Chapter 15
Nate
Iunlocked the side door of the Pennywhistle and held it open for her, trying not to look as relieved as I felt.
We were going to do a chicken pot pie trial run.
It had been a few days since she agreed to enter the Taste-Off with me, and part of me worried she was going to show up and call the whole thing off.
Tilly and Lois were with my grandparents for the evening.
A few uninterrupted hours with Eliza sounded like heaven and trouble in equal measure.
The diner was dark except for the low glow over the counter, chrome catching the warm light.
It felt strangely still—like the Pennywhistle itself was holding its breath.
Then the side door opened, and she stepped inside, a small gust of cold trailing her like a scarf. She closed the door behind her, cheeks pink from the chill, eyes lifting to mine with something soft and searching.
“Hey,” she said, letting the warmth sink into her. “How is Tilly?”
I smiled—God, I loved that she asked first thing. “She’s perfect,” I said. “I just got a text. She already had cookies, started a movie, and convinced my grandma to braid her hair like Anna from Frozen.”
Eliza laughed, relaxing a degree. “I love that. Cute.”
Her gaze flicked up to mine again—warm, thoughtful, something deeper hidden just under the surface. “And you’re sure it’s okay I dragged you out for this?” she asked quietly. “After… everything?”
“Hey.” I shook my head. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
Color bloomed on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold.
She glanced around the empty diner—quiet booths, polished counter, the sound of the fridge in back. “It feels different in here after hours,” she murmured. “Like the place has secrets.”
“It does,” I said. “One of them is that it cooks better pot pies when it’s just the two of us.”
That startled a smile out of her—soft and reluctant, like she was letting herself fall inch by inch.
“Okay,” she said, setting her purse on the counter. “Let’s do this—mini chicken pot pies. No pressure trial run. No judging.”
“Zero judgment,” I promised. “Even if we burn something.”
She raised a brow. “We?”
“Fine. Even if I burn something.”
Her smile deepened, and the diner didn’t feel so still anymore.
“Okay,” she said, rubbing her hands together like she was psyching herself up.
“Zero judgment,” I promised. “But also, this is very serious business.”
She snorted. “You say that now.”
I watched her cross to the prep counter, pulling out ingredients like she already knew where everything lived—like she fit here. That did something to me. Something dangerous. Something I had no business feeling right now. She belonged here; I wanted it to be true.
I cleared my throat. “So, minis instead of full size?”
She nodded, grabbing an apron off a hook. “Mini is cuter. And strategic. People will try more booths if they can taste everything without exploding.”
“Spoken like a true professional,” I said, tying my own apron. “Plus, tiny food is scientifically proven to make people happy.”
“Is that a real study?”
“Yep. Harvard. Probably.”
She gave me a smile. A real one—small, soft, and gone too fast.
I kept my voice light. “Just tell me where you want me. I’ll be your sous chef. Ingredient runner. Emotional support vegetable chopper, anything you want.”
She stared at me for a beat. “You don’t have to tiptoe around me, you know.”
I swallowed. “I’m not tiptoeing.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, maybe I’m tiptoeing a little. I want to make sure you’re comfortable. With all of this.” I gestured between us, then grimaced. “The cooking. The contest. Not—I mean—”
“Not how it felt when we kissed?” she finished for me, voice too gentle to be teasing. “The way we started, then stopped, then started again. And now, here we are? With all the feelings we can’t deny?”
Heat slid up the back of my neck. “Only if you’re not comfortable with that part.”
She looked at the dough in her hands, the quiet softening in her shoulders giving her away before her voice did. “I was never uncomfortable with you. The problem has never been you, or how I feel about you.”
Something low in my chest loosened.
“Good,” I said quietly. “Because I don’t ever want you to feel pressured into anything. Not the Taste-Off. Not… us.” I inhaled a deep breath to steady myself. “If you need slow, we go slow.”
Her breath caught just enough that I noticed. “Nate…”
“Yeah?”
She shook her head like she was clearing fog. “Let’s just cook and let whatever happens, happen. Is that okay with you?”
“Cooking I can do,” I said, grateful for something to hold. “Cooking is safe. And Eliza?”
“Yeah?” she whispered.
“Anything else that comes up? You’re safe with me. I swear.”
“I know I am. That’s why I’m here.” She gave me a small, genuine smile, the kind that reached her eyes and made something inside me settle. We didn’t need to fill the silence; the comfort was in the steady togetherness, the wordless promise that we were both willing to try.
The air shifted between us. It felt like it did before she broke things off in that text.
She knew it. I knew it.
Neither of us said a word about it.
“Should we get started?” I asked, and she nodded.
The diner’s kitchen smelled faintly of maple syrup, and I think it would forever. I turned on the overhead lights, soft and warm, casting a golden glow over the counters and steel surfaces.
Eliza moved as if she belonged in a kitchen—rolling up her sleeves, pulling her hair back higher, tying on an apron. I watched her come alive again, hands working with practiced ease, shoulders relaxed.
I washed my hands at the deep metal sink, stealing a glance at her as she organized the bowls and measuring cups.
There was a comfortable rhythm to the kitchen, punctuated by the scrape of the cutting boards being slid onto the counter, the clink of a spoon against ceramic, and our quiet laughter echoing softly between the tiled walls.
The air was filled with anticipation, the kind that turns ordinary routines into something memorable.
It felt different with her here—brighter, like we’d conjured a little sanctuary from the world outside.
She set out the ingredients with a practiced ease, narrating each step as if teaching a secret ritual, and I found myself hanging on every word, eager to learn, eager to share in the quiet magic of this moment together.
I took a deep breath, trying to memorize the shape of her in this light, apron strings dangling, the soft hum of the fridge filling the silence.
For a second, the world outside faded away—the clatter of our preparation, the tension with Graham, even the storm brewing in my own head.
It was just us, the promise of something delicious, and the possibility of a new beginning.
I helped where I could—chopping herbs, slicing vegetables, trying not to stare too long.
We worked quietly for a bit. Our hands brushed once while we reached for the same mixing bowl. She didn’t pull away. Neither did I.
I caught her glancing up at me now and then, a smile tugging at her lips, as flour dusted her forearms and the scent of thyme rose in the air.
There was a wordless harmony in our movements—passing bowls, sharing the sink, laughing when the dough stuck to her fingers.
It was strangely intimate, all these small, ordinary acts stitched together, and I realized how much I wanted this moment to last.
“So,” I said, after a beat. “What made you agree to this? Not that I’m complaining.”
Her smile was quiet, but full of something stronger than words. “You did.”
I looked up.
“I just—” She shook her head. “Being around you is easy. And harder too.”
That made my heart trip. “Same.”
We finished up the mini pot pies—two of them—then slid them into the oven. She sat at the counter while they baked, sipping hot cocoa and waiting. She curled one leg up into the seat, her eyes flicking toward mine, then away.
“Nate?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing with you.”
I swallowed. “You don’t have to know. You don’t owe me anything.”
“I know,” she said, then smiled softly. “But I think I want to.” She watched me for a moment, then glanced around the kitchen like she was orienting herself again—the counters, the cooling ovens, the place that had become his.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, lighter this time. “About you. Before here.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Ask.”
“You were an attorney, right?” Her tone was curious, not prying. “That feels very… not this.”
I smiled a little at that, leaning back against the counter.
“It was fast. Constant. Long hours, high stakes. I liked it at first—felt good to be good at something that moved that quickly.” I paused, choosing my words.
“It was also what my parents expected. Success, momentum, the next rung before you’d even settled on the one you were standing on. ”
She nodded, absorbing that.
“But once Tilly came along,” I continued, quieter now, “everything sped up and slowed down at the same time. I didn’t want to miss things.
I didn’t want her growing up with a dad who was always on the phone, always somewhere else.
” I glanced around the kitchen again, the Pennywhistle humming softly around us.
“This felt like a way to choose her. To choose a life that actually left room.”
Her expression softened, something thoughtful settling in. She took a breath, like she was about to step into deeper water.
She was quiet for a moment, then looked up at me again. “Can I ask you something else?” Her eyes flicked to mine. “You can tell me it’s none of my business.”
“Ask,” I said. Whatever it was, I wanted to meet her there and tell her everything.
She hesitated, fingers worrying the edge of her cocoa mug. “Tilly’s mom,” she said softly. “Is she… around? Does she ever spend time with her? Only if you want to talk about it.”