7. Seven
Seven
Lila
The breeze feels like it’s carried straight off the Mediterranean Sea as I step onto the stone patio of the oceanfront villa. It’s extravagant in a way that doesn’t just scream money—it whispers it, refined and understated. Twinkling lights wrap around palm trees, casting a warm glow over the intimate dining setup. A long, elegant table draped in linen sits at the heart of the patio, surrounded by plush chairs that look like they belong in an interior design magazine.
“Lila, this is stunning,” Jenny, my assistant from the bakery, whispers as she sets down the last of the stemless wine glasses. Her dark curls bounce as she glances around, wide-eyed. “I can’t believe we’re working here tonight.”
“Neither can I,” I admit, smoothing my apron as I step back to admire the setup. “But let’s focus. This is our shot to make a great impression.”
It’s not just a shot—it’s the shot. The kind that could change everything. When the company reached out, they made it clear they wanted top-tier service for their executives, and I’ve gone above and beyond to deliver. Every detail, from the custom menu to the timing of each course, has been carefully planned. The theme is Mediterranean, and I’ve spent the last week perfecting every dish—including grilled lamb skewers, fresh hummus with handmade pita, citrus-marinated olives, roasted eggplant, and a decadent honey-almond baklava for dessert.
Executives in tailored suits and cocktail dresses gather on the patio, their laughter and clinking glasses blending with the soft crash of the waves below. Jenny and I move seamlessly between the kitchen and the table, presenting each dish with the kind of care that makes even the simplest ingredients feel luxurious.
“Fresh grilled lamb with rosemary and garlic,” I say, setting down a plate in front of the host, Mr. Carmichael, a distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair and a polished smile. “Paired with a mint-yogurt dipping sauce. ”
By the time dessert rolls around, I know we’ve nailed it. The honey-almond baklava is the final triumph, golden and glistening on the plates as the guests marvel over the perfect balance of sweetness and spice.
“This is incredible,” one of the women gushes, her diamond earrings catching the light as she turns to the host. “Where did you find her?”
“She came highly recommended,” the host says, smiling at me. “And now I see why. Lila, you’ve outdone yourself.”
“Thank you,” I say, my cheeks warming. “I’m so glad you enjoyed everything.”
The last of the baklava disappears from crystal serving plates as I begin cleanup in the villa’s enormous kitchen. Jenny is efficiently loading the commercial dishwasher while I package the few remaining appetizers for the host.
“That went perfectly,” Jenny whispers excitedly. “Did you see their faces when you brought out the baklava?”
I smile, remembering the appreciative murmurs that had followed each course. The practice runs over the past week had paid off—especially the night Luke had sampled everything, offering thoughtful feedback between bites. His obvious enjoyment of the food had given me the confidence boost I needed.
“Mrs. Carmichael loved the mezze spread,” I say, carefully wrapping the last of the leftovers. “And the lamb tagine and skewers were a hit.”
“A hit?” Jenny raises an eyebrow. “That silver-haired man asked for thirds.”
The evening had gone better than I’d dared hope. The Mediterranean menu worked perfectly for the upscale business dinner, each course flowing seamlessly into the next. Everything came together exactly as planned.
“Lila, dear,” Mrs. Carmichael sweeps into the kitchen, her designer dress sparkling under the recessed lighting. “You’ve absolutely outdone yourself. Everyone is raving about the food.”
“I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” I say, trying to maintain professional composure despite my internal victory dance.
“Enjoyed it? My dear, you’ve set the bar impossibly high for all future dinner parties.” She takes my hands in hers. “I’ve already given your card to three of my friends.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Carmichael. That means a lot.” I say, my voice steady despite the thrill coursing through me.
“Please, call me Diane.” She waves elegantly toward the dining room. “Take your time cleaning up. The company men are moving to the terrace for cigars and brandy—so cliché, but what can you do?”
She glides out, leaving behind a cloud of expensive perfume and the promise of future bookings. Jenny and I exchange excited grins before returning to our cleanup routine.
The evening would’ve been perfect—one of those rare, seamless nights that stays in your memory forever—if it weren’t for the conversation, I’m unfortunate enough to overhear next.
I’m gathering empty glasses on a tray near the terrace doors when male voices drift in through the partially open French doors.
“...Sterling Motors won’t know what hit them.”
I pause, the name catching my attention.
“Marcus has it all arranged,” a deeper voice says.
“Trust me,” one of the men says, his voice low but full of certainty. “It’s a done deal. Once Sterling Motors is under Marcus’ control, we’ll swoop in and grab it for pennies.”
Sterling Motors? The name rings a bell—because it’s Luke’s last name. But I doubt there’s a connection .
“Are you sure about this?” another man asks, his tone skeptical. “Sterling’s been in the game a long time. They’re not going down without a fight.”
“They don’t have a choice,” the first man replies, a smug edge to his voice. “I’ve got it on good authority—certain... arrangements have already been made. It’s just a matter of time.”
The clink of crystal startles me, and I realize I’m in danger of dropping a glass. I had better get moving and mind my own business. Their conversation has nothing to do with me. I head to the kitchen. Forcing the overheard gossip to the back of my mind, yet something about the confidence in that man’s voice leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
As I walk to the kitchen another of the guests approaches, pulling me aside. “Hi, I’m Rebel Henson. I own the pub, Shot in the Dark. I sometimes partner with Haley Harris, my sister-in-law who caters, but we’re always looking for talented chefs, for one reason or another.”
“I’m Lila Jeffers,” I introduce myself, remembering the pub where I met Emily on my first day in the city.
“My husband Hunter will be hosting a charity gala in a few months,” Rebel tells me. “Expect a call.”
“That’s very kind of you,”
“It’s not kindness,” she says with a smile showing deep dimples. “It’s common sense. You’re a gem, Lila. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
My heart leaps. A gala would be a huge opportunity, exactly the kind of exposure I need to build my business.
The high from tonight’s event stays with me all the way home. The compliments from the host, the promises to spread the word—it’s all swirling in my head, leaving me breathless with excitement. I can’t stop smiling, my hands gripping the steering wheel as I replay the night in my mind. For the first time since setting out on my own, I feel like I’m truly on the right track—like all my hard work is finally paying off.
When I pull into the driveway, I notice the faint glow of lights on the back deck. Luke’s Jeep is parked in its usual spot, and I find myself wondering if he stayed up just to see how my night went. The thought sends a flicker of warmth through me, though I quickly push it aside. It’s just a friendly gesture, I tell myself. Nothing more.
I grab my bag and make my way inside, kicking off my heels with a sigh of relief. The house is quiet, but when I step out onto the deck, Luke is there, leaning against the railing with a glass of wine in hand. A second glass sits on the small table beside him, condensation beading on its surface .
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and warm. “How’d it go?”
“I thought you’d be asleep,” I murmur.
“And miss hearing about your big night?” He hands me a glass of what I recognize as my favorite Pinot Grigio. “Not a chance.”
“So?” His eyes are bright with genuine interest. “Tell me everything.”
“It went better than I could’ve imagined,” I say, my smile widening as I sink into the chair across from him. “The host loved everything. The guests were raving about the food. And at the end of the night, I was told to expect a call about a gala.”
Luke grins, lifting his glass in a toast. “Sounds like a hell of a night. Congrats, Lila. You deserve it.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip from my glass. The wine is crisp and cool, the perfect contrast to the warm breeze drifting off the ocean. “It feels... incredible. Like I’m finally doing what I was meant to do.”
“I know that feeling,” Luke says, his smile softening. “It’s like coming offstage after a killer show. You’re riding high, completely in the moment. It doesn’t get much better than that.”
I tilt my head, studying him. “Is it really like that for you? Performing?”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Everything else fades away, and all that matters is the music. The crowd, the energy, the connection—it’s addictive.”
I sip my wine, letting his words sink in. “I guess tonight was my version of that. It wasn’t a stage, but—I don’t know. Hearing people talk about how much they loved my food, seeing the looks on their faces—it felt good.”
Luke chuckles, his gaze steady on mine. “Sounds like you’re hooked.”
“Maybe I am,” I admit, laughing softly. “I could definitely get used to feeling like this.”
The night air is perfect—warm with just enough breeze to carry the salt spray. Luke’s watching me with an expression that makes my heart flutter.
“Want to walk it off?” he asks, nodding toward the beach. “You seem too energized to sit still.”
I should say no. It’s late; we’ve been drinking wine, and a moonlit beach walk with Luke Sterling is definitely not on my list of smart decisions .
“Sure,” I hear myself say instead.
We make our way down to the water’s edge. The sand is still warm from the day’s sun, and the waves create a rhythmic soundtrack to our conversation.
The wine has loosened my nerves, and I find myself opening up in a way that feels easy and natural.
“I want to thank you,” I say, glancing over at him. “I was so nervous about tonight, but knowing you believed in me... it helped. More than you probably realize.”
Luke shrugs, but there’s a softness in his expression that makes my chest tighten. “You didn’t need my help, Lila. You’re talented as hell. Anyone with half a brain can see that.”
“Still,” I say, my voice quieter now. “It means a lot.”
We walk in silence for a moment. He steals a glance at me, his profile illuminated by the moonlight.
“I love seeing you like this,” Luke says softly, turning toward me. “You’re glowing.”
“It’s probably the wine,” I deflect, but I can feel myself blushing .
“No, it’s not.” He stops walking, turning to face me. “It’s passion. When you talk about food, about creating experiences for people, you light up from the inside out.”
The intensity in his voice makes me shiver despite the warm night. “Like you with music after a great show?”
“Feeling like you could conquer the world?” He steps closer, and I can smell his familiar scent—salt air and a faint hint of the masculine cologne he wears. “Yeah, exactly like that.”
We’re standing too close now, the waves lapping at our feet. The moon catches the silver in his eyes, and I’m reminded of another passionate conversation–one I overheard tonight.
“Luke,” I start, not sure how to ask if he’s connected in some way to Sterling Motors.
But before I can find the words, he reaches up and cups my face in his hands. “I’ve been trying so hard to stay away from you,” he murmurs.
“We should stay away from each other,” I whisper, even as I lean into his touch.
“Should we?”
Then he’s kissing me, and all thoughts of overheard corporate takeovers disappear. His lips are soft but insistent, tasting of wine and moonlight. I melt into him, my hands resting on his firm chest as his slide into my hair.
He kisses like he makes music—with his whole soul holding nothing back. I hear myself make a small sound of need, and he pulls me closer, deepening the kiss until I almost feel dizzy with desire.
The sharp ring of his phone shatters the moment.
We break apart, both breathing hard. Crystal’s name glows on his screen like an accusation.
“I can’t,” I say, stepping back. “We can’t.”
“Lila—“
“You have a girlfriend, Luke.” The words taste like ashes in my mouth. “And however complicated it is... that’s not my business.”
His face goes still. “You’re right.”
The phone keeps ringing between us. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm night.
“I can’t be this person.” I take another step back. “I can’t be the other woman sneaking around and stealing moments. I deserve better than that. ”
“Yes, you do,” he says roughly, “but it’s not that simple.”
“It never is.” I turn away, fighting tears. “Goodnight, Luke.”
“Lila, wait—“
But I’m already walking away, my feet carrying me swiftly across the sand. Behind me, I hear him finally answer his phone, his voice low and strained.
By the time I reach the house, my lips are still tingling from his kiss, but my heart feels heavy. The taste of success from earlier has been replaced by something bitter and filled with regret.
I touch my fingers to my mouth, remembering the way he kissed me—like a drowning man finding air. I slowly walk inside, leaving behind my empty wine glass and an even emptier dream of a future with Luke.