Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Declan
T hree dozen blueberry muffins, two quiches, and a mountain of hash browns later, I'm still watching the dining room entrance. It's 8:47 a.m., and Jules Sinclair is officially avoiding me.
I know this because I've seen every member of her executive team come through for breakfast. Some twice. I know this because Mia appeared at 7:15, escorted by an assistant who explained that "Ms. Sinclair had an early conference call" and would "grab something later."
I know this because the kiss we shared on that footbridge has been replaying in my mind on endless loop, along with her hasty retreat afterward.
"You're burning the bacon," Georgia comments, nudging me aside to rescue the smoking pan. "That's the second batch this morning. What's up with you?"
"Nothing. Just distracted."
"Uh-huh." She gives me a knowing look. "Wouldn't have anything to do with a certain CEO who's suddenly taking breakfast in her room, would it?"
I don't answer, focusing instead on the fresh batch of bacon I've started. Georgia, mercifully, drops the subject and moves on to plating orders.
When the breakfast rush finally slows, I take a tray of fresh pastries to the conference rooms, ostensibly to restock the refreshment table. Purely professional. Definitely not hoping to run into Jules.
But the Pine Room, where her team has been meeting, is empty except for a lone staff member collecting coffee cups.
"They moved to the outdoor deck for morning sessions," she informs me when I ask. "Something about 'taking advantage of the inspirational mountain setting.'"
The deck, of course. As far from the kitchen as possible while still on lodge property.
By lunchtime, I'm torn between frustration and a grudging admiration for Jules' tactical avoidance skills. The lunch buffet is set up in the main dining room, but she arrives late, fills a plate quickly, and retreats to a table surrounded by her team before I can even step out of the kitchen.
I catch only a glimpse. Jules has her hair pulled back in its usual sleek style. Her posture is perfect, her focus entirely on whatever her CFO is saying. If not for the slight tension around her eyes when she glances toward the kitchen, I might believe yesterday never happened.
"Declan!" Mia's voice breaks through my thoughts as she appears at the kitchen entrance, her designated sous chef apron tied around her waist. "I finished my lunch! Can I help?"
I can't help but smile at her enthusiasm. "Perfect timing. We're making apple turnovers for the afternoon break."
She skips into the kitchen, climbing onto her step stool with practiced ease. We fall into a comfortable rhythm—me slicing apples, her measuring spices for the filling.
After a few minutes of happy chatter about her morning art class, she asks suddenly, "Are you coming to visit us in New York?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"After we go home," she clarifies, carefully adding cinnamon to our mixture. "Mom said maybe we could come back here sometime, but I thought maybe you could visit us too."
Something tightens in my chest. "Did she really say you could come back?"
Mia nods enthusiastically. "Last night. I asked if we could stay longer, and she said no because of school and work, but that we could discuss visiting again."
"That's something." More than I expected after the way she fled yesterday.
"So will you?" Mia persists. "Visit us, I mean. You could see our apartment and Central Park and I could show you my school."
I focus on crimping the edges of a turnover, buying time. "New York is pretty far from here, kid. And I have the lodge kitchen to run."
"But you get days off, right?" Her logic is relentless. "Mom says everyone needs occasional work-life balance."
I nearly laugh at the irony of Jules Sinclair preaching the concept. "She said that, huh?"
"Well, she says it, but Zoe says she doesn't practice it." Mia leans in conspiratorially. "That means she doesn't actually do it herself."
"I figured." I hand her a pastry brush for the egg wash. "Listen, Mia, New York is complicated for me right now. But I'm really glad we got to be kitchen buddies this week."
Her face falls slightly. "You don't want to visit us?"
"It's not that," I say carefully. "Sometimes adults have complicated situations."
"Because you kissed my mom?"
I nearly drop the baking sheet. "What?"
Mia sighs with the exaggerated patience of the very young explaining something to the very dense. "I saw you yesterday. On the bridge. When Mom was coming back from being lost."
I set down the pastry tools, giving her my full attention. "Mia, what exactly did you see?"
"You and Mom were holding hands on the bridge, and then you kissed her." She states this like she's reporting the weather. "And then Mom got that scared look she gets when unexpected things happen, and she walked away really fast."
"You're very observant," I manage, mind racing. "Does your mom know you saw?"
She shakes her head. "I was with Evie, looking for Mom because she was late. We were by the big tree at the edge of the property." She tilts her head. "Are you and Mom going to be boyfriend and girlfriend now?"
The question would be funny if it weren't so painfully complicated. "I don't think so, kiddo."
"Why not? Don't you like her?"
"I like her very much," I admit. "But your mom has her life in New York, and mine is here."
"People can move," she points out with impeccable seven-year-old logic. "Or visit a lot."
"It's not that simple."
"Grown-ups always say that," she grumbles, focusing intently on brushing egg wash over her turnovers. "But sometimes I think they make things complicated when they don't have to be."
Out of the mouths of babes.
We finish the turnovers in companionable silence, sliding them into the oven just as the dining room doors open. I look up automatically, and there she is—Jules, standing frozen in the doorway, clearly having intended to check on Mia but not expecting to find me here as well.
Our eyes meet across the room, and for a brief moment, I see a flash of something unguarded in her expression. Then the professional mask slides back into place.
"Mia, it's time for the afternoon activities," she calls, not crossing the threshold into the kitchen.
"But our turnovers aren't done baking!" Mia protests.
"Georgia will make sure they come out perfectly," I assure her, gently untying her apron. "You can check on them later."
Mia gives me a quick hug before skipping over to her mother. "Mom, I asked Declan if he could visit us in New York!"
Jules pales visibly. "Mia, that's not?—"
"It's okay," I interrupt, saving her from having to respond. "I explained that I need to stay here and run the kitchen."
Relief flickers across her face. "Yes, of course. We all have our responsibilities."
"Exactly." I hold her gaze, willing her to see past her fear. "Though sometimes responsibilities change. Or adjust to accommodate the things that really matter."
She stiffens slightly. "Mia, go wash your hands, please. The next session starts in ten minutes."
Once Mia is out of earshot, Jules steps partially into the kitchen, voice lowered. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't discuss visiting with Mia. It creates expectations that can't be met."
"Can't be, or won't be?" I challenge quietly.
"Both." Her tone is final, but her eyes tell a different story. They linger on my face for a moment too long, drop briefly to my lips, then dart away. "I need to go."
Before I can respond, she's turning away, composure intact but shoulders tense beneath her tailored blazer.
"Jules," I call after her, unable to help myself. "For what it's worth, I don't regret it."
She pauses but doesn't turn around. "You should," she says softly, and then she's gone, ushering Mia toward their next scheduled activity.