Chapter 11
MEGHAN
S leep didn’t stand a chance.
I’d tried—twice. First, with chamomile tea and a thirty-minute meditation app that promised to lull me into a delta wave coma.
Then again, with a lavender balm I rubbed onto every pulse point like I was preparing for battle.
But my mind was moving too fast. Thoughts layered over thoughts, ideas sparking off each other like static on silk.
It was nearly two a.m. The house was dark, the silence heavy.
But I was lit from the inside—buzzing with concepts, plating variations, flavor combinations I couldn’t shake.
I’d even sketched out a new tasting menu, half-dressed and barefoot at the kitchen counter, using a pencil I found wedged behind a wine rack.
A single sentence played on a loop in my head: Make them whisper your name .
I wanted the dishes to be poetry. No—not just poetry. A dare. A provocation. Each course a story. Each bite a secret. Something that demanded reverence but didn’t beg for it. Something worthy of myth.
I lit a candle on the counter. Just one. The flicker gave the space a hush of intimacy, like the kitchen itself was holding its breath. My sketchpad was open next to a small stack of culinary journals I’d pulled for reference. I wasn’t copying. I was connecting dots.
Venison with a bone marrow jus. Compressed melon with black olive crumble and elderflower foam. That damn halibut—charcoal-seared, just as I’d imagined it, but served on a ceramic dish warmed to body temperature so it felt alive when it hit the table.
I scribbled down synesthesia + sex = story in the margin.
Something about the darkness made it easier to think. There were no distractions. No tickets firing from the expo printer. No voices calling for Chef. No playlist humming over the speakers. Just me. My kitchen. My obsessions.
And one note on my desk that still hadn’t moved.
I glanced toward the office.
It wasn’t threatening, I was sure of that.
But it wasn’t innocent either. It had weight.
Intent. Something about the handwriting—clean, deliberate, almost elegant—refused to leave me alone.
It was the kind of penmanship you only saw on thank-you notes from old-money families or CIA recruitment letters. Both had an air of power.
My stomach fluttered.
Not because I was scared.
Because I wanted it to mean something.
I wanted to be seen.
Not in the influencer way. Not with a ring light or a photo shoot or a stack of gift cards from a sponsorship deal. I wanted to be recognized. I wanted someone to look at what I’d built and say: Yes. This is it. This is what we’ve been waiting for .
I pushed my hair up into a messy knot and paced the length of the kitchen. The tile was cold under my feet, but I liked it that way. Reminded me I was still grounded.
I should’ve felt exhausted. My body had been on its feet since before sunrise. I’d overseen every prep, every plate, every whisper of garnish. And yet—I was vibrating.
Finn would’ve told me to sleep.
Or better yet, poured me a glass of something golden and coaxed me to the porch with a half-smile.
The thought made me pause.
Finn had been quieter lately. Or maybe I’d just been louder, too focused to hear the spaces between his sentences.
I’d always loved that about him—his ability to hover at the edge of my world without trying to change it.
But lately, he’d been watching me closer.
More often. I felt it even when he wasn’t in the room.
And tonight, when he’d met Caleb, I’d caught something in his expression. Something protective.
He was trying not to say something.
I wasn’t ready to ask.
Instead, I stared at the candle. The flame shivered slightly, pulling my attention.
I thought about the man near the benches.
What if he was someone?
An inspector. A scout. A critic with a thing for shadows and silence.
Or maybe he was something else entirely.
If I couldn’t sleep, I might as well build.
I opened the fridge and started pulling ingredients. Pickled ramps. Duck fat. Local goat’s milk. The last of the fig preserves. I grabbed a shallow bowl, plated without thinking, moving on instinct.
Salted fig butter at the base. Goat’s milk panna cotta, just barely set. Shaved ramp petals on top. I hit it with citrus zest and finished with a brushstroke of duck fat along the rim.
It was strange. Unexpected.
I wanted it to make someone pause.
I grabbed a spoon and tasted. It needed something—acid, maybe. Or a whisper of heat.
I opened the spice cabinet, brushing past cumin and fennel until I found it: Aleppo pepper.
One pinch. No more.
I tried again.
Better.
I jotted a note beside the dish: startle, don’t shock. wake the palate slowly. seduce, then slap .
I laughed under my breath.
It was perverse, really—the way this work consumed me. The way I’d let it shape every hour of my life. But it was the only thing that made me feel like me.
The candle burned lower.
I plated again.
And again.
The dishes weren’t for the menu. Not yet. Maybe never. They were for me. For the Guide. For whoever had written that note. For the parts of me that still believed in magic.
Sometime after five, the birds started their early chorus. I could hear them outside the window, chirping into the indigo sky. The city hadn’t stirred yet, but the harbor would be stirring soon. Boats creaking. Water lapping. Engines roaring to life.
I rubbed the heel of my palm against my sternum, trying to soothe the ache there. It wasn’t pain. Not exactly. It was need. Hunger. The kind that didn’t go away with food or sleep or touch.
The kind you build empires around.
My notebook was nearly full. The last page was curled at the corner, stained with a drop of sauce I hadn’t noticed. I flipped it and stared at the blank back cover like it could offer a sign.
Nothing came.
Just the burn in my chest.
The craving for more.
And the memory of a man who didn’t flinch.
Caleb.
His name slid into my thoughts uninvited, but not unwelcome. Just there—like it had been waiting, like it had always been part of the mix.
I closed my eyes, pressing the tips of my fingers to the edge of the counter.
God, last night.
The way he’d looked at me. Like he wasn’t asking permission, but offering the illusion of it, anyway. Like I was prey—but revered, not hunted. Like he knew exactly what to do with a woman like me and wasn’t the least bit intimidated by what that required.
Most men flinched. Eventually. They got excited, sure. Enthralled, even. I’d been called intimidating more times than I could count, usually in bed or in arguments or right after I’d rejected some half-baked idea they thought would make the restaurant “trendier.”
But Caleb?
He hadn't flinched at all.
He’d touched me like I was the one who needed softening. Like there was something inside me worth coaxing out—not conquering. Like I was already molten under the surface, and he just had to find the crack.
And he had. Fast.
The sex had been hot, yes. Intense, hungry. But there was something else, too—something in the way he looked at me when I came apart. He hadn’t just watched. He’d studied. Like he wanted to remember every twitch, every gasp, every hesitation.
And when I mentioned the Danes?
His expression had shifted for a second. Just a flicker. Surprise, maybe. Intrigue. I’d almost missed it, but it had been there.
I slid into one of the stools at the counter and pulled my notebook toward me again, pretending to read through my scrawl. But my thoughts kept drifting.
What was it about him?
He wasn’t just a fling. Or rather—he was, but not only. There was something about him that had seeped into me, low and warm and pulsing just under the skin. Something I couldn’t quite name.
And then I realized it.
He’d made me want more.
Not of him, necessarily. But of everything. More brilliance. More courage. More flavor, more risk. Since he’d touched me, my senses had been dialed up like a stereo on full blast. I couldn’t stop thinking, couldn’t stop building, couldn’t stop craving.
He’d become a muse.
And that scared the hell out of me.
Because muses left. Or they changed. Or they demanded too much in return.
I wasn’t a woman who let herself be distracted. Not by pleasure. Not by praise. Not even by desire. I was focused, driven. I’d sacrificed everything for this place. This dream. The star.
And yet …
I reached for my phone.
I didn’t open my contacts. Not yet. Just held it in my hand, the weight of it too deliberate to ignore.
What would I even say?
Hey, remember me? The woman you fucked?
I opened my texts and scrolled to his name.
It stared back at me. Caleb Dane.
Even his name looked too sharp for my screen.
I hovered over the keyboard, fingers still.
What was I even hoping for? A repeat? A distraction? Or something deeper?
I didn’t want deep.
I couldn’t.
Still, the thought of him had lit a fuse inside me. His mouth, his hands.
I thought of his mouth on my neck. The heat in his eyes. The strength in his body—not just physical, but something in his stillness. His control.
God, that control.
I pressed my thighs together and exhaled, eyes fluttering shut.
This was ridiculous.
I was a grown woman. A business owner. I had a full prep list for today and a lunch service I’d foolishly agreed to test out on Saturdays.
I did not have time to obsess over a man who may or may not be able to serve as emotional bedrock or fuck me into clarity again.
Still …
I tapped a single line into the message field.
Are you awake?
I stared at it for a full minute before I deleted it.
Too casual.
I tried again.
Dinner’s on me next time. If you’re not afraid to let me cook with you watching.
Delete.
Too suggestive.
Too much power handed over on a silver plate.
Finally, I typed:
Last night left me with more ideas than I know what to do with. Wouldn’t hate seeing you again. When are you free?
I read it three times.
Then hit send.
No emoji. Just clean. Direct. Like I wasn’t flailing inside.
I set the phone down and walked away from it.
Across the kitchen. Through the house. I even walked a lap around the courtyard, barefoot on the stone path, pretending I wasn’t waiting.
But I was.
When I came back inside, the screen was lit.
Tomorrow night? I want to see what else you’ve got.
I smiled.
Wide. Stupid. The kind of smile I hadn’t let myself feel in months.
Maybe longer.
I typed back:
Bring an appetite.
Then blew out the candle, closed my notebook, and finally—finally—headed to bed.
Sleep still didn’t come easy.
But at least now, I wasn’t buzzing from pressure.
I was buzzing from possibility.
From want.
And from the warm hum of a man who probably had no idea what he’d just signed up for.