How To Serve Up Love (Hearts of the Press #1)

Chapter 1

Chloe

The pressroom smells like burnt coffee and panic, which feels about right for a Monday morning.

Chairs scrape, laptops open, and someone is already sighing like they’ve been personally wronged by the concept of a week ahead.

I sit halfway down the meeting room table with my notebook open and my pen uncapped, pretending I am calm, professional, and not quietly wondering whether I left the heat lamp on for Hadrian.

Marie-Louise clears her throat and every conversation dies.

Editor of the Carlisle Gazette or not, that kind of authority feels wildly incompatible with a name like Marie-Louise Buckett, which sounds built for a manor house with chandeliers, not caffeine-fuelled chaos.

She has the posture of a woman who has already had this meeting three times in her head and none of us came out well.

“Right,” she says, tapping her pen once. “Week ahead.”

There is a low murmur as people lean forward. News is listed, sports argue about column inches, features ask for photos that do not exist yet. I make notes, nod in the right places, sip coffee that tastes faintly of regret.

Then Marie-Louise looks at me.

“Chloe.”

That one word does a lot of heavy lifting. I look up, polite smile in place.

“Yes?”

“We need to talk about your column.”

Ah. That sentence never leads anywhere fun.

She folds her hands. “Mr Bragg has been reviewing engagement figures.”

Of course he has. My column, The Last Bite, never fails to get him twitchy about numbers.

“He’s very pleased,” she continues. “Your readership is strong. Letters are up. Online comments are lively. Restaurants are still advertising, despite pretending they don’t care what you think.”

“That is my favourite genre of pretending,” I say.

A few people snort. Marie-Louise does not. She never does. She allows humour to exist in the room the way one allows a draft. Briefly.

“As a result,” she says, “he wants more.”

“More?” I repeat.

“Your column will now run three times a week.”

The pressroom goes quiet in that way that suggests people are already doing the maths on my behalf. Three times a week is a lot of meals. A lot of driving. A lot of pretending to be delighted by a jus.

I nod slowly. “All right.”

“And,” she adds, because of course there is an and, “each column needs to cover at least three restaurants.”

My pen pauses mid-word.

“Three?” I say.

“Yes.”

“Each?”

“Yes.”

I stare at her. “That’s nine restaurants a week.”

She meets my gaze. “It is.”

“Carlisle is not that big,” I say, very calmly. “Nor is the county, if we’re being honest. At some point I will be reviewing the same place twice in a fortnight and pretending not to notice the wallpaper.”

“You’ll travel,” she says. “The Lake District is on our doorstep. New openings. Revamps. Pop ups.”

“I already travel,” I say. “I practically live in my car. My satnav knows my soul.”

Marie-Louise’s mouth twitches, which is the closest she comes to sympathy. “Mr Bragg believes the demand is there.”

“I am one person,” I say. “With one stomach.”

I know it lives in a plus size body, but I like it there.

I eat sensibly, most of the time, I know when to stop, and I trust my taste more than my appetite.

The rest is genetics. The women in my family are built generously, with curves that arrive early and refuse to leave, and frankly I consider that excellent news.

If anyone feels the urge to have an opinion, they’re welcome to admire quietly and move on.

“You’re not exactly polishing off three courses,” Marie-Louise says. “You never do.”

I sigh. “Fine.” I know when I’m beaten. The little vein ticking above Marie-Louise’s eyebrow tells me this is not a battle I can win.

“Good,” she says, and moves on like she hasn’t just rearranged my entire life.

The meeting rolls on around me. I write, listen, calculate how many evenings this new schedule will steal and how many mornings will start with a croissant eaten in the car.

I think about my calendar, my fridge, and whether this is finally the year I accept that elasticated waistbands are a gift, not a failure.

When it ends, chairs scrape again and everyone scatters. As I stand, Marie-Louise catches my arm.

“One more thing.”

There it is.

“Yes?”

“Mr Bragg would like you to focus on quality. Not just coverage.”

Mr Bragg. The name lands with the same dull thud it always does. Ever since he swept in with his logistics money and his opinions, the Carlisle Gazette has been treated like a misbehaving subsidiary rather than a newsroom.

“I always do,” I say.

“I know,” she replies. “But he’s particularly keen on the new independents.”

“So am I,” I say. “When they’re good.”

She studies me for a beat. “And when they’re not?”

“Then I say so,” I reply. “Politely.”

She nods. “Try to keep it constructive.”

“I always do,” I repeat. This time, she looks like she almost believes me.

I head back to my desk. Three columns. Nine restaurants. A lot of miles, a lot of opinions, and far fewer quiet evenings at home with Hadrian. I open my diary, stare at the blank spaces, and tell myself this is fine. Busy is manageable. Busy is familiar.

The drive back from Penrith is becoming routine, which tells me two things: one, I’ve been spending far too much time on the A6 lately; two, Marie-Louise was not joking about the new schedule.

The sky is already sliding towards dark as I steer out of town, headlights flicking on more out of habit than need. Two restaurants in one afternoon now feels less like a special effort and more like a standard Tuesday. My stomach is fine. Tired, but fine. My brain is another matter.

Hadrian is not fine. Or at least, my inner gecko-mother insists he isn’t.

Of course I made sure he had everything he needed before I left this morning.

Heat lamp glowing. Bowl topped up. Everything exactly where it should be.

He is a creature whose greatest ambition is lying very still under a warm light, and yet I still worry like I’ve abandoned a Victorian orphan in a snowstorm.

Then again, this might be the upside of having a gecko. He doesn’t sulk, he doesn’t need walking, and he has never once acted like my working late is a personal betrayal. If anything, he’ll be mildly offended if I disturb his evening by turning on the big light.

The road stretches ahead, empty enough to lull me into thinking I might enjoy the drive. That illusion lasts until my thoughts slide straight back to work. Two menus. Six dishes. Pages of notes. A review that needs to be fair, sharp, and written before I forget how anything actually tasted.

My phone lights up on the passenger seat just as I’m mentally rearranging paragraphs. Mum’s name flashes up and I smile despite myself. This will be about one thing and one thing only.

I answer through the car system. “Hello.”

“Oh thank goodness,” she says at once. “You picked up.”

“You remembered,” I say.

“I remembered,” she agrees, sounding both relieved and unrepentant. “Happy belated birthday, my love. Forty-five. Honestly. When did that happen?”

“Last week,” I say. “While you were swanning around the Mediterranean.”

“I was distracted,” she says. “There were sunsets and live music and several very charming men.”

I laugh. “Of course there were.”

“Some of them were at least fifteen years younger than me,” she adds, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I feel this is important context.”

“I’m thrilled for you,” I say. “Just don’t give me any details because… ewww.”

“Don’t be so prude, Darling,” Mum laughs.

I smile. Mum turned sixty-five last year and somewhere between the cake and the candles decided she was done waiting for life to politely happen to her.

Dad leaving twenty years ago had knocked the wind out of her for a long time.

Now she’s making up for it, preferably with someone fit and sun kissed.

“So,” she says, changing tack, “did you do anything nice for your birthday?”

“Ava and AJ cooked for me,” I say. “Dinner, wine, the works.”

It was relaxed and easy, the sort of evening where nobody makes a fuss and everyone knows when to top up a glass. Exactly my speed.

“Are they colleagues?”

“Yes. Ava’s our proofreader. AJ’s a news reporter. Always sniffing around for the next breaking story.”

“And are they together?”

I recoil so hard I nearly miss a turn. “No. Absolutely not. AJ is like a brother. To both of us.”

“Oh,” she says, disappointed but undeterred. “Pity.”

“Why?”

“Because people are better off in pairs,” she concedes. “Don’t think I don’t worry about you being on your own.”

There it is. Not judgement. Concern. The kind that comes from love and too much time to think.

“I know,” I say gently. “But I’m happy. Truly.”

And I am. I like my life. I like my work. I like my independence. I just don’t always love how quiet the flat gets when I come home late. Hadrian is excellent company, but conversation has never been his strong suit.

“I know you are,” she says, softer now. “I just like to keep an eye out. Old habits.”

“Eternal matchmaker,” I say.

“Eternal mother,” she corrects.

There’s a brief pause, the sort where I can practically hear the cogs turning.

“And how’s your lizard?” she asks.

“Gecko,” I say. “And he’s fine. Probably glued to his heat lamp and entirely unbothered by my absence.”

“Of all the things you could have brought home.”

“He’s low maintenance,” I say. “And an excellent listener.”

“All right,” she says. “I’ll let you go before you drive into a hedge while thinking about sauces.”

“That would be a headline,” I say. “Food critic taken out by jus.”

“Don’t work too late,” she adds. “And make sure you’re doing more than just working, will you?”

“Yes, Mum,” I say, smiling despite myself.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“Good. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

The call ends and the car suddenly feels quieter for it. I pull into the Gazette car park, cut the engine, and sit for a second, gathering myself. Then I grab my bag, my notebook, and my tablet and head towards the building, lights glowing inside like a promise or a warning.

The moment I step through the doors, the quiet shatters.

Someone is shouting. Not newsroom shouting, the urgent controlled kind, but proper, fed up, echoing off the tiled floor shouting.

I slow automatically, as a tall man with dark hair and a rough stubble paces in front of reception like a caged animal.

Both hair and semi-beard are threaded with silver, which somehow makes the whole performance feel more serious, as if he’s earned the right to be this angry.

He slams a copy of the paper down on the reception desk. Hard. The sound cracks through the space.

“This,” he says, jabbing at it, “is unacceptable.”

Beckett, our evening security guard, doesn’t so much as flinch.

He leans back in his chair, arms folded, watching the spectacle with mild interest. This may have something to do with the fact that Beckett is six foot five and built like he could bench press the reception desk if the mood took him.

Compared to that, the angry man’s six foot frame is impressive, but not exactly intimidating.

“You’ll need to lower your voice, sir,” Beckett says pleasantly.

“I will not,” the man snaps, slapping the paper down again. “Do you have any idea what this could do to my business?”

Beckett’s mouth twitches. “I have a rough idea. But shouting at me won’t help.”

I hover a few steps back, caught between not wanting to interrupt and not wanting to walk straight into whatever this is. The man runs a hand through his hair, dragging his fingers back like he’s trying to physically restrain himself.

“I want to speak to whoever wrote this,” he says.

Beckett raises an eyebrow. “Do you have an appointment?”

The man lets out a sharp laugh that contains absolutely no humour. “No. I have a grievance.”

“Well,” Beckett says calmly, “you can take a seat and wait, or you can take a walk and come back when you’re less inclined to redecorate reception with today’s edition.”

The man glares at him, then at the paper, then back again, chest rising and falling like he’s deciding which option will result in fewer arrests.

I edge a little closer, curiosity getting the better of me. People complain at the Gazette all the time. It’s usually letters, emails, or the occasional very pointed phone call. This is new.

The man turns slightly, and for the first time I catch his profile properly. Tall, broad shouldered, intense in a way that makes the air around him feel charged. Not wild. Controlled. The sort of person who is used to being listened to and is deeply unimpressed when he isn’t.

He slaps the paper down one final time. “Fine,” he says through his teeth. “I’ll wait.”

Beckett gestures towards the chairs with a nod that suggests he’s enjoying himself far more than he should be.

I head for the barrier beside reception, swipe my card, and wait for the familiar click.

“Hi Chloe,” Beckett says. “You’re late.”

“I’ve been working,” I say.

Movement flickers in my peripheral vision. The man is back on his feet, newspaper in hand. He lifts it, angling the page towards his face, then looks at me. Back to the paper. Back to me.

“You,” he says, pointing at my photo at the top of the column. “I’m here to see you.”

I stop and turn fully now, meeting his gaze. His piercing blue eyes are glaring at me.

“Then you should probably start with your name.”

If he thinks I take his shit, he can sod off.