Bittersweet Valentine (Valentine’s Sweethearts)

Chapter Eight

Roman

The morning of the final round dawned clear and cold, perfect February weather for Valentine's Day. The Queens Inn ballroom had been transformed into a showcase space, with pedestals arranged in a circle for each contestant's signature piece. In a few hours, the room would be filled with judges, reporters, and townspeople eager to see what Kings Valley's chocolatiers had created.

I arrived early, needing quiet time to prepare myself. This wasn't just any competition judging—this was the culmination of two weeks that had changed everything I thought I knew about success, about home, about second chances.

Through the ballroom's tall windows, I could see The Chocolate Hart across the street. Lights already burned in the kitchen, where I knew Kandi would be assembling her showpiece. I'd purposely avoided visiting her shop since delivering my chocolate messages, wanting to maintain some semblance of professional distance for this final round. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face as she'd read those messages, heard her voice as she'd critiqued my tempering technique, felt the warmth of her hand in mine.

"Early as usual," Granny Mae said, appearing beside me with two cups of coffee. She handed me one, the rich aroma mixing with the subtle scent of vanilla that seemed to follow her everywhere. "Some habits never change."

"Some do," I replied, accepting the coffee gratefully. "I never used to appreciate good chocolate properly. Now I can't stop thinking about tempering temperatures and ganache consistency."

She smiled knowingly. "And the chocolatier behind them?"

Before I could respond, the ballroom doors opened, and the contestants began arriving with their pieces. Each creation was covered, waiting for the official unveiling. But it was Kandi's station that drew every eye—a large structure hidden beneath burgundy silk, the same shade as her shop's signature packaging.

The other judges arrived, clipboards ready. This round would be different from the others. While technical skill and creativity still mattered, the signature piece was meant to tell a story, to capture something essential about both the chocolatier and the spirit of Valentine's Day itself.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I announced once everyone was settled. "Welcome to the final round of the Kings Valley Valentine's Chocolate Competition. Today's signature pieces represent not just skill and creativity, but heart. Please unveil your creations."

The silk coverings fell away, revealing each contestant's vision. Maria had crafted an elegant chocolate fountain, honey-sweetened chocolate cascading over delicate tiers. James's piece celebrated love across cultures, with symbols and flavors from around the world. Thomas had built a classical Valentine scene, complete with chocolate cupids.

Then Kandi unveiled her piece, and the room fell silent.

She had created Kings Valley itself in chocolate—but not just the buildings. She'd captured the spirit of the town, the way winter light caught on snow-covered roofs, the warm glow from shop windows, the sense of history and future intertwined. The Queens Inn stood proud in dark chocolate; its wraparound porch detailed in white. Sugarplums Café seemed to radiate warmth, tiny chocolate croissants visible in the windows. The Velvet Vine bloomed with chocolate flowers so delicate they looked real.

But it was The Chocolate Hart that drew me in. She'd captured it perfectly—the vintage display cases, the open kitchen, even the gold lettering on the window. And rising from its roof, a spiral of chocolate hearts carried messages that told our story: "Dream." "Leave." "Learn." "Return." "Remember." "Choose." And at the very top, a single heart that simply said "Home."

The technical skill was extraordinary. Every element showed perfect tempering, clear-cut construction, artistic vision. But it was more than that. She'd captured the essence of Kings Valley—not just its appearance, but its heart. The way this town held onto tradition while embracing change. The way it welcomed people home, even after years away.

I moved between the pieces with the other judges, making notes, maintaining professional distance. But when I reached Kandi's creation, I had to pause. Because there, in the tiny chocolate kitchen of The Chocolate Hart, two small figures worked side by side at a marble counter—one teaching, one learning, both creating something new together.

"The piece is called 'Sweet Homecoming,'" Kandi explained to the judges. "It's about the way some places, some people, some moments, stay with us even when we leave. About how coming home isn't always about finding what was but about discovering what could be."

The judging took hours. Each piece was evaluated for technical execution, artistic merit, storytelling, and overall impact. The other judges asked questions about technique, inspiration, and about the future of artisanal chocolate-making. I asked my own questions, kept my voice professional, wrote detailed notes.

But my eyes kept returning to those two figures at the chocolate counter, to the way they leaned toward each other, to the future they suggested.

Finally, all the scores were tallied. The ballroom had filled with spectators, including what seemed like half of Kings Valley. Granny Mae stood with Meredith and her boyfriend, Kris, near the front. Eleanor from The Velvet Vine was taking pictures for the local paper. Even Liam had shown up, grinning knowingly at me from the back of the room.

"Before we announce the winners," I said, addressing the crowd, "I want to thank all our contestants for reminding us that chocolate-making isn't just about technique or innovation. It's about creating moments, memories, and magic that bring people together."

My eyes found Kandi's as I continued. "Sometimes we have to go away to appreciate what we had all along. Sometimes true success isn't found in the biggest cities or the fanciest restaurants, but in small towns where tradition and innovation blend as perfectly as sugar and spice."

I opened the envelope containing the final scores, though I already knew what I would find. In every category—technical skill, artistic vision, storytelling, impact—one piece had stood above the rest.

"The winner of this year's Kings Valley Valentine's Chocolate Competition, with a perfect score in all categories... Kandi Hart of The Chocolate Hart."

The room erupted in applause. Sophie squealed and hugged Kandi. Granny Mae wiped tears from her eyes. But all I could see was Kandi's smile—proud, joyful, and full of possibilities.

Later, after the crowds had dispersed and the other contestants had packed up their pieces, I found Kandi still standing by her creation, studying those two miniature figures in the chocolate kitchen.

"Your work deserved to win," I said softly. "Personal history aside, it was extraordinary."

"Thank you." She touched one of the chocolate hearts gently, before turning to face me, and in her eyes I saw everything I'd been looking for all these years.

I reached up and brushed a smudge of gold luster dust from her cheek. Outside, snow began to fall again, adding magic to Valentine's Day in Kings Valley. Inside, we were surrounded by chocolate roses and tiny buildings and celebration.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Kandi," I whispered, and when I kissed her, she tasted like love.