Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Jules
T he morning light fills our suite as I fold Mia's clothes into her suitcase. Every movement is practiced, efficient. The same way I've packed for countless business trips. Yet my hands keep faltering today.
"Mom! Are you ready?" Mia bursts from the bathroom, already dressed in her favorite blue outfit. "Declan's making special pancakes!"
"Almost ready," I say, glancing at my watch. The airport shuttle leaves at noon. Our flight at three. Back to New York. Back to normal.
Normal suddenly feels like a weight pressing against my chest.
I tuck Mia's drawing—the crayon figures of her, Declan, and me in the kitchen—back into my planner and zip the suitcase closed. "Let's head down for breakfast."
The dining room buzzes with activity as we enter. Mia immediately scans for Declan, bouncing on her toes impatiently.
"Looking for someone?" Andrea murmurs with a raised eyebrow.
Before I can respond, Declan emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray. My heart does an unwelcome flip as he approaches our table.
"Special delivery for Chef Mia," he announces, setting a plate of blueberry pancakes arranged in a smiling face before her. His eyes are shadowed with fatigue, but his smile for Mia is genuine.
He places another plate before me without meeting my eyes. Unlike Mia's whimsical creation, mine is an elegant, impersonal stack.
"Thank you," I say softly.
"Enjoy your breakfast. Safe travels back to New York." The finality in his tone makes my throat tighten unexpectedly.
As he returns to the kitchen, Mia digs into her pancakes while I pick at mine, surrounded by my team's enthusiastic discussion of the retreat's success. I should feel satisfied. Instead, I feel hollow.
"Wait! I forgot to say goodbye to Declan!" Mia's voice rises in panic as we prepare to leave. "Mom, I have to say goodbye!"
I check my watch. "Alright. Let’s go look for him."
We find him sitting on a bench near a small fountain. He stands just in time to catch Mia as she flings herself at him.
"I made you this," she says, producing a misshapen ceramic mug with "DECLANS MUG" scratched into the side. "For your special tea from the wildlife blind."
Something in his expression cracks as he accepts it. "This is perfect. Thank you."
"You have to use it every day so you don't forget me."
"As if I could ever forget my best sous chef." His voice roughens with emotion as he crouches to her level. "Promise me you'll keep creating?"
She nods solemnly. "I promise. And I'll practice pancake flipping for when we come back to visit."
His eyes flick up to meet mine, a question in them I don't know how to answer.
"You've got a permanent spot in my kitchen whenever you want it," he tells her, gently tapping her nose. "Both of you do."
Mia throws her arms around his neck one more time, and something inside me fractures at the sight of their genuine connection.
"Mia," I say gently, "we need to finish packing. Can you go ask Jameson if we can have a late checkout?"
Once she's out of earshot, silence stretches between us.
"You have a remarkable daughter," he finally says.
"So I've been told." I take a step closer. "She's... she's really going to miss you."
"Just her?" The question is soft, his eyes searching mine.
I look away, unable to bear the hope I see there. "Declan, I?—"
"It's okay," he interrupts gently. "You don't have to say anything. I understand."
But does he? Do I, even?
"I should let you finish packing," he says when I don't continue. "Have a safe flight, Jules."
He turns to go, and something inside me screams to stop him, but the words stick in my throat.
"Mom, I left Mr. Hoppy in the room!" Mia gasps as we prepare to leave. "I can't leave without him!"
"I'll go check. Wait here with Andrea."
Back in our suite, I find the stuffed rabbit tucked in the corner of the sofa. As I retrieve it, my gaze falls on the window and its view of the mountains, so different from my Manhattan skyline.
What am I doing?
The question rises with unexpected clarity. Running back to New York because it's safe? Because it fits the narrative I've constructed about who Jules Sinclair is supposed to be?
For the first time in years, I allow myself to consider what I want. Not what's practical or efficient. What I want.
And the answer comes with startling simplicity. I want more mornings with blueberry pancake smiles. More moments watching my daughter bloom under the guidance of a man who sees her creativity as a gift, not something to be scheduled.
I want another chance at that kiss on the bridge.
I pull out my phone and call Andrea.
"Did you find the rabbit?" she asks.
"Yes. But I need you to do something for me," I take a deep breath. "Take the team to the airport. Mia and I are staying a few more days."
"I'm sorry, did Jules Sinclair just say she's extending a trip spontaneously?"
"Don't make me reconsider."
"No, no! It's wonderful." I can hear her smile. "Does this have anything to do with a certain chef?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, but we both know it's a lie.
"It's about time."
After we hang up, I sit for a moment, stunned by my own decision. Then I'm moving with purpose. I call the front desk to extend our stay and check the time.
Lunch service will be in full swing. Declan will be in the kitchen.
For the first time in my life, I'm about to do something completely unplanned, utterly inefficient, and potentially life-changing.
And I can't wait.