Chapter 7
SEVEN
CHASE
The kitchen smells like caramel and coffee and her.
If I could bottle the morning and keep it forever, I would.
We’re officially closed today—no customers, no noise, no Tricia with a camera. Just me and Katelyn at the counter, sleeves rolled, hair messy, barefoot because she kicked off her shoes an hour ago. The radio hums low; sunlight drips through the window like syrup.
“Okay,” she says, balancing a spoon over the pot, “tell me this isn’t genius: pumpkin-spice cotton candy.”
I arch a brow. “Pretty sure that’s illegal in at least three states.”
“Illegal or brilliant?”
“Both.”
She dips the spoon, twirls, and holds out a strand of spun sugar. I lean forward, taste. It dissolves like sweet smoke on my tongue.
“Fine,” I admit. “Brilliant.”
“Say it louder for the people in the back.”
“There are no people in the back.”
“Then say it for me,” she says, smiling.
I do. I say it for her. For us.
We’ve spent half the morning testing ideas we dreamed up sometime between laughter and sleep last night—apple-pie nacho variations, cinnamon-swirl fritters, her idea for a maple-pumpkin latte that will ruin Starbucks for anyone who tastes it.
Every time our hands brush reaching for a spice jar, my chest gets tighter.
It’s a good day.
The kind you don’t think about ending.
She laughs as I steal the whisk from her hand. “You’re worse than my crew.”
“You’re in my kitchen. You have to follow my rules.”
“What rules?”
“No whisking without supervision,” I say, leaning in to kiss the corner of her mouth. She smells like vanilla and confidence. “Safety first.”
She kisses me back, soft and quick. “Then maybe you should supervise better.”
I’m still smiling when her phone buzzes on the counter. She glances at the screen. “Sorry, it’s my agent. I should take this.”
“Sure.” I nod, still whisking. “Don’t let Hollywood steal you away.”
She grins, slipping out the back door. “No promises, Chef.”
The screen door creaks shut, leaving me in the quiet hum of the kitchen.
I’m grinning like an idiot when the barn door opens again—but it’s not her voice that greets me.
“Hey.” Quinn steps in, phone in hand, expression tight. “You busy?”
“Always,” I say, still half-distracted by the sound of her voice outside. “What’s up?”
He hesitates. That’s never good. “Just came from a call with Tricia. Wanted to give you a heads-up before you hear it from someone else.”
The whisk stills in my hand. “Okay…”
“There’s a rumor going around online.” He scrolls, turns the phone. The headline flashes:
Celebrity Chef to Take Over Carver Farm Kitchen? Inside Sources Say Change Is Coming.
My stomach drops.
“Where did this come from?”
“The damn newspaper picked it up. Now it’s spreading. They’re quoting ‘anonymous sources’ again and saying Katelyn told people she’s taking over as head chef next season.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I hear the edge in my voice, can’t soften it. “She’d never—”
“I know,” Quinn says quickly. “Tricia said we’ll handle it. Hell, it’s probably our good friends Karen and Chad causing trouble. Just—don’t freak out.”
“Why would I freak out?”
He gives me a look that says you know why. “Because you’ve got feelings involved, and you don’t like surprises.”
I start to argue, but he’s not wrong. He claps my shoulder, gentle. “She’s been good for this place. For you. Don’t forget that.”
He leaves before I can answer. The door swings shut and the kitchen feels smaller again.
I stare at the screen until the headline blurs. My pulse drums in my ears. Taking my job. As if I haven’t done enough to keep it.
She reappears, phone in hand, cheeks pink from the cold. “Sorry. My manager doesn’t understand the phrase ‘Now isn’t a great time.’”
I force a smile. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” She’s glowing, and it twists something in me. “A producer for a major network called. They want me to come out next week to film a pilot. Can you believe it?”
It should make me proud. Instead it hits the same sore spot the rumor just opened.
“That’s great,” I manage. “You must’ve mentioned it before, right? That you were looking to, uh, take something bigger?”
She frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Just—people are talking. Saying you told the staff you were taking over the kitchen here. That this was practice for your next big gig.”
Her expression shifts—hurt first, then disbelief. “Wait. What? Who would even—?”
“I don’t know,” I say too quickly. “But the story’s out there. You should’ve told me before it blew up.”
Her eyes flash. “There is no story, Chase. I never said that. Ever.”
“Then why—”
“Why do you assume I did?” Her voice breaks on the question, sharp and soft at once. “Because it’s easier to believe I’d betray you than to believe someone else is lying?”
I flinch. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair is how fast you went from trusting me to accusing me.”
“I didn’t accuse—”
“Yes, you did.” She takes a shaky breath. “For the record, that call? It was about a pilot. A real one. They want me in L.A. next week. I was going to tell you tonight.” She swallows hard. “But maybe it’s better this way.”
“Katelyn—”
She shakes her head. “No. You made it pretty clear what you think of me.”
She steps back, wiping at her eyes, and it’s like watching the light go out of the room.
“You don’t have to worry about me taking your job, Chase. You don’t even have to worry about seeing me again.”
The door closes behind her before I can stop her. The sound echoes, hollow.
I stand in the quiet, the scent of caramel still hanging in the air, a pan cooling on the stove, and the taste of her kiss suddenly miles away.
Outside, the wind rattles the windows, and all I can think is how fast warmth can turn to cold.