Chapter 8
EIGHT
KATELYN
My suitcase lays open on the motel bed, half-filled.
Lanie perches on the arm of a chair, folding one of my sweaters like she’s done this before. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call Tricia? She’d handle the travel details for you.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. The network will send a car for tomorrow morning. All very glamorous.”
She catches the sarcasm and sets the sweater down. “You don’t sound thrilled, Katelyn.”
I pick at the zipper of my bag. “I should be. This is what I said I wanted—cameras, lights, someone else washing the dishes after.”
“But?”
“But they don’t actually care about what I cook.” I laugh, brittle. “They want me to make their recipes. They don’t want me to teach the audience so much as give them something to aspire to. I asked about creative control and the producer said, ‘We’ll see how the audience tests.’”
“That sounds… not like you.”
“It’s a step,” I say, repeating the words from my manager as she talked me into at least doing the pilot. “Maybe a steppingstone to something better. Or maybe it’s just another failure waiting.”
“You know, if you stayed, I’m pretty sure Tricia would build you an entire kitchen studio at the patch. You already have the audience.”
“Are you kidding? Chase would never let that happen.”
“He’ll make room for you. He already seems to like you now.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
I open my mouth to answer when there’s a knock at the door. Lanie gives me a knowing look.
“I’ll get that,” she says.
The door opens, and there he is.
Chase.
Flannel, flour smudge, eyes tired but sure. He’s holding a pie tin wrapped in a towel, the smell of butter and cinnamon cutting through the hotel air.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.” My voice is smaller than I mean it to be.
Lanie takes one look at us, then at the pie, and smiles faintly. “I’ll… be outside in the car.” The door closes behind her, and suddenly it’s just us.
He steps inside, careful, like he’s afraid to startle me. “I baked this. For you.”
I glance at the towel. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know.”
He unwraps it. Inside is a lattice-topped pie, edges uneven, crust brushed with sugar that caught a little too dark. But it’s beautiful. Handmade. Honest.
He shrugs. “It’s supposed to be pumpkin, but the filling was low, so it’s half apple. It’s kind of a mess.”
Like us.
Something in my chest twists. “You came all the way here to give me a pie?”
“No.” His voice drops, steady. “I came here to say I’m sorry.”
I look up, meeting his eyes. They’re the same warm hazel that used to make me feel safe and furious all at once. “About what?”
“About lashing out at you. About letting a rumor get under my skin, when I knew damn well there was no truth behind it. Because that’s not you.
” He takes a breath. “You’ve never lied to me.
You’ve never pretended. I just got scared that you’d realize how small this place is compared to what you deserve. ”
“Chase—”
“Let me finish.” He smiles, a little broken around the edges. “You deserve big things, Katelyn. Whether that’s a studio in L.A. or a shack in Alaska that sells out of cronuts by noon. I don’t ever want to be the reason you feel small.”
The pie tin trembles slightly in his hands. I step closer, the smell of sugar and cinnamon hitting me full force.
“I thought you’d want this,” he says softly. “Something I made for you. Because you challenge me and bring out a side of me I never knew existed.”
My throat goes tight. “It’s perfect,” I whisper. “Even if the filling’s low.”
He laughs, and the sound breaks something open between us.
I set the pie down on the table and turn to him.
“They want me in L.A. tomorrow. They want a pilot. It’s not what I thought it would be.
They don’t want my food. They want my personality.
” I draw a breath. “And maybe that’s fine for someone else.
But I want to make something real. I want to wake up and make something that matters—to me, to people who actually taste it. ”
His eyes soften. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I already made my decision.” I step closer until there’s barely space between us. “If you need a sous chef, I’d like to finish out the season.”
For a second, the world stops spinning. Then he exhales and smiles like he’s finally been allowed to breathe. “You’re sure?”
“Completely. I have everything I need right here.”
He looks down at me, eyes glinting with something halfway between relief and wonder.
“Then we’ll build it. Together. You can run the pop-ups. I’ll handle the kitchen. Tricia will turn the cameras on. And when you do film your show, it’ll be yours.”
“‘Yours’ has a nice ring to it,” I say quietly.
He grins. “Good. Because if you ever need a sous chef, I make a mean apple-pumpkin pie.”
I laugh, the tension in me finally breaking. “And if I need a co-star?”
He leans in, his lips a breath from mine. “You already have one.”
For years, I’ve been cultivating countless cookbooks’ worth of recipes. But I think I’ve finally found the recipe for the best dish ever: love.