Chapter Three Breathe
Jane
The moment I left the lobby, my feet carried me straight into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind me with a familiar whoosh of air and a soft click.
I stopped just inside, gripping the nearest counter until my palms ached.
The heat from the ovens pressed against my back.
The scent of citrus peel and cinnamon drifted lazily through the room.
Under any other circumstance, those smells would have grounded me.
Today they barely made a dent.
I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly, holding the breath as long as I could before letting it leave in a thin, shaky stream.
My heart was beating too fast. Not wildly, but fast enough that I could feel it pulsing in places I didn't usually notice.
My fingertips. My throat. My ribs. I hated that I could still react like this.
I hated even more that I had no control over it.
I opened my eyes again. The kitchen was exactly as I had left it.
A bowl of dough rested beneath a cloth, rising softly in the warm air.
A tray of cooling scones sat near the window.
The citrus I had zested earlier clung to the cutting board in pale flecks.
Everything in the room was exactly as it should be.
Everything except me.
I picked up the mixing bowl, moved it two inches to the left, then moved it back again because it hadn’t needed moving in the first place.
My hands were trembling. I tucked them behind my apron to hide it, cheeks warming with the familiar shame of letting someone like him shake me after all this time.
Behind the closed kitchen door, the muted sound of voices drifted in. Kitty’s bright, cheerful notes. And beneath it, James’ smooth, confident cadence, warm as syrup and twice as sticky. It carried through the wood like something alive, sliding into the room without invitation.
He had always spoken that way. As if every word he delivered was a gift. As if the rest of us should be grateful to listen.
I swallowed hard and looked down at my prep list, though the ink had blurred along the edges from where my thumb pressed too tightly into the paper.
You aren't his employee anymore. You don't owe him anything. You don't need his approval.
The thoughts helped, but only in the way a thin blanket helps in a snowstorm. Better than nothing. Not nearly enough.
I owed him nothing. I was nothing to him. I never had been his girlfriend.
The thought brought back old pain that I had thought I had left behind. I took another breath, trying to center my thoughts.
A soft knock sounded against the doorframe.
I turned too quickly, bumping my hip painfully against the counter behind me. Braxton stood framed by the doorway, one hand on the trim, posture loose but attentive. His expression shifted the moment he saw my face.
“Are you alright?” he asked gently.
I straightened my apron, pretending it needed smoothing. I told myself it was a shield I could hide myself behind. “I’m fine.”
He stayed where he was instead of stepping into the kitchen. He did that a lot. Most people barreled straight into a room whether you were ready or not. Not Braxton. He let people come to him. It was one of the things I liked most about him.
“You looked startled to see the latest guest,” he mentioned.
“I was surprised,” I admitted. My voice came out tighter than I meant it to.
His gaze flicked briefly to my hands. I tucked them deeper behind my apron.
“If you want, I can talk to Kitty. Let her know you need a minute. Keep him busy in the lobby,” he slowly suggested.
I almost said yes. The word sat right on the edge of my tongue.
I could picture it easily, Braxton stepping back into the lobby with one of his warm, easy smiles, finding a way to redirect James without making a scene.
He was good with people. He could charm a brick wall if he decided it was worth the effort.
I kind of envied him that skill in this moment. No one would ever say I was charming.
It would be so easy to say yes. Yet the thought of requiring someone to step in on my behalf made me uncomfortable.
“That is very sweet,” I said. “But I’m alright.”
He took in my expression for a long moment. I could tell he didn’t believe me, but also that he respected the boundary. A small nod followed.
“Alright,” he said softly. “I will be nearby.”
He gave me a faint, encouraging smile, then stepped back, letting the door swing mostly closed behind him. The space felt immediately emptier.
I reached for a stack of parchment sheets, though I couldn’t remember what I needed them for. I tore one off unevenly, sighed, and tossed it into the compost. Another one tore the wrong way too. My hands were still shaking.
I set them down and pressed both palms to the countertop. The surface was cool and solid, a quiet anchor in a moment where everything inside me still felt jostled.
I heard footsteps then. They were loud and deliberate.
Before I could prepare myself, the door swung open again.
James stepped into the kitchen like it belonged to him.
“Jane Bennet,” he said, his smile a polished weapon. “There you are. I was looking everywhere.”
My voice didn't want to work at first. I swallowed hard. “Hello, James.”
“You look well,” he said, giving me a once over that made my stomach tighten. “Very well, actually. Country living must agree with you.”
My cheeks burned hot. I hated how quickly my body responded, like it remembered it had once been trained to listen for his approval.
“We are still renovating,” I said, willing my tone to stay even. I was changing the subject out of sheer self preservation. I remembered how James could compliment and weasel out of me exactly what he wanted. Until he didn’t want anything anymore and he had let me see his real colors.
I replayed the last words he had spoken through my head before I had packed my bags and headed here on the promise of never having to go backward to the city again. It gave me some resolve not to commit the same follies of the past.
He waved off my subject change with a careless flick of his hand. “Early days. These old buildings always take time. But you always were good at making the most of limited resources.”
He crossed the room with the same confident stride I remembered far too well. He plucked a pastry off the cooling rack without asking.
My breath stalled.
“That is for the guests,” I murmured.
He ignored me, biting into it with a hum of appreciation. “Your old technique. You should try a hotter oven for better lift. I told you that back at the restaurant.”
“I remember,” I said quietly. I also knew my pastries tasted better than his.
“I am sure you do.”
Before I could speak again, a warm shape entered the edge of my vision.
Braxton.
He had returned. Part of me was a little irritated that he thought I needed rescuing. The bigger part of me was grateful for his presence.
James noticed him belatedly, mid chew.
“Oh,” James said in a tone that suggested he had found a stray coat someone left behind. “Hello. You are…?”
“Braxton Hale,” he said. “Architect.”
James blinked once. Twice. Then dismissed the information with a shrug.
“Good for you.”
I saw Braxton’s jaw tighten. He kept his expression polite, but there was a new stillness to him that suggested he was filing this moment away. The protective kind of stillness.
James turned back to me, already moving on.
“We should talk about menus. The bride wants the best. This is a great opportunity for you. Collaborating with me could give your reputation a boost.”
I felt my throat constrict. He always did this. Made it sound like he was lifting you up while stepping on your shoulders.
“I already finalized the menu options. I will speak to the Bride and Groom to create the final menu,” I said
“Then we will refine it together,” he condescended. “You always took guidance well.”
My hands tightened on the edge of the counter.
Behind me, Braxton shifted.
“Jane has everything handled,” he said calmly.
James looked at him, almost amused. “I wasn’t speaking to you.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Old patterns had a way of slipping back on like a too familiar coat.
I lifted my chin. “The schedule is tight. I have things planned.”
“We will discuss adjustments later. The couple have a refined taste which is why they hired me. It’s a good chance you have here Jane.
Perhaps if you play your cards right, it might bloom to an even bigger opportunity,” James vaguely promised.
He stepped back, wiping crumbs from his shirt. “I will check in after lunch.”
James left without waiting for replies.
The kitchen door closed behind him with a soft click that felt far louder inside my chest.
I let out a breath I had been holding for too long. The room tilted just slightly before it settled again.
Braxton stayed where he was, hands in his pockets, gaze soft and steady.
“You did well,” he said.
“No,” I said, and the truth slipped out before I could stop it. “I did what I always do.”
He tilted his head. “Which is what?”
I grabbed a towel, twisting it in my hands while I tried to tamp down my emotions. “I try to stay polite while someone else rearranges everything.”
His brow creased, his voice quiet but certain. “You don’t have to let him speak to you like that.”
“It is only for a week,” I murmured.
“That doesn't make it alright,” Braxton softly insisted.
The sincerity in his voice loosened something in my chest, something I had kept tied tight for years. I didn’t know what to do with that feeling.
I turned away so he wouldn’t see the tears gathering behind my eyes. Shame warmed my face. I hated that I still felt small around James. I didn’t want to let Braxton see me unravel.
“I am used to him,” I said softly.
“That isn’t reassuring,” Braxton replied, and his tone was so gentle, so careful, I nearly lost the fragile hold I had on myself.
I kept my back to him until I could trust my voice.
“If you need anything,” he said, “say so.”
I nodded. He waited one more moment, then stepped through the doorway, letting the door fall shut behind him.
A heavy silence filled the space.
I reached for my prep list again, though the words swam slightly as I tried to read them. Roast chicken. Winter vegetables. Brioche proofing. Stocks to simmer. Usually, those tasks would have grounded me. Today they felt harder to hold.
I wiped flour from the counter. Then wiped it again. And again.
My hands trembled. I pressed them flat against the cool surface until the tremor eased.
It was only for a week. Seven days. I could handle seven days.
But for the first time since reopening the Snowdrop Inn, the kitchen didn't feel entirely like mine.