Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Jules
" A s you can see from the quarterly projections, our expansion into the European market is on track for Q3." I click to the next slide, maintaining my practiced executive tone despite the lack of sleep evident in the shadows beneath my eyes. "Berlin and Copenhagen will serve as our test markets before a wider rollout next year."
Twelve faces stare back at me with varying degrees of engagement as I walk through our international strategy. The Pine Room feels suffocatingly small this morning, despite the wall of windows showcasing the mountain view that had seemed so breathtaking just days ago.
Now the vista only reminds me of footbridges and rainstorms and moments of weakness I cannot afford.
"Questions about the European timeline?" I scan the room, carefully avoiding the door to the kitchen where I know he's preparing lunch. Two days of strategic avoidance has turned me into an expert on Declan Callahan's schedule—when he's in the kitchen, when he delivers fresh pastries to the conference rooms, when he might appear in the dining hall.
Andrea raises her hand. "Have we considered a Nordic-first approach? Sweden's regulatory environment might be more compatible with our privacy framework."
I welcome the distraction of a substantive question, diving into the details of international data regulations with probably more enthusiasm than the topic deserves. Work is my sanctuary, my certainty. The one place where I know exactly who I am and what I'm doing.
Unlike everywhere else at Mountain Laurel Lodge, where I feel increasingly unmoored.
"Let's take twenty minutes," I announce after we've exhausted the European strategy discussion. "Coffee break, then we'll reconvene to discuss the product roadmap."
The team disperses, heading for the refreshment table or stepping outside for fresh air. I remain at the podium, rearranging my notes instead of venturing to the coffee station that’s set up directly adjacent to the kitchen door.
"You're avoiding him," Andrea says, appearing at my elbow with two steaming mugs. She hands one to me.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie, accepting the coffee with genuine gratitude.
"Please." She rolls her eyes. "You've been doing that thing where you pretend to be completely absorbed in work while actually calculating escape routes."
"I'm focused on our retreat agenda," I insist. "We have one more day after this to finalize our annual strategy."
"Uh-huh." She leans against the podium. "And that's why you practically sprinted from the dining room yesterday when Chef Hottie emerged from the kitchen."
"His name is Declan, not—" I catch myself too late.
Andrea's triumphant grin tells me I've fallen into her trap. "So you do know his name. Interesting."
"He's been watching my daughter all week. Of course I know his name."
"And that's all it is?" She studies me over the rim of her mug. "Because Mia mentioned something about New York visits when I saw her at breakfast."
My stomach drops. "Mia needs to learn the concept of discretion."
"She's seven," Andrea points out. "And excited about her new friend. Though I suspect 'friend' doesn't quite capture what's happening between you and the chef."
"Nothing is happening," I say with finality. "Nothing can happen. We're leaving tomorrow, returning to our actual lives."
"And that's what you want?"
The question catches me off guard with its simplicity. What I want has rarely been the point. What works, what's practical, what's best for Mia and the company—those are the considerations that drive my decisions.
"What I want is irrelevant," I finally say. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to prep for the next session."
Andrea gives me a long look but mercifully drops the subject. As she walks away, I check my phone, thumbing through emails that don't actually require my immediate attention.
The outer door to the conference room opens, and my heart seizes—but it's only Jameson Callahan, carrying a fresh tray of pastries.
"Morning refreshments," he announces cheerfully. "Apple turnovers, courtesy of Chef Declan and his sous chef Mia."
I glance up sharply. "Mia helped make these?"
"She did," Jameson confirms, arranging the pastries on the refreshment table. "Kid's got talent. Declan says she has better instincts for baking than most of his staff."
An unwelcome warmth spreads through my chest at the pride in his voice when speaking of my daughter. "Where is Mia now?"
"Nature photography with our activities group. They're documenting wildlife around the property for the lodge website." He grins. "Mia insisted on taking pictures of the footbridge specifically. Said it was 'extra special' for some reason."
The coffee turns sour in my stomach. I force a neutral expression. "Thank you for the update."
"No problem. Oh, and Declan asked if you had any special requests for tomorrow's farewell dinner. He's planning the menu today."
Of course he is. Of course he's being thoughtful and professional despite everything. "No special requests. Whatever he typically serves for corporate retreats is fine."
Jameson nods, but lingers. "You know, Ms. Sinclair, my brother's a good guy. Best chef in three counties, great with kids, terrible at poker." He grins. "Just saying."
Before I can formulate a response to this unsolicited character reference, he's gone, leaving me with a dozen apple turnovers I suddenly have no appetite for.
The team returns for our next session, and I force myself back into CEO mode, discussing product features and development timelines with appropriate authority. This is who I am. This is what I'm good at. Everything else is a distraction I cannot afford.
When we break for lunch, I announce my intention to skip the meal in favor of returning some urgent calls. No one looks convinced, least of all Andrea, but they file out toward the dining room without comment.
Alone in the conference room, I finally exhale. One more day. Just one more day of avoiding Declan Callahan, of pretending that kiss never happened, of ignoring the way my pulse jumps every time a kitchen door opens.
Then we'll be on a plane back to New York, back to reality, where mountain chefs with kind eyes and gentle hands don't exist.
I gather my laptop and notes, intending to retreat to my suite. When I open the door, Declan stands in the hallway, clearly waiting for me, arms crossed over his chest. The kitchen whites are gone, replaced by jeans and a simple blue henley that brings out the gold flecks in his eyes. His expression is determined but gentle.
"Running away again?" he asks quietly.
"I have calls to return," I say, clutching my portfolio like a shield.
"No, you don't." His certainty irritates me. "You're hiding."
"I'm busy," I correct him, trying to step around him. "Some of us can't spend all day making pastries and charming children."
He doesn't rise to the bait. "We need to talk about what happened."
"Nothing happened," I insist, even as my traitorous body remembers the warmth of his lips, the solid strength of his hand holding mine.
"You kissed me back, Jules," he says simply. "That's not nothing."
I glance frantically down the hallway, terrified someone might overhear. "This isn't the place?—"
"Then where? You've been avoiding me for two days."
"Because there's nothing to discuss." I try again to move past him, but he shifts slightly, not quite blocking me but making it impossible to leave without acknowledging him. "Please move."
"Not until you talk to me. Really talk to me, not this corporate robot version of yourself."
Something inside me snaps at his words. "Corporate robot? Is that what you think I am? A woman who built a company from nothing, who supports her child as a single mother, who has actual responsibilities beyond creating the perfect trail mix?"
His expression softens. "That's not what I meant."
"No?" The anger feels good, safer than the other emotions churning beneath it. "You think because we shared a few conversations and one impulsive kiss that you know me? That you understand my life?"
"I think I understand more than you give me credit for," he says evenly. "I think you're scared."
"Scared?" I laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. "Of what? A vacation fling with the local chef? That's not fear, Declan. It's common sense."
A flicker of hurt crosses his face before he masks it. "Is that what you think this is?"
"What else could it be?" I gesture between us. "We live completely different lives in completely different worlds. I run a tech company in New York. You make pancakes in North Carolina."
"Wow." He steps back slightly, something hardening in his expression. "You really need to believe that, don't you? That I'm just some simple mountain cook who couldn't possibly fit into your important life."
The accuracy of his observation only fuels my defensive anger. "It's not about importance. It's about practicality. What exactly do you imagine happening here? That I'd uproot my entire life, my daughter's life, for someone I've known less than a week?"
"I never asked you to uproot anything," he says quietly. "I asked you to talk to me. To acknowledge what's happening between us instead of running from it."
"Nothing is happening between us," I insist, even as my voice wavers. "Nothing can happen."
"Can't, or won't?" he echoes his question from yesterday.
"Both," I snap. "My life is in New York. My company, Mia's school, everything that matters."
"Except maybe Mia's happiness," he says softly.
The observation hits too close to home, too near the doubts I've been fighting all week. "Don't you dare presume to know what's best for my daughter."
"I'm not presuming anything. I'm stating what I've seen with my own eyes." His voice remains calm, reasonable, which only infuriates me more. "She's blossomed here, Jules. And so have you, when you let yourself."
"This isn't real life," I say, gesturing toward the window, the mountains beyond. "This is a fantasy, a vacation bubble. Real life is schedules and responsibilities and hard work?—"
"And you think I don't know about hard work?" For the first time, an edge enters his voice. "Running a kitchen, maintaining a family business, pouring everything you have into creating something meaningful? You think that's not real life because it happens in mountains instead of skyscrapers?"
I falter, caught off guard by the quiet intensity of his response.
"You're so determined to prove this can't work that you haven't even considered what 'this' might be," he continues. "I'm not asking for forever, Jules. I'm asking for a conversation. For honesty. For you to admit there's something real between us, even if it's complicated."
"Complicated is an understatement," I say, my anger deflating slightly. "I leave tomorrow."
"I know that."
"And then what? Long-distance phone calls? Weekend visits? How long before that becomes too difficult, too inconvenient? Before you resent the woman who's never available, always working, always somewhere else?"
Understanding dawns in his eyes. "Is that what happened with Mia's father?"
I look away, unwilling to let him see how close to the mark he's hit. "My point is that these things don't work. Not for people like me."
"People like you," he repeats, shaking his head. "Jules, did it ever occur to you that maybe you're not as different from the rest of us as you think? That maybe you deserve happiness as much as anyone else?"
"I am happy," I insist. "I have a successful company, a beautiful daughter, a life I built myself."
"And you're terrified of anything that might disrupt that carefully controlled existence." It's not a question. "Even if that something might actually add to your life rather than derail it."
For a moment, I allow myself to imagine what it might be like. The longing that rises in my chest is so acute it's almost painful.
"It doesn't matter," I say finally, the words tasting like ash. "Our worlds don't mix, Declan. They just don't."
"They already have," he points out. "The moment Mia stepped into my kitchen. The moment you kissed me back on that bridge."
"That was a mistake."
"Was it?" He steps closer, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of cinnamon and cedar that clings to him. "Tell me you felt nothing when I kissed you. Tell me you haven't thought about it every hour since. Tell me honestly that you don't feel this connection between us, and I'll walk away right now."
I open my mouth to deliver the denial that will end this, free us both from this impossible situation. But the lie sticks in my throat.
"I can't do this," I whisper instead, hating the vulnerability in my voice. "I can't be what you want."
"You don't know what I want," he says softly. "Because you haven't asked. You've been too busy telling yourself all the reasons this can't work to actually consider how it might."
The hallway suddenly feels too small, too intimate. I step back, needing distance from his perceptiveness, from the truth I'm not ready to face.
"I have to go," I say, my CEO voice returning like armor. "My team is waiting."
"Enjoy the rest of your retreat, Ms. Sinclair," he says formally, his expression shifting. "The farewell dinner menu will be excellent, I assure you."