Chapter 6
Travis
The storm has been raging for two days now, and I've watched Carina slowly relax into our strange little snow-globe world. She's stopped jumping when William enters a room, stopped apologizing for taking up space, stopped looking like she might bolt if given half a chance.
It's been fascinating to observe—and I'm always observing, always calculating the dynamics between people. It's what makes me good at my job, reading the subtle shifts in mood and momentum.
But tonight, something's different.
I find her in the library after dinner, curled up in one of the leather chairs with a book she doesn’t seem to be actually reading. The fire casts shadows across her face, and she's worrying her bottom lip between her teeth—a tell I've noticed she has when she's thinking too hard.
"Mind if I join you?" I ask from the doorway.
She looks up, startles slightly, then smiles. "Of course not. I was just... hiding, I guess."
"From Knox's enthusiasm or William's intensity?"
"Both?" She laughs softly. "Knox wants to teach me to paint tomorrow, and William's been reorganizing the spice rack because apparently my 'system lacks logic.'"
I settle into the chair across from her, noting how the firelight catches the gold in her hair. "For what it's worth, I think your spice organization makes perfect sense. Grouping by flavor profile rather than alphabetically is actually quite clever."
"You understand my system?"
"Warm spices together, herbs in their own section, salts and peppers accessible but separate. It's intuitive for someone who actually cooks."
She stares at me. "You cook?"
"Don't look so surprised. Someone had to feed Will through college. He would live on protein bars if left to their own devices."
"You went to college together?"
"Will and I did. Harvard. Knox is nine years younger than Will.
I spent enough holidays with the two of them to become the unofficial family chef.
" I pause, remembering those chaotic dinners, trying to juggle William's need for vegetables and Knox's teenage appetite.
"Their parents had just divorced. It was. .. a difficult time."
Carina sets down her book—a cookbook, I notice, because of course it is. "William mentioned something about that. How bad was it?"
I consider how much to share. It's not my story, but she deserves context for the dysfunction she's walked into.
"Imagine two people who hate each other more than they love their children, using those children as weapons.
Will was thirteen when it started, Knox only four.
They spent the next five years being shuttled between houses, between lawyers, between different versions of the truth. "
"God." Her voice is soft with sympathy. "That must have been awful."
"Will handled it by trying to control everything he could.
His grades, his schedule, his emotions. Knox went the opposite direction—if everything was chaos anyway, why not embrace it?
" I lean back, watching her process this information.
"I met Will freshman year when he was having a panic attack because he got an A- on an exam.
He thought it meant he was going to get kicked out of school. "
"And you helped him?"
"I told him he was being an idiot." I smile at the memory. "Then I made him eat an actual meal and get some sleep. We've been friends ever since."
"You take care of people," she observes. "That's your thing, isn't it? Making sure everyone's okay."
"Someone has to." But the way she says it, like she sees through my careful diplomacy to something deeper, makes me shift uncomfortably.
"So, who takes care of you?"
The question hangs between us. I could deflect, make a joke, change the subject. It's what I normally do. But something about her direct gaze, the genuine concern there, makes me want to be honest.
"I'm fine," I say automatically, then catch myself. "That's not true. I... I'm very good at being what people need. The mediator, the voice of reason, the steady one. It's easier than..."
"Than being yourself?"
"Than admitting I want things too." The words surprise me. "It's safer to manage everyone else's emotions than deal with my own."
She's quiet for a moment, then: "I understand that. My ex-husband..." She stops, takes a breath. "Sorry. I shouldn't—"
"You can tell me," I say gently. "If you want to. No pressure."
She looks into the fire, and I can see her gathering courage.
"Dylan. His name was Dylan. Is Dylan—he's not dead, just dead to me.
" A bitter laugh. "He was older, successful, charming.
I was fresh out of culinary school, working insane hours for terrible pay.
He swept me off my feet. Told me I was too good for restaurant work, that he wanted to take care of me. "
I stay silent, letting her find her own pace.
"It happened so gradually I didn't notice.
First, he didn't like my friends—they were 'negative influences.
' Then my family was 'too demanding.' Soon it was just us, and then it was just him, making every decision.
What I wore, what I ate, how I laughed." Her voice drops.
"He was very concerned about my weight. Said he was worried about my health, but really he just wanted control.
If I gained a pound, he'd sign me up for a new gym membership.
If I lost weight, he'd accuse me of trying to attract other men. "
My hands clench in my lap, but I keep my voice calm. "That's abuse, Carina."
"I know that now. Then, I thought I was lucky.
He was rich, handsome, never hit me. What did I have to complain about?
" She finally looks at me. "The divorce was my idea.
I found out about the debts he'd hidden, the credit cards in my name, the affairs.
Yes, plural. He'd been taking out credit cards in my name without telling me—I found out I owed almost fifty thousand dollars that I'd never spent.
He'd also been moving money to offshore accounts while giving me an 'allowance' for groceries, making me beg for money to buy ingredients for the meals he demanded. "
I try like hell to keep my voice as calm as I can. "That's financial abuse on top of everything else."
"The worst part was how he smiled when the lawyer explained I'd be responsible for half of all the debts—including the ones I didn't know about.
Like he'd won some sick game." Her voice drops.
"When I confronted him about the affairs and the money, he laughed.
Said no one would believe me, that I'd be nothing without him. "
"But you left anyway."
"I left with nothing. He was right about that part. Good lawyers are expensive, and he had the best." She wraps her arms around herself. "I'm sorry. You don't need to hear my sob story."
"Carina." I move without thinking, kneeling beside her chair so we're at eye level. "You survived. You got out. You're rebuilding your life. That takes incredible strength."
"I don't feel strong. I feel..." She gestures helplessly. "Broken. Like I don't know who I am anymore. For five years, I was Dylan's wife. Now I'm nobody."
"You're not nobody." I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and take her hand. "You're a brilliant chef. You're someone who takes care of others even when you're barely holding it together. You're funny and kind and brave enough to fly to Switzerland with three strangers for a job."
"Travis..." There are tears in her eyes now.
"You're also," I continue, "someone who deserves to be treated with respect and kindness and genuine care. What Dylan did to you was wrong. But it doesn't define you."
She squeezes my hand. "Why are you so good at saying the right thing?"
"Years of practice." I shift closer, still kneeling beside her chair. "But I mean every word. You're remarkable, Carina. And anyone who can't see that is an idiot."
She laughs softly. "Including your best friend who keeps reorganizing my kitchen?"
"Especially him. Though in his defense, I think the kitchen reorganizing is a displacement activity because he doesn't know how to handle wanting you."
Her eyes widen. "William doesn't—"
"Oh, he does. Knox is obvious about it, but Will? He's been slowly losing his mind since you walked into his kitchen." I brush my thumb over her knuckles. "And me? I've been trying very hard to maintain professional boundaries, but..."
"But?"
"But you make me want to stop being careful. Stop calculating the best response. Stop thinking and just... feel."
The air between us feels charged with possibility. She leans forward slightly, and I can smell her shampoo, something light and floral.
"Travis," she whispers. "I don't know if I'm ready for... anything. I'm still figuring out who I am."
"I know." I stay where I am, not pushing, but not pulling away. "There's no pressure. No expectations. Just... this. Whatever you want it to be."
She studies my face like she's looking for the catch, the trap. When she doesn't find one, her expression softens.
"You really mean that."
"I really do."
She leans down, closing the distance between us, and presses her lips to mine. It's soft, tentative, a question more than a statement. I answer by cupping her face gently, letting her set the pace, pouring all the things I can't say into the contact.
When she deepens the kiss, shifting in the chair to get closer, I nearly groan. She tastes like the wine we had with dinner. My free hand finds her waist, and I can feel her trembling slightly.
"Okay?" I murmur against her lips.
"More than okay." She pulls back to look at me, and what I see in her eyes makes my chest tight. Trust. Desire. Hope. "Can we... move to the couch? My neck is getting a crick."
I laugh, standing and offering her my hand. "So romantic."
"I warned you I was broken," she says, but she's smiling.
"Not broken," I correct, leading her to the couch. "Healing. There's a difference."