Chapter Four #2
"Too corporate, too pretentious. They saw this as another line on their résumé, another stepping stone to the next big city restaurant.
They didn't care about the food or the community or what this place could become.
Just the salary and the prestige. The ego boost of saying they ran a resort restaurant. "
I paused, that familiar ache settling behind my ribs.
"This project matters because it's my last one.
My legacy. The place I'm going to die in, not just another property to flip for profit.
I spent twenty years developing resorts and hotels across the West, always moving to the next acquisition, the next development.
Never staying anywhere. Never actually creating something that mattered beyond quarterly earnings reports. "
Ruby's expression had softened slightly, the defensiveness giving way to something that looked like genuine attention.
"I was married for twelve years," I said quietly.
The words came harder now—they always did.
"Amanda. We met in our late twenties, both ambitious, both building careers in real estate development.
We wanted to build something together. Real partnership—not just business success, but a life. A family."
I scrubbed a hand over my jaw, felt the stubble rasp against my palm.
"We spent years trying for kids. Three miscarriages over four years.
Each one devastating. We'd see the heartbeat at eight weeks, start hoping, start planning—then lose it at ten weeks, twelve weeks.
The second time, Amanda was far enough along we'd told people. Had to untell them."
Ruby's eyes had gone bright with unshed tears.
"Then two rounds of IVF. The shots, the hormones, the hope building with every doctor's appointment.
Both failed. The doctors never found a clear medical reason—just 'unexplained infertility.
' Sometimes it just doesn't work." I looked down at my hands.
"She needed emotional support through all of it.
Someone who could stay present through the disappointment and keep trying. Keep hoping."
The ache in my chest intensified. "Instead, I shut down. Worked eighty-hour weeks. Threw myself into acquiring properties, developing them, flipping them. Told myself if I couldn't give her the family she wanted, I'd give her financial security instead. Built an empire while our marriage crumbled."
"We divorced ten years ago. Amicably, but it hurt like hell.
We both knew we still cared about each other—we just couldn't give each other what we needed anymore.
" I met Ruby's gaze directly. "She remarried within three years.
Nice guy, different industry, emotionally available in ways I never was.
Got pregnant naturally with him within the first year of their marriage.
Has two or three kids now—I lose track of their ages.
Lives happily in Denver with the family she always wanted. "
"I'm glad for her," I added quickly, meaning it.
"I am. She deserves that happiness. But it confirmed what I'd suspected all along—that I'd missed my window.
That window closes for men too, just differently.
Some people are meant to build empires. Some are meant to build families. I'm the first kind."
The admission hung in the air between us like the snow falling outside—visible, tangible, impossible to ignore.
"I've spent ten years alone," I said. "Telling myself I was fine with that. That partnership wasn't in the cards for me anymore. That ship had sailed and I'd missed it. That I'd focus on business, on making money, on building things I could control. And it was enough. It had to be enough."
I gestured around the kitchen—at the copper gleaming, at the empty dining room beyond, at all this potential waiting to be realized.
"Then I bought this place. Started developing it.
And somewhere in the process, I realized—money isn't enough.
Success isn't enough. Buildings and quarterly profits aren't enough.
I don't want to die having constructed a real estate empire but nothing that actually mattered.
Nothing with soul. Nothing that outlasts me in any meaningful way. "
Ruby's eyes were bright now—definitely tears threatening, though she was fighting them.
"This kitchen needs someone who truly cares," I said.
"Who has both the skill and the heart. Someone who understands that food isn't just fuel—it's connection, community, memory.
It's how we show love and bring people together.
How we mark celebrations and comfort grief. How we turn a building into a home."
I studied her face—the shock, the longing, the fear all warring there in real time. Watching how she'd explored this space like it was sacred ground. Seeing how her eyes had lit up when she'd touched that copper. Recognizing the passion beneath all her defenses.
She was exactly what I'd been searching for. What this place needed.
What I needed.
The words formed before I'd consciously decided to say them. But watching her here, in this space, seeing how she belonged in it more than anyone I'd interviewed...
"I've been waiting months for someone who gets it," I said.
"That's you, Ruby. When you made those strawberries last night and just now in this kitchen, I saw more genuine passion for food than I saw in months of interviewing Michelin-starred candidates.
You care about it. Really care. That's what this place needs. "
The longing on her face was so raw it made something twist behind my ribs.
"Executive chef position," I said, committing fully.
"Profit-sharing, not just employee wages.
Real partnership—you'd own a stake in this.
Creative control over menu and vision. That dining room through there?
Your space to design and fill however you want.
Source ingredients from wherever you choose.
Create the food you've always wanted to make.
This kitchen, this restaurant—it could be everything you trained for. Everything you deserve."
Her hand flew to her mouth. She stared at me like I'd just offered her the world—or maybe like I'd just trapped her in a nightmare she couldn't escape.
"You don't even know me," she said, her voice shaking. "Why would you offer me this? Because you feel sorry for the girl with the food truck? Because you want something from me?"
The accusation stung deeper than it should have.
"No. Because you're talented. Because you care about food the way I care about buildings—like it matters beyond just the transaction.
Because of what I've seen from you this weekend—the skill, the passion, the way you come alive when you're working with food. "
"You don't know anything about me," she repeated, and there was desperation in her tone now. Real panic rising. "You don't know where I came from or what I want or why I—"
"Then tell me!" My frustration broke through again. "Tell me why you hate me so much, because you clearly do. What did I do to earn this much anger?"
"You didn't do anything!" She was backing toward the door now, toward escape. "That's not— I can't— This was a mistake."
"What was? The weekend? This conversation? This offer? Which part was the mistake?"
"All of it!" Her voice cracked completely. "I shouldn't be here. I should never have bid on you. I should never have—"
She cut herself off, looking horrified at what she'd almost said.
"Should never have what?" I moved toward her, confusion and frustration tangling together. "Ruby, what am I missing here?"
"Everything!" Her voice cracked. "I spent everything to be here, Gil. Every penny. Eight hundred forty-seven dollars. That was my rent money, my food truck supplies for next week, everything I had. And I did it to—" She cut herself off, hand over her mouth.
"You're completely broke?" The words came out stunned. "You have nothing left?"
Fear and shame flooded her face before she looked away—couldn't meet my eyes.
"Ruby, why would you do that? Were you in trouble? Did you need—"
"Stop!" The word came out almost as a sob. "Just stop trying to fix me or save me or whatever you think you're doing. You don't know what you're offering. You don't know who I—"
She cut herself off again, hand over her mouth, eyes wide with horror at what she'd almost revealed.
"Who you what?" I asked quietly. "Who are you, Ruby?"
She shook her head violently, tears finally spilling over. Then she turned and ran.
Out of the kitchen, down the hallway, footsteps echoing through the empty lobby.
I stood there frozen for a moment, trying to process what had just happened.
I'd offered her her dream job—I'd seen how badly she'd wanted it in that moment when her whole face had transformed, when she'd touched that copper like it was precious.
And she'd panicked and fled like I'd threatened her life instead of offering her a future.
Why? What the hell was I missing?
I locked the kitchen behind me and followed her out into the snow.
FULL DARK HAD FALLEN. I found her on the hot tub deck behind my cabin, standing in her coat with snow collecting in her hair. Crying.
The sight hit me like a punch to the sternum. She looked small and lost and genuinely shattered.
"Ruby." I approached slowly, my boots crunching on fresh snow. "Talk to me."
"Leave me alone." Her voice was raw, wrecked.
"No." I stepped closer. "Not until you tell me what's really going on. Why you're running."
She whirled on me, tears streaming down her face. "You! I'm scared of you!"
"I would never hurt you—"
"That's not what I mean!" She was shouting now, her words breaking apart. "I'm scared because I don't want to want you! I don't want to feel this! I hate you for making me feel this!"
The words hit like physical blows. But underneath the anger, I heard something else—fear, confusion, and something that sounded almost like grief.
"Ruby—"
"Don't." She held up both hands, backing away from me. Snow crunched under her boots. "Just don't. I can't do this. I can't be here. Tomorrow at the festival finale, we'll show up together like Evelyn expects, and then this is over. Done."
"That's it? That's your solution? Run away and pretend this never happened?"
"What else am I supposed to do?" Her voice cracked completely. "You're offering me everything I want and I can't take it. I can't be your partner. I can't work for you. I can't—" Her breath hitched. "I can't keep pretending this is something it's not."
"What is it then?" I demanded. "What is this to you? Because it sure as hell isn't nothing, no matter how many times you try to convince yourself otherwise."
She wrapped her arms tight around herself, trembling—from cold or emotion, I couldn't tell anymore.
"I'm going inside," she said, her tone hollow and defeated. "Guest room. We'll get through tomorrow and then we're done."
She walked past me toward the cabin, and everything in me wanted to reach for her. To pull her back. To physically stop her from running away from something that could be extraordinary if she'd just let it.
But I didn't.
Because forcing her wouldn't work. Because she had to choose this—choose me—on her own terms.
I stood in the falling snow, watching her disappear into the cabin. Saw the guest room light click on a minute later. Saw her shadow move past the window.
Tomorrow was Sunday. The festival finale. We'd have to stand together in front of the whole town and pretend this weekend had been a success story instead of whatever this was.
Then it would be over.
The thought settled like a stone behind my ribs—cold and heavy.
Inside, I stripped off my coat and stood by the dying fire. Added wood mechanically, watching flames catch and build. The cabin was too quiet. Too empty despite Ruby being down the hall behind a closed door.
I could see the strip of light under it.
Not locked. Just like last night.
But tonight I knew better. Patience wasn't the problem.
The problem was something she was hiding. Something that had her so terrified she'd rather destroy this—destroy us—than risk being honest.
And until she was ready to face that, ready to trust me with whatever truth she was carrying...
We were done.
I went to my room, closed the door firmly, and lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, everything would break.