Chapter 9 Delaney
CHAPTER NINE
Delaney
I’ve always believed in the power of kitchen work as therapy.
Chop enough onions, whisk enough batter, scrub enough pans, and eventually the noise in your head dulls to a low, manageable hum.
Turns out, I severely underestimated the power of three very different men in one house to completely ruin that strategy.
Specifically, Boone in the doorway, watching me and Sadie, elbow deep in muffin batter and blueberry carnage, laughing like I hadn’t done in… I don’t even know how long. His face was soft, before he shut it down so fast you’d think feelings were a fire he needed to smother.
My stomach does a weird swoop when I remember the way he stepped closer. The way his arm brushed mine. The flash of emotion in his eyes that looked suspiciously like…
Nope.
No.
I’m not thinking about that.
Mixing bowl. Flour. Focus.
“Is it supposed to look like that?” Sadie asks, skeptically eyeing the batter I’m stirring.
“This,” I inform her, “is what perfection looks like before it goes in the oven.”
She hums, doubtful. “It looks like slime.”
“Well, that’s hurtful.”
She grins, and the ache in my chest eases a little.
She stands on her chair as a tiny general, overseeing ingredients. She takes her role as Official Taste Tester very seriously. We’ve already had a long moral debate about whether eating a chocolate chip that “accidentally” fell on the counter counts as stealing.
“It’s not stealing if you were going to throw it away,” she’d argued.
Honestly? Hard to disagree.
Now, with muffins cooling and the rest of the kitchen slowly returning to order, I move around the space like I’ve been here more than three days.
I’ve started reorganizing things in my head: what needs to be closer to the stove, which drawer should be the measuring cup drawer, where to stash my spices without being obnoxious.
Work helps.
It always has.
But today… it barely dents the insanity in my head.
Because no matter how many spices I alphabetize or how many pans I scrub until they shine, my thoughts keep zig-zagging right back to the same three men.
Boone is off in the office corner, making stressed-out noises at his laptop like taxes personally insulted him.
Caleb has apparently decided the best way to deal with me is to vanish into the barn like I’m an animal he’s trying not to spook.
And Silas?
Silas is the problem I can’t outrun.
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, because even thinking his name puts a flutter low in my stomach I do not have the emotional bandwidth for.
One night.
One night.
One stupidly perfect, stupidly reckless, stupidly hot night.
Before I knew he lived here.
Before I knew he was one of my bosses.
Before I knew fate had a sick sense of humor.
Now he saunters through this house every morning, owning the oxygen in it, leaning against doorframes with that lazy, wicked grin, the same one he had right before he kissed me against the wall outside The Hollow.
And the teasing… I don’t know how long I can handle it.
“Miss Delaney?” Sadie says, pulling me out of my head.
“Yeah, sweetie?”
She’s drawing with a broken crayon on the corner of my grocery list. “Can I help you organize?”
“Organize what?”
She looks around. “Everything.”
I laugh. “That’s… ambitious. How about we start with the pantry?”
Her eyes light up.
“Not the sacred pantry,” she whispers, as if we’re talking about a dragon’s hoard.
I grin. “I have been granted special permission.”
From myself, but she doesn’t need to know that.
We head into the pantry, and my chest tightens a little at the memory of my flour avalanche and Silas catching me on the floor.
“Okay,” I announce, pushing up my sleeves. “We’re going to make this make sense. Deal?”
Sadie salutes me with her crayon. “Yes, chef.”
Welp, I definitely love her.
We spend the next hour shifting things around.
I put the baking ingredients together on one shelf, pastas and grains on another, snacks within Sadie’s reach.
“Approved snacks,” I tell her.
She solemnly agrees, then smuggles a granola bar into her pocket like we’re in a spy movie.
We toss out three expired mystery cans and one jar of something that might have been pickles in a past life.
“This is fun,” Sadie declares, handing me a box.
“You’re a strange kid,” I reply affectionately.
She beams. “Daddy says that too.”
“Daddy’s not wrong.”
Boone wanders in once to refill his coffee, takes in the reorganized shelves with a slow sweep of his gaze, and nods once.
“This is better,” he says.
My heart does an unnecessary little flip at the quiet approval.
“It’ll help me keep track of what we’re low on,” I state, aiming for professional. “Less waste.”
“Good,” he replies. “We can use all the help we can get with that.”
His eyes flick to Sadie, who’s perched on a lower shelf, stacking cans as blocks.
“You helping?”
She nods so hard her ponytail whips. “We’re organizing the sacred pantry.”
He chuckles, the barest sound, but it’s there. “Looks like you’re doing a good job.”
She glows.
He gives me another of those short, meaningful nods and disappears back toward his office.
The entire exchange is maybe thirty seconds.
I spend the next thirty minutes thinking about it.
Ugh.
By mid-morning, the kitchen is prepped, the menu for the week roughly plotted in my head, and the pantry is officially less of a crime scene. Sadie’s coloring at the table while I scribble notes on the back of an old invoice.
Farm fresh eggs.
Leftover chicken bones, stock.
Tomatoes starting to wrinkle, sauce.
Bread from yesterday, croutons.
The back door opens, letting a cool breeze wash through the room.
“Smells productive in here,” Silas drawls, strolling in with that famous smirk of his.
He’s in jeans and a fitted tee shirt, some kind of easy charm clinging to him like another layer of clothing. Sunglasses pushed up on his head, hair a little wild from the wind.
“Smells of lemon and guilt,” I mutter.
He grins. “My two favorite flavors.”
I roll my eyes.
Sadie hops off her chair. “Uncle Silas, are we going out?”
“Sure are, sweet.” He swings her up with one arm, settling her on his hip. “Just came to see if our resident genius chef wanted to tag along.”
I blink. “Tag along… where?”
“To the farmers market,” he says, like it’s obvious. “We’ve got a stall there every Saturday. Eggs, produce, sometimes baked things if Boone remembers he’s not a robot.” He tilts his head at me. “Figured you might want to see us set up the circus.”
“I dunno,” I hedge. “I have… stuff.”
He glances pointedly at the currently clean counters.
“Let me rephrase. If you spend one more hour in this kitchen today, you’re going to start labeling the spoons by emotional tone. Come watch us play nice with the town.”
“I don’t label spoons,” I protest.
“Yet.” He smirks. “Come on. You’ll get a feel for people. And the Claymores always bring samples. Even on setup day. You look like you need a free cookie and a break from your own thoughts.”
Rude.
Accurate.
I hesitate.
“Please?” Sadie adds, trying out her best puppy eyes. “I can show you everything. There’s a man who sells honey and a lady with soaps, and Maggie tells fortunes.”
“Fortunes?” I repeat.
“She does tarot,” Sadie states gleefully. “But for kids, she just makes up stories. It’s fun.”
I look between the two of them: Silas with his hopeful grin, Sadie practically vibrating with excitement.
It’s just a market setup. It’s outside. It’s a chance to understand this place and the people they’re attached to.
And honestly? The idea of staying here, alone, steeping in my own brain soup, is not appealing.
“Okay,” I say finally. “I’ll come.”
Sadie cheers.
Silas looks smug. “Knew you’d make the smart choice.”
“You didn’t know anything,” I laugh, grabbing my tote. “You guessed and harassed me into it.”
He winks. “Same result.”
The town square is already stirring by the time we pull into place.
Not bustling yet, not full, but waking up in that uniquely small-town way.
The actual market isn’t until tomorrow morning, but vendors always set up early, staking out spots, gossiping, swapping goods, catching up on the town grapevine.
Tents are half raised. Tables are spread out like patchwork. The smell of cut grass and coffee is drifting from somewhere nearby. A couple of kids dart between crates as excited little spies. Someone’s playing a guitar lazily from the gazebo, tuning rather than performing.
It feels alive in a way that hits a tender place in my chest.
Boone backs the ranch truck into its usual space with that effortless precision he seems to have been born with.
Caleb stands nearby, giving hand signals, and the two of them move in a simple rhythm, years and years of shared work in every gesture.
Silas hops out before the truck even stops, stretching his arms overhead, greeting his kingdom.
“Okay,” he declares. “Sunridge Ranch, Phase One: Charm the living hell out of the town.”
“You don’t need help with charm,” I mutter.
Silas flashes a grin. “Sunshine, I always appreciate your support.”
We unload crates. Carrots, kale, potatoes, early tomatoes, Caleb’s babies apparently, jars of pickles and jams, cartons of eggs, and the sweetest-smelling corn I’ve ever been near.
Sadie tugs Caleb’s sleeve. “Can I carry something?”
He hands her a basket of mini pumpkins. “Pumpkin commander. High responsibility.”
Sadie salutes so seriously, my heart cracks a little.
I grab a crate of greens that, of course, is heavier than my body thought it was. I wobble.
A large hand appears out of nowhere, steadying the other side.
“Careful,” Boone murmurs.
Of course it’s him.
“I’ve got it,” I say too quickly.
A soft grunt. Not quite believing me, but not arguing either. He just walks with me, silently bracing the crate until I set it down.
When he steps back, the space between us feels suddenly colder.
Before I can dwell on it, a voice sails across the square:
“Well! If it isn’t my favorite troublemakers!”
“Oh,” Silas calls out. “Joanne and Terry Claymore. It’s good to see you both. And Maggie… nice combat boots.”
“Grandma bought them for me,” she declares, smiling at Joanne. “They go with the floral dress, right?”
Silas leans close, stage whispering. “I’m their favorite, just so you know.”
Joanne swats him instantly. “Don’t sass me, boy. I changed your diapers.”
“Why does everyone know this?” Silas mutters.
Terry looks me over. “Boone finally hired someone who knows what they’re doing?”
“Delaney,” Boone corrects. “Our chef.”
Maggie steps forward, eyes intent. “Your hands smell of lemon.”
“Uh… yes?”
“That means you cook with love,” she mutters, nodding decisively. “You’re good.”
Joanne pats my arm. “Trade us a pie later, and we’ll keep these boys in line for you.”
The moment they walk away, another vendor approaches. A middle-aged woman with silver braids and a wagon full of handmade soaps.
“Morning, boys,” she calls. “Got your usual lavender bars!”
“Thank you, Ms. Dove,” Caleb says smilingly.
“Don’t let Silas hog them,” she warns. “He bathes like he’s starring in a movie.”
“I resent that.” Silas smirks. Then, to me: “I don’t. She’s right.”
Across the square, a florist waves a giant bouquet at Caleb. A coffee vendor brings Silas a pastry “before he flirts his way into stealing all of them.” A teenage boy comes running up to ask Boone what time the ranch is open for riding lessons this week.
And it hits me, fully and deeply:
These men aren’t just known here.
They’re woven into everything.
Boone is the quiet center of gravity.
Caleb is the calming, gentle backbone.
Silas is the heartbeat that keeps people smiling.
And somehow people assume I’m part of that orbit now.
It’s dizzying.
It’s warm.
It’s terrifying.