Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Declan
T he dinner service rush is winding down when I spot Jules Sinclair sitting alone at a corner table on the terrace, laptop open, face illuminated by the blue screen glow. The rest of her team dispersed an hour ago, some to the lodge bar, others to their rooms, but she's still working. No surprise there.
I finish wiping down my station and hand off the remaining cleanup to Georgia, my most reliable line cook.
"I'm taking fifteen," I tell her, untying my apron.
Georgia follows my gaze to the terrace and smirks. "Fifteen minutes with the corporate mom? Good luck with that."
"It's not like that," I protest, though even I don't find my denial convincing.
"Sure it's not." Georgia shoos me away. "Go rescue her from that spreadsheet before her brain explodes."
I grab two mugs of the spiced cider I've been simmering all afternoon and head toward the terrace.
The temperature has dropped with the sunset, and a gentle breeze carries the scent of pine and woodsmoke. Jules doesn't look up as I approach, her fingers flying over the keyboard with impressive speed. She's changed from her daytime business attire into what I assume passes for casual in her world—dark jeans and a soft-looking sweater that's probably cashmere, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back in its usual severe bun.
"Working overtime?" I ask, setting one of the mugs down beside her.
She startles slightly, looking up with momentary confusion before her professional mask slides back into place. "Catching up on emails." Her eyes narrow at the steaming mug. "What's this?"
"Callahan family cider. Non-alcoholic," I add, settling into the chair across from her without waiting for an invitation. "Lodge tradition for chilly evenings."
She glances at the mug skeptically but doesn't push it away. "Thank you, but I'm fine with water."
"Try it," I challenge gently. "One sip. If you hate it, I'll bring you water and never interrupt your email marathon again."
Her eyebrow arches in what I'm beginning to recognize as her signature expression of reluctant amusement. "Are you always this pushy with guests?"
"Only the ones who work through dinner while their seven-year-old asks at least ten times when they'll be finished."
That gets her attention. She checks her watch, looking momentarily guilty. "Is Mia still awake? I thought she'd be tired after all the activities today."
"She is, but she wanted to wait up for you. Mom finally convinced her to get ready for bed about twenty minutes ago. She's reading her a story in the library."
"Your mother doesn't need to do that," Jules says, closing her laptop with a decisive snap. "I should go get her."
"Relax." I hold up a placating hand. "Mia's fine. Mom loves storytime, and this gives you a few minutes to actually enjoy your surroundings." I gesture toward the stunning view of the mountains, outlined against the deepening twilight sky. "When's the last time you just sat still and looked at something beautiful?"
She looks like she's about to argue, then surprisingly, deflates slightly. "I honestly can't remember."
"Then you're overdue." I push the mug toward her again. "Cider first, parenting second."
She gives me a look that probably intimidates corporate boardrooms, but I just smile, unfazed. Finally, she picks up the mug and takes a cautious sip.
I watch her expression carefully, enjoying the moment her features soften with surprise. "This is actually good."
"Try not to sound so shocked," I laugh. "It's my grandmother's recipe. Apples, cinnamon, cloves, and a secret ingredient she'd haunt me for revealing."
Jules takes another sip, longer this time. "Let me guess. Star anise?"
I blink in surprise. "Most people guess nutmeg."
"Star anise has a distinct licorice note." She shrugs at my incredulous look. "I have a good palate."
"Hidden depths, Ms. Sinclair." I raise my mug in a small toast. "I'm impressed."
"Jules," she says suddenly. "If I'm drinking your family cider while you're babysitting my daughter, you might as well use my first name."
"Jules," I repeat, liking the way it feels. More approachable than the formal Ms. Sinclair. "And did Mia mention she's officially the favorite junior guest at Mountain Laurel Lodge? She dominated the scavenger hunt today."
A genuine smile breaks through Jules' reserve. "She mentioned it approximately fifty-seven times during dinner."
"Only fifty-seven? She must be slipping."
That earns me a small laugh, the sound surprisingly melodic. I find myself wanting to hear it again.
"She also mentioned you taught her how to identify edible berries," Jules continues, her tone more serious. "I hope that came with very clear warnings about not eating anything without adult supervision."
"Of course. Safety first, always." I hold up three fingers. "Scout's honor."
"Were you actually a Scout?"
"Two badges away from Eagle Scout, until I discovered girls and cooking were more interesting than knot-tying."
She laughs again, this time more freely, and I count it as a small victory. The breeze picks up, and she pulls her sweater tighter around her shoulders.
"Cold?" I ask.
"A little. I'm not used to mountain evenings."
"New York City doesn't prepare you for actual fresh air, huh?"
She gives me a curious look. "How did you know I'm from New York?"
"Mia mentioned it. She talks about your apartment and the park across the street."
"Central Park," Jules confirms. "My office is nearby, so the location is convenient."
"Convenient," I repeat, tasting the word. "Not beautiful or inspiring or peaceful. Convenient."
She straightens defensively. "There's nothing wrong with valuing efficiency."
"No, there isn't," I agree easily. "But there's also nothing wrong with occasionally valuing things that have no practical purpose whatsoever."
"Such as?"
I gesture toward the darkening mountains. "Such as sitting on a terrace watching the stars come out while drinking cider with a stranger."
Her eyes meet mine over the rim of her mug, and for a heartbeat, something electric passes between us. She's the first to look away.
"I should check on Mia." She starts gathering her things, but doesn't immediately stand.
"She's having the time of her life, you know," I say gently. "This place, these activities—it's good for her."
"It's hard to find the balance sometimes," Jules admits, surprising me with her candor. "Between being a CEO and being a mother. Between structure and whatever this is."
"Fun?" I suggest. "Spontaneity? Normal childhood experiences?"
She winces slightly. "That sounds more judgmental than you probably intended."
"You're right, I'm sorry." I lean forward, trying to convey my sincerity. "I didn't mean it like that. I've known Mia for all of two days, so I'm the last person who should be giving parenting advice."
"Yet somehow I sense you're about to."
I grin, caught. "Not advice. Just an observation. Mia lights up when she's creating things. In the kitchen, during craft time, even with those ridiculous blueberry pancake faces. She has this natural creativity that's pretty amazing to watch."
Jules is quiet for a moment, staring into her mug. "Her father is creative. Artistic. I always assumed she took after him."
"And you?"
"I'm practical. Organized. I make things work." She says this matter-of-factly, without self-pity.
"Those aren't mutually exclusive qualities, you know. You can be practical and creative."
"Says the chef who gets to play with food for a living."
"Hey now," I protest with mock offense. "I'll have you know I manage inventory, staff schedules, and food costs with ruthless efficiency. My spreadsheets would make your CFO weep with joy."
That brings her smile back. "Somehow I doubt that."
"Try me. I bet I could give your executive team a run for their money."
"While wearing an apron and covered in flour?"
"The flour is purely aesthetic. Adds to my rugged chef appeal."
The laugh that escapes her seems to catch her by surprise, like she wasn't planning to enjoy this conversation quite so much. The sound does something warm and dangerous to my insides.
Before she can retreat behind her professional facade again, I decide to push just a little further. "So what does Jules do when she's not being a CEO or a mom? What's your version of fun?"
She considers this for longer than should be necessary, which I find both sad and telling. "I swim," she finally says. "Three times a week, fifty laps. It clears my head."
"That sounds suspiciously like exercise disguised as recreation."
"It's relaxing," she insists.
"Fifty regimented laps? Let me guess. You count them precisely and track your times."
Her silence confirms my suspicion.
"When's the last time you did something with absolutely no productive value? Something just because it felt good in the moment?"
"Is this an interrogation?" But there's no real annoyance in her voice, just a hint of defensiveness.
"Think of it as market research. I'm developing a new product called 'Getting Jules Sinclair to Relax for Five Consecutive Minutes.'"
"That product would fail spectacularly in consumer testing," she says dryly.
"Challenge accepted." I drain the last of my cider and set the mug down with deliberate care. "Tomorrow, your team has that outdoor challenge thing, right?"
She nods, looking suddenly wary. "Team-building exercise. Orienteering and problem-solving in the woods. Why?"
"I'm one of the guides. Found out today that I'm covering for my brother Connor."
"You?"
"Try not to sound so alarmed. I grew up on these trails. Could navigate them blindfolded."
"I'm not concerned about your trail knowledge," she clarifies. "I'm just surprised you'd leave your kitchen."
"Even chefs get days off occasionally. Besides, we're pairing up guests with staff members. Safety precaution."
Jules narrows her eyes suspiciously. "And I suppose you've arranged to be paired with me?"
"I would never manipulate team-building exercises," I say with exaggerated innocence. "But if we happened to be partnered up, I might know a spot with a view that would actually get you to stop thinking about quarterly projections for five whole minutes."
"Bold assumption that I'd be interested in such a spot."
"Am I wrong?"
Our eyes lock again, the challenge hanging between us. For a moment, I think she might actually admit she's intrigued, but then voices approach from the main lodge, breaking the spell.
"There you are!" Mom calls, walking toward us with Mia in tow. My mother has her arm around Mia's shoulders, and they look like co-conspirators returning from some secret mission. "We were just coming to find you."
Mia, dressed in pajamas with damp hair from what I assume was a bath, rushes to Jules. "Mom! Miss Evie showed me how to make lavender sachets for under my pillow! She says they help you have good dreams."
"That sounds lovely," Jules says, her entire demeanor softening as she pulls Mia close. "Did you thank Ms. Callahan?"
"Oh, please call me Evie, everyone does," my mother insists, settling into one of the empty chairs like she's been part of the conversation all along. "And no thanks necessary. Mia is a delight."
"She helped me put together a packet for you too, Mom," Mia says proudly, holding up a small muslin sachet tied with purple ribbon. "So you don't have work dreams."
Jules accepts the sachet with surprising tenderness. "That's very thoughtful, sweetheart. Thank you."
"Mia told me you sometimes have trouble sleeping when you're thinking about work," Evie explains, her tone casual but her eyes sharp and assessing as they move between Jules and me. "Lavender can be very calming."
"I sleep fine," Jules says automatically, then catches herself. "But this is lovely. Thank you."
Mia yawns dramatically, leaning against Jules' side. "Can we go back to the room now? I'm tired."
"Of course." Jules stands, gathering her laptop and the lavender sachet. "Thank you both for... everything today."
"Our pleasure," Evie says warmly. "And don't forget, Mia's welcome to join tomorrow's activities as well. We're doing pottery in the morning and a nature hike in the afternoon."
"Actually," Jules says, hesitating slightly, "I received word that our replacement nanny won't arrive until Friday at the earliest. If you’re sure it would be okay for Mia to participate in the children's program tomorrow..."
"Absolutely," Evie confirms before Jules can even finish. "We'd love to have her."
"Yes!" Mia pumps her fist in a gesture that makes me grin. "Can I help with breakfast again first?"
Jules looks at me, a question in her eyes.
"Kitchen opens at 6 a.m.," I say. "Sous Chef Mia is welcome anytime after that."
"We'll see," Jules hedges, but her tone isn't entirely discouraging. "It depends on how well a certain young lady sleeps tonight."
"I'll sleep super good," Mia promises earnestly. "I won't even kick the covers off."
"We'll see," Jules repeats, but she's fighting a smile.
As they turn to leave, I call after them, "Don't forget about the outdoor challenge."
Jules glances back over her shoulder. "I'm never late, Declan."
"I'm counting on it," I reply, holding her gaze until she turns away.
Once they're out of earshot, my mother gives me a knowing look. "Well, that was interesting."
"What?"
"I've known you your entire life, Declan James Robert Callahan. I recognize that look."
"I don't have a look," I protest, gathering the empty cider mugs.
"You absolutely do. It's the same look your father had when he was trying to convince me to go on our first date."
"It's not like that," I say automatically, though the denial sounds weak even to my own ears.
"No?" Evie's eyes twinkle with amusement. "Then why did you suddenly volunteer to cover Connor's shift for the outdoor challenge? You haven't left your kitchen during a retreat in three years."
I shrug, trying for nonchalance. "Being helpful."
"Mmhmm." She pats my cheek affectionately. "Just remember, that woman carries her armor for a reason. If you're planning to get past it, be gentle."
"Mom, I'm not planning anything."
"Of course not." She stands, straightening her cardigan.