitchen, sophomore year, the two of us covered in cocoa powder as she tried to convince me that chili and chocolate were a natural pairing. I'd been skeptical, but she'd proved me wrong. She usually did.

"I should get these back to my grandmother," Meredith said, adjusting her grip on the boxes. "Will you be at the pre-competition meeting this afternoon?"

"Three o'clock at the town hall," I confirmed. "Need to review the judging criteria and meet the contestants."

"Well then." She exchanged a knowing look with Liam. "This should be interesting."

As she walked away, Liam clapped me on the shoulder. "Come on, I'll buy you coffee. You can tell me all about life as a famous food critic while we wait for Helen to get your room ready."

I followed him down the snowy sidewalk, but my gaze was drawn back to The Chocolate Hart. Through the window, I could see Kandi working with focused intensity, her hands moving with practiced grace as she poured something into molds. The morning light caught her hair, turning it to gold, and for a moment I was eighteen again, watching her work in her parents' kitchen, dreaming of the future we'd planned together.

"You know," Liam said quietly, following my gaze, "she worked damn hard to get where she is. Trained in Brussels, did an apprenticeship in Paris, could have opened her shop anywhere. But she chose to come home."

The unspoken question hung in the air: Why hadn't I?

"I had my reasons for leaving," I said, turning away from the window.

"Sure you did. The question is, do you have reasons for coming back?"

I didn't answer. Couldn't answer, really, because I wasn't entirely sure myself. The competition was a convenient excuse, a way to write about traditional artisanal techniques in an era of mass production. But I could have assigned another critic. Should have probably, given my history here.

Instead, I'd practically begged my editor for the story. "Small-town Vermont chocolatier takes on urban food scene," I'd pitched. "Artisanal craftsmanship in the modern market." All the right buzzwords to make it sound like just another assignment.

We reached the corner café—not Sugarplums, thankfully—where I knew I’d be peppered with questions from Kandi’s best friend—and found a table by the window. The place was quiet this early, just a few regulars nursing coffee and reading papers. Through the glass, I could see more of the town coming to life. Eleanor Pembrooke was arranging Valentine's floral displays in The Velvet Vine's window. The hardware store was putting out sidewalk salt. A dog walker passed with three bundled-up golden retrievers, their breath steaming in the cold.

"So," Liam said, sliding a mug of coffee across the table. "Want to tell me the real reason you're back?"

I wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic, buying time. The truth was, I'd been restless lately. Ten years of reviewing the finest restaurants in the country, and something was missing. Maybe it was the authenticity of places like Kings Valley, where food wasn't about trends or Instagram, but about craft and tradition and love.

Or maybe it was something else entirely.

"The competition's a big deal in the culinary world now," I said finally. "Ten years of building reputation, bringing attention to traditional techniques. It's a good story."

"Uh-huh." He stirred sugar into his own coffee. "And the fact that Kandi's favored to win has nothing to do with it?"

"I didn't know she was entering until I got here," I said, which was mostly true. I'd known she was back in Kings Valley, had seen the occasional mention of The Chocolate Hart in regional food magazines. But I hadn't known about her participation in the competition until after I'd committed to judging.

"Right." Liam's tone made it clear he didn't believe me. "Just like you didn't know she was teaching chocolate-making workshops that have people driving up from Boston. Or that Food & Wine magazine featured her maple bourbon truffles last fall. Or that three different developers have tried to convince her to open locations in Burlington and she's turned them all down."

I blinked, surprised both by the information and by how closely Liam had been following Kandi's success. "You've kept tabs on her."

"Someone had to." His voice held an edge now. "After you left, she needed people in her corner. So yeah, I kept tabs. We all did. Kings Valley takes care of its own."

The implied accusation stung.

"I'm not here to cause trouble," I said finally. "Just to judge a competition and write a story."

"Maybe." Liam stood, dropping some bills on the table. "But you might want to remember something: Kandi's not just another chef you're critiquing. She's built something special here. Don't mess with that just because you're feeling nostalgic."

He left me sitting there, staring into my cooling coffee and thinking about the way Kandi had looked through The Chocolate Hart's window—confident, focused, successful. She'd achieved everything we'd once dreamed about, but she'd done it without me. The question was: could I judge her work fairly, knowing what I knew? Seeing who she'd become?

The competition meeting was in six hours. I'd see her there, would have to maintain professional distance while evaluating technical skills and creativity. Could I do that? Could I separate the chocolatier from the girl who'd once written love notes in chocolate on wax paper, who'd kissed me behind Sugarplums and tasted of peppermint and promises?

I stood, leaving my coffee untouched. The Queens Inn would have my room ready by now, and I needed to review the competition criteria before the meeting. But as I walked back, snow began falling again, soft flakes that caught in my hair and on my coat. Through The Chocolate Hart's window, I saw Kandi demonstrating something to a young assistant, her movements assured and graceful. She smiled at something the girl said, and the sight hit me like a physical blow—she looked happy. Settled. At home in a way I'd never quite managed to be, despite all my success.

Maybe Liam was right. Maybe coming back had been a mistake.

But as I watched Kandi work, saw the passion and skill in every movement, I knew I couldn't walk away again. Not without seeing what she'd created, what she'd become. Not without understanding why she'd chosen to come home when I'd chosen to leave.

The competition would give me that chance. Two weeks to watch her work, to taste her creations, to judge her fairly as a professional while trying to ignore the way my heart still skipped when she smiled.

I just hoped I was up to the challenge.