Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Declan
T he woman following my mother into the kitchen looks like she walked straight out of a corporate magazine cover. Crisp linen blouse, tailored pants, not a single strand of her dark hair out of place in its sleek bun. Everything about her screams "I'm in charge and I know it."
The little girl holding her hand is a different story entirely. Curly hair escaping from a messy ponytail, bright eyes darting everywhere, and the unmistakable energy of a kid who'd rather be doing literally anything else than following her mom around a business retreat.
"This is the main kitchen," I explain, gesturing to my domain with a touch of pride. "That's the prep area, cold storage is through there, and the staff lounge is just around that corner."
Jules Sinclair nods, her eyes scanning every inch of the space with the focus of someone conducting a military inspection. I've seen that look before from high-powered guests, usually right before they demand special accommodations for their gluten-free-vegan-no-nightshade diet.
"It's very clean," she says, which I take as corporate-speak for approval.
"Health department seems to think so too." I wink at Mia, who giggles. "Want to see where the cookie magic happens?"
"Yes!" Mia bounces on her toes, reminding me of my cousin Jameson's hyperactive golden retriever.
I lead them to the large center island where I've already laid out ingredients for the day's baking. "This is command central. All the most important kitchen decisions happen right here."
"Like what kind of cookies to make?" Mia asks, her eyes wide.
"Exactly. Critical business decisions."
Jules checks her watch, her third time since entering the kitchen. "The Pine Room is down the hall from here?"
"First door on the right past the main dining area," I confirm. "About a two-minute walk."
She hesitates, and I see the internal battle playing out across her face. She doesn't know me, doesn't trust easily, and is clearly used to controlling every aspect of her environment. Leaving her daughter with a stranger isn't in her playbook.
"Ms. Sinclair," I say, dropping the casual tone, "I understand your hesitation. If it helps, I've worked here my entire life. My mother runs this place, my brothers and cousins all work here, and half the town knows me. I'm pretty much the least threatening person in Elk Ridge." I gesture toward the large windows that look out onto the dining area. "Plus, we're in full view of the staff and any guests who come through."
Her shoulders relax slightly, but her expression remains guarded. "Mia has strict dietary restrictions. No excessive sugar, no artificial colors or flavors, limited gluten."
I bite back a smile. Of course her kid has dietary restrictions.
"Fresh, whole ingredients only in my kitchen," I assure her. "Farm to table is kind of my thing."
"And no running in the kitchen," she continues, turning to Mia. "No touching anything hot, no wandering off, and you listen to Mr. Callahan."
"Declan," I correct her gently. "Mr. Callahan is my dad, and he's been gone for eight years."
Something flickers across her face—recognition, maybe even a hint of sympathy—before the professional mask returns.
"Declan," she repeats, the name sounding oddly formal in her clipped tone. "I'll be back to check on her during the break."
"We'll be fine," I say with more confidence than I probably should have. I've never actually watched someone's kid before, but how hard can it be?
"Mia, be good," Jules says, giving her daughter's hand a squeeze. "Remember, we're guests here."
"I promise, Mommy."
With one last scrutinizing look at me, Jules Sinclair turns on her heel and walks out, leaving behind the faint scent of expensive perfume and the weight of sky-high expectations.
"Does your mom always walk that fast?" I ask Mia once Jules disappears down the hallway.
Mia nods solemnly. "She says efficient walking saves approximately twenty-seven minutes per day."
I can't help but laugh. "She's calculated it?"
"Mom calculates everything." Mia peers into the bowl of chocolate chips. "Can I have one?"
"Quality control is an essential part of the baking process." I slide the bowl toward her. "Just don't tell your mom I corrupted you with contraband chocolate."
She giggles, popping a chocolate chip in her mouth with the delighted secrecy of someone getting away with a major heist. "So what do we do first?"
"First, we wash our hands," I say, guiding her to the sink. "Then I'll get you set up with the most important job."
After helping her roll up her sleeves and wash her hands (which she does with surprising thoroughness for a kid her age), I grab a clean apron from the rack.
"This might be a bit big," I warn, looping it over her head. The bottom edge pools around her feet like a fancy dress.
"I look like a real chef!" She twirls, nearly tripping over the excess fabric.
"Hold on." I grab a clean kitchen towel and fold it into a makeshift belt, cinching the apron around her waist so she won't trip. "There. Now you're officially my sous chef for the day."
"What's a soo chef?"
"Sous chef. It means you're second in command. The most important person in the kitchen after the head chef." I tap her nose lightly. "That's you."
Her face lights up with pride, and for a moment, I see Jules in her smile—not the tightly controlled businesswoman who just left, but something warmer hidden underneath.
"Now, let's get started on these cookies. Your mom's team is going to need brain food for all those important business discussions."
As we measure ingredients, I keep the conversation flowing, partly to make Mia comfortable and partly because kitchens shouldn't be quiet places.
"So what does your mom do at her company?" I ask, helping her level off a cup of flour.
"She's the boss of everything." Mia says this with matter-of-fact pride. "She makes decisions and tells people what to do and has meetings all day long."
"Sounds busy."
"Super busy. Sometimes she works on her computer until it's dark outside, and then it gets light again, and she's still working."
That explains the permanent furrow between Jules Sinclair's eyebrows. "What about you? What do you like to do when you're not being a world-class sous chef?"
"I like drawing and reading and playing outside." She carefully cracks an egg against the bowl, her tongue poking out in concentration. "But Mom says I have to do educational activities most of the time."
"Educational activities, huh? Well, baking is educational." I hand her a whisk. "You're learning measurement, chemistry, and patience all at once."
"Really?" Her eyes widen.
"Absolutely. Plus, you get cookies at the end, which makes it superior to most school subjects."
She laughs, and I realize I'm genuinely enjoying myself. There's something refreshing about Mia's presence in my kitchen. It’s a change from routine I didn't know I needed.
"Is your mom married? Besides to her job, I mean," I ask, trying to sound casual as I preheat the oven.
"Nope. It's just me and Mom." Mia focuses intently on whisking. "And Claire, our nanny. But she's with her mom at the hospital."
"That must be tough," I say carefully. "Just the three of you."
Mia shrugs with the resilience of childhood. "Mom says we're self-sufficient."
Self-sufficient. Such an adult word from such a small person.
"What about your dad?" I venture, then immediately regret it when her face falls slightly.
"He lives in California with his new wife and their baby. I visit on school breaks sometimes." She pokes at the dough. "He's really busy too."
"Well, his loss," I say lightly, redirecting her attention to the cookie dough. "Now for the most important part. How many chocolate chips do we add?"
"All of them!" Her sadness vanishes instantly.
"That's my kind of baking philosophy."
We fall into an easy rhythm, scooping cookie dough onto baking sheets, laughing when I pretend to be outraged that she's stealing more chocolate chips. The morning passes quickly, and before I know it, we've produced four dozen perfectly golden cookies, filled the bread baskets for lunch, and prepped the salad station.
"You're a natural," I tell her as she carefully arranges cookies on a serving platter. "I might have to hire you permanently."
"Really?" Her face glows at the compliment.
"Absolutely. Best sous chef I've ever had."
A movement at the kitchen entrance catches my eye. Jules Sinclair stands there, watching us with an unreadable expression. How long has she been there? Her meeting must be on break.
"Mommy!" Mia rushes toward her, proudly displaying her flour-dusted apron. "I'm a sous chef! That means I'm second in command of the whole kitchen!"
Jules smiles. A real smile that transforms her face completely. For a moment, I glimpse the woman beneath the polished executive exterior, and my heart does an unexpected flip.
"I see that." She brushes flour from Mia's cheek. "Are you behaving yourself?"
"She's been incredible," I chime in, wiping my hands on a towel as I approach. "A total natural in the kitchen."
"We made cookies with whole ingredients," Mia announces proudly. "It's educational because it teaches chemistry and patience!"
Jules raises an eyebrow at me, but there's a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Chemistry and patience, huh?"
"And math," I add with a straight face. "She's practically done a semester's worth of fractions this morning."
"Is that right?" Jules kneels down to Mia's level. "Are you having fun?"
Mia nods enthusiastically. "Can I stay with Declan for the rest of the day? Please?"
Jules glances up at me, hesitation clear in her expression.
"Your meeting runs until five, right?" I offer. "Mia can help me prep dinner, and then maybe join you for the actual meal?"
"I don't want to impose..." Jules begins, but her voice lacks conviction.
"It's not an imposition. Honestly, she's making my day more interesting." I smile at Mia. "Plus, I need someone to teach me about educational activities. Apparently, I've been wasting my time cooking for fun."
That earns me another glimpse of her real smile, brief but stunning.
"Alright," she concedes. "But only because I don't have alternatives at the moment." She turns to Mia. "Remember the rules, okay? And I'll come check on you whenever we take breaks."
"I promise," Mia says solemnly, then rubs her hands together. "Can we make more cookies?"
"After we prep the actual food," I remind her. "Cookies are dessert, remember?"
Jules straightens, brushing imaginary wrinkles from her blouse. "I should get back. The team is waiting."
"We've got this," I assure her. "Go run the world."
She looks at me for a moment, something unspoken passing between us, before nodding briskly and turning to go.
"Oh, and Ms. Sinclair?" I call after her. "There might be a plate of educational cookies in the conference room when you get back."
She pauses, glancing over her shoulder. "Thank you," she says simply, but I catch the flash of real gratitude in her eyes before she slips away.
After she leaves, Mia tugs on my apron. "Mom never lets me bake at home."
"No? Why not?"
"She says it's too messy and inefficient. And we don't have time for inefficient activities."
I look down at this little girl, so hungry for creative freedom and simple joys, and feel something protective stir in my chest.
"Well, you're in my kitchen now," I tell her, ruffling her hair lightly. "And here, messy and inefficient are my middle names."
"Really?"
"No, they're actually James and Robert. But don't tell anyone."
Her laughter echoes through the kitchen, bright and uninhibited, and I catch myself wondering what it would take to make her mother laugh like that too.