Chapter 23
Kiera Emmerson
My head spins with the realization. I made a horrible mistake. River isn’t like my ex. He isn’t like my parents. He isn’t someone who’s going to use me and throw me away.
He’s someone who shows up. Who stays. Who believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself.
And I let him go.
The thought hits me like a physical blow, and I have to grip the edge of my prep counter to stay upright.
“One hour to create a dessert featuring black pepper. Your time starts... now!”
The other competitors rush to the ingredient station, but I’m frozen in place, my mind racing. I can’t think about River right now. I’ve got to act. I run over to the ingredient station and scan the remaining items.
Black pepper. Dessert. Think, Kiera. Think.
Strawberries. The thought comes suddenly, clearly. Strawberries and black pepper is a classic combination in fine dining. The pepper enhances the strawberry’s natural sweetness, adds complexity and depth.
I can work with that.
I rush to grab ingredients: butter, flour, sugar, fresh strawberries, heavy cream, vanilla, and of course, black peppercorns. Black pepper shortbread with strawberry-black pepper compote and vanilla whipped cream. It’s elegant, unexpected, and actually achievable in an hour.
My hands are steady as I work. I make the shortbread dough first, incorporating finely ground black pepper into the butter and flour mixture.
The dough gets rolled out, cut into perfect rectangles, and goes into the oven.
While it bakes, I make the strawberry compote—fresh berries cooked down with sugar and just a few grinds of black pepper to enhance the natural sweetness.
The shortbread comes out golden and fragrant, filling my station with the scent of butter and that unexpected hint of pepper. While the cookies cool, I whip the cream with vanilla until it forms soft peaks.
I plate each dessert carefully: two shortbread cookies arranged at an angle, a generous spoonful of the strawberry-black pepper compote, and a dollop of vanilla whipped cream. I finish with a fresh strawberry slice and the tiniest grind of black pepper over the top as garnish.
It’s beautiful. Elegant. Creative.
“Time!”
The judges make their final rounds. My heart is in my throat as Chef Dubois picks up one of the shortbread cookies and takes a bite.
Her eyes widen slightly. She takes another bite, this time with some of the compote.
“This is exceptional,” she says, and my knees nearly give out. “The black pepper in the shortbread is brilliant—it doesn’t overpower, it enhances. The strawberry compote is perfectly balanced, and the shortbread has that delicate, buttery texture that just melts on the tongue.”
Chef Kim nods enthusiastically. “Creative use of a savory ingredient. The pepper adds complexity without being jarring. This shows real understanding of flavor profiles.”
Chef Wells makes extensive notes. “Sophisticated. Well-executed. The kind of dessert you’d see in a high-end restaurant. The technique is sound—the shortbread is perfectly baked, not overbaked. And pairing it with the strawberry-black pepper compote shows real culinary instinct.”
They move on, and I stand there, trembling, hardly daring to believe what just happened.
I look at River.
He’s standing now, his hands pressed together like he’s praying, and when our eyes meet, he grins so wide I can see it from across the auditorium.
I did it. I actually did it.
And River was here for all of it.
The judges deliberate for what feels like hours but is probably only five minutes. The audience murmurs, speculation running through the crowd. Kiki keeps sending me smiles and waves, and Tobias nods at me.
Finally, the judges return to their table.
“We want to congratulate all twelve of our finalists,” Chef Dubois begins. “The level of talent we saw today was extraordinary. Each of you showed creativity, technical skill, and the ability to adapt under pressure.”
She pauses, and the auditorium goes silent.
“However, there can only be one winner of the Future Chef Challenge scholarship. We chose the person who demonstrated not only technical excellence but also creativity, composure, and a deep understanding of flavor.”
My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised everyone can’t hear it.
“The winner is...” Chef Dubois smiles. “Kiera Emmerson.”
The world stops.
Did she just say my name?
The auditorium erupts in applause. Kiki and Tobias come up to me. Kiki cries and hugs me. Tobias claps me on the back. Cameras are flashing. Someone is handing me a certificate and a giant ceremonial check.
But all I can see is River.
He’s standing in the front row, clapping, a giant grin on his face, looking at me like I’m the most incredible thing he’s ever seen.
I won.
And River is here to see it.
Kiera Emmerson
The flash of the camera blinds me for the third time, and I force my smile to stay in place even though my face feels like it might crack. I won. I actually won. The scholarship is mine, culinary school is happening, and I should be over the moon.
Instead, all I can think about is River.
“Miss Emmerson, can you tell us how you felt when they announced your name?” The reporter from the island’s newspaper shoves a recorder toward my face, and I blink at her, trying to remember what she just asked.
“I—um—I was surprised,” I manage. “Really surprised.”
Kiki squeezes my shoulder from where she’s standing just off to the side, her expression encouraging. Tobias stands beside Kiki, clutching the bouquet of flowers they presented me with during the awards ceremony.
“And what was the most challenging part of today’s competition?” the reporter continues.
River showing up.
“My oven breaking!” Everyone around me laughs. “But I tried to stay focused, and I got through it.”
Another flash. Another smile. I scan the crowd behind the reporter, looking for him. He was here. I know he was here. I saw him past the cameras, saw him watching me with that expression that makes my heart forget how to beat properly.
But now? Now I can’t find him anywhere.
The interview drags on. More questions about my dish, about my inspiration, about my plans for culinary school.
I answer them all, but I couldn’t repeat a single word I’ve said.
My chest feels tight, my throat constricted.
I need to find him. I need to tell him I was wrong, that I made a terrible mistake, that I—
“That’s all we need. Congratulations again, Miss Emmerson.” The reporter finally steps back, and I nearly sag with relief.
“Thank you,” I breathe out.
The moment she’s gone, I turn in a circle, searching the thinning crowd. A few other competitors linger, their families clustered around them. The judges have disappeared. And River—
He’s not here.
My heart sinks like a stone in my chest.
“Hey.” Kiki appears at my elbow, her voice gentle. “You alright?”
I shake my head, unable to form words past the lump in my throat.
“Kiera?” She steps in front of me, her brow furrowed with concern. “What’s wrong? You won!”
“I made a terrible mistake,” I whisper.
Her expression softens with understanding. “Hey, listen, even if you did make a mistake while cooking, it all turned out great. You won the scholarship! That’s all that matters.”
“No.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “You don’t understand. I made a mistake when I broke up with River.”
When I open my eyes, Kiki’s face has transformed. That knowing look—the one that says she saw this coming from a mile away—settles over her features. She presses a kiss to my forehead, her hand warm on my shoulder.
“Then go find him,” she says simply.
The drive to River’s house passes in a blur. My hands shake on the steering wheel, my mind racing through everything I want to say. Everything I need to say. I rehearse the words over and over, but they all sound wrong, inadequate.
How do you tell someone you love them after you’ve pushed them away?
His house comes into view, and my stomach flips. His car sits in the driveway. He’s home. I pull up to the curb, cutting the engine, and then I just sit there, staring at his front door.
You can do this. You have to do this.
I force myself out of the car before I can talk myself out of it. My legs feel shaky as I walk up the path, my heart hammering so hard I’m certain the entire neighborhood can hear it.
The doorbell echoes inside the house, and I hold my breath.
Footsteps. The lock clicking. The door swinging open.
And there he is.
River looks... good. Really good. His hair is slightly messy, that look I’m so familiar with, and he’s wearing that simple gray t-shirt that does unfair things to his shoulders. For a moment, we just stare at each other, and I watch something flicker across his face—surprise, hope, caution.
“Kiera.” My name on his lips nearly undoes me.
I open my mouth, trying to find the words I practiced in the car, but before I can speak, movement behind him catches my eye.
Shelly steps into view.
My heart plummets straight through the floor.
She’s there. In his house. Her blonde hair perfectly styled, her smile sharp and satisfied as she takes in my expression. She’s here, with River.
“Hi, Kiera,” she says sweetly, moving to stand just behind River’s shoulder. “Congrats on the win. We were just talking about it.”
We. The word lands like a punch to my stomach.
He’s moved on. Of course he has. Why wouldn’t he? I broke up with him, told him I didn’t want this, pushed him away—
“Do you want to come in?” River asks, and there’s something careful in his voice, something guarded that wasn’t there before.
I shake my head, taking a step back. My throat burns, my eyes stinging with tears I refuse to let fall. Not here. Not in front of her. Not when I’ve already humiliated myself enough by showing up.
“I—no. I shouldn’t have—” The words tangle on my tongue. “I’m sorry. I should go.”
“Kiera, wait—” River’s eyes widen, realization dawning across his face. “No, it’s not—Shelly just stopped by to bring me some bread. She’s just leaving.”
Shelly’s satisfied smile falters. “Actually, I was thinking—”
“You’re leaving,” River says firmly, not taking his eyes off me. “Thank you for the bread.”
For a moment, Shelly just stands there, her mouth pressed into a pout. Then she sighs dramatically, brushing past River toward the door. As she passes me on the porch, she leans in close enough that only I can hear.
“Good luck,” she murmurs, and there’s something almost pitying in her tone that makes my skin crawl.
Then she’s gone, clicking down the walkway in her heels, and it’s just me and River and the gaping silence between us.
“Please come in,” River says quietly.
I force myself to look at him. Really look at him. There’s hurt in his eyes—hurt I put there—but there’s also something else. Something that looks like hope.
I nod, not trusting my voice, and step inside.
His house smells the same. Feels the same. But everything’s different now, isn’t it? I stand awkwardly in his entryway, my arms wrapped around myself, trying to hold all my breaking pieces together.
“Do you want anything?” River asks, and I can hear him trying to sound normal, trying to find solid ground. “Water? A cracker? Some more cooking practice?”
Despite everything, my lips twitch at that last one. But I shake my head. “No. I’m just—I came here to tell you something.”
The air between us shifts, growing dense and heavy. River goes still, his expression sobering as he watches me. “Why are you here, Kiera?”
The question isn’t unkind, but it’s not easy either. He’s shielding himself, and I don’t blame him.
I take a deep breath, gathering every ounce of courage I have left.
“I made a mistake.” The words come out barely above a whisper. “I shouldn’t have let you go. I was—I was too scared to take that leap and allow myself to fall in love with you.”
River doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at me with those eyes that see straight through every wall I’ve ever built.
“But I’m not scared anymore,” I continue, my voice growing stronger. “Or maybe I am, but I don’t care. Because being without you is worse than being afraid.”
Slowly, so slowly it feels like a dream, River closes the distance between us. His hands come up to frame my face, gentle and warm and steady.
“Are you really in love with me?” he asks, and his voice cracks just slightly on the words.
“Yes.” The admission rushes out of me, relief and terror all at once.
“I think I’ve been in love with you ever since you ate my horrible matcha macarons and politely told me they were fine.
Or maybe it was when you praised my goofy peanut butter and jelly sushi rolls.
Or maybe even when you offered me the cooking job just so I could practice for the competition. ”
A smile breaks across River’s face—that real smile, the one that transforms his whole expression. He pulls me closer, his arms wrapping around me like he’s afraid I might disappear.
“I’ve been in love with you,” he says against my hair, “ever since I watched you at Levi’s wedding. You were dancing with Skyler, and you let your walls down, just for a moment. Ever since then, my only goal in life was to get you to let your walls down for me.”
I tilt my face up to his, and he kisses me.
It’s different from our first kiss. Deeper. More certain. Like we’re both finally admitting something we’ve been trying to hide. His hands are in my hair, mine clutching the fabric of his shirt, and I feel like I’m coming home to a place I didn’t know I’d been searching for.
When we finally break apart, breathless and smiling, River slowly kisses both of my cheeks.
“You won,” he whispers.
“I know.”
“No.” He pulls back just enough to look into my eyes. “You won the competition. You won the scholarship. And you won me. You’ve had me all along, Kiera. From the very beginning.”
My throat tightens with emotion—the good kind this time. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Yes, you do.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “And I’m going to spend however long it takes proving that to you.”
I kiss him again because I can, because he’s here, because somehow, against all odds and despite all my mistakes, he still wants me.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur against his lips. “For pushing you away. For being too scared.”
“You’re here now,” he says simply. “That’s all that matters.”
We stand there in his entryway, wrapped up in each other, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—I’m allowed to have this. To have him. To have happiness.
And when River kisses me again, slow and sweet and full of promise, I finally let the last of my walls crumble completely.