29. Chapter 29
Chapter twenty-nine
Lina
We settle into easy conversation, trading stories between the sizzle of oil and the chop of herbs.
“I’m half Korean, half Caucasian” I tell him. “My Korean mom raised me very traditionally. Food, language, holidays. All of it. Until she passed when I was thirteen.”
He hesitates for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
“Breast cancer,” I add quietly. “It changed everything.”
“My mother also passed,” he says. “I was twenty-two.”
I swallow. “That’s young too.”
“But not thirteen.”
We sit with that for a second, letting the silence carry the weight without trying to fix it.
“My dad’s still around,” I continue. “He’s from Alabama but lives in Honduras with his wife.”
Alex nods. “I lost contact with my father when I was eighteen.”
There’s no bitterness in his voice. A mere fact.
I don’t ask about it because it seems like there might be more to the story.
“Did you go to college?” I ask.
“Yeah, NYU.” He says, smirking.
He nods. “Class of…a while ago.”
I smile. “What did you study?”
“Business,” he replies easily.
I laugh under my breath. “Of course you did.”
His mouth quirks. “Of course?”
“You have that look,” I say. “The one that says spreadsheets don’t scare you, and you probably had a color-coded plan for your life by the time you were twenty.”
He chuckles. “Something like that.”
“And you?” he asks, glancing at me now.
“Same lane,” I say. “MBA. Finished recently.”
That actually makes him stop what he’s doing. He turns to me fully this time, something like respect sharpening his expression.
“I figured,” he says.
I lift a brow. “Really?”
“The bakery and bookshop,” he replies. “The way it runs. The organization of it. Most people with good ideas burn out before they build something sustainable. An MBA can help with ensuring success.”
The compliment makes me smile.
“What about social media?” I ask. “Do you have any?”
I ask already knowing the answer.
He smiles at me, as if he’s aware of my search.
“I don’t,” he says. “Perhaps LinkedIn for commercial purposes.”
I hesitate, allowing myself to follow the thread that’s been tugging at me since last night. Since the parking lot. Since the way he moved when things went bad.
“So,” I say casually, “what do you actually do for a living?”
He doesn’t stiffen. Doesn’t dodge. Only takes a breath and chooses his words with care.
“I’m in forensics,” he says. “I co-own a consulting business with a long time friend, Reese.”
“Forensics,” I repeat. “That’s a jump from business.”
His eyes flick to mine, assessing—not defensive, aware.
“Not too far off.”
“What kind?” I ask gently. “Financial? Digital? Criminal?”
“Mostly financial,” he says. “Tracing missing money. Following patterns that don’t make sense on paper.”
“You said mostly financial…” I prompt.
“Sometimes criminal—missing people,” he adds.
That settles heavier.
“That sounds…” I search for the word. “Intense.”
“It can be,” he admits. “But at its core, it’s about solving problems. Finding the truth when something doesn’t add up. When someone’s lying with numbers instead of words or both.”
I observe him as he speaks—the steadiness in his voice, the precision in his movements, the way nothing about him seems unintended.
“You don’t talk about it like it’s just a job,” I say, adding, “more like a calling.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Not a flinch. A memory.
“A life experience changed my perspective,” he says simply. “The experience demonstrated that pursuing business solely for profit lacks humility.”
I don’t press. I can tell this isn’t avoidance—it’s a boundary.
Instead, I nod. “I see, and it makes sense.”
He glances at me. “It does?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Some people chase careers. Others chase answers. You seem like the second kind.”
Something unreadable passes through his eyes. He exhales, faintly amused.
“Careful,” he says. “You’re far too observant.”
I smile. “Meh…maybe better than most.”
“Social media isn’t a great idea for someone like me,” he says gently. “I spend my life digging into other people’s business. That creates attention I don’t need.”
He explains it without defensiveness—something he decided a long time ago and never questioned afterward.
“It gives people a direct line to where I am, who I’m with, what I care about. That kind of access can be used as leverage.” There’s no paranoia in his voice—rather, awareness.
“So I keep my life private,” he finishes. “Because it’s safer.”
The inflection in his voice—calm, deliberate.
I let the silence sit for a moment, a quiet understanding that whatever pulled him from boardrooms to forensics wasn’t small—and whatever it was, it shaped the man standing in my kitchen now.
And somehow—
That makes me trust him more.
“The food smells amazing,” I say, breaking the quiet.
He returns a smile, but this one is different—slower, softer, like it catches him off guard. “Smells like home.”
Something long buried stirs.
I nod, inhaling deeply. Garlic, olive oil, warm bread—simple things, but they carry weight. Food has always been like that. A shortcut to another time. Another place. Another version of yourself.
“My mom used to say,” I admit quietly. “Food remembers things we tend to forget.”
He glances at me, briefly, like he’s cataloging the confession without needing to comment on it.
“I think that’s why I love baking,” I continue. “It’s predictable in a way life isn’t. You follow the steps. You respect the process. And if you do it right, you get something warm at the end that people gather around.”
Something familiar flickers in his eyes. Agreement, maybe. Or recognition.
“Home doesn’t have to be a place,” he says after a moment. “Sometimes it’s a feeling you didn’t know you were missing.”
I swallow, surprised by how much that lands.
“Yeah,” I say.
A comfortable lull fills the room while the chicken simmers on the stove, warming the air with the scent of garlic, herbs, and butter. Time seems to slow to the gentle rhythm of bubbling sauce and clinking utensils.
Alex wipes his hands on a towel, checks the pan, and leans casually against the counter. The movement is easy, practiced. Comfortable. Like this—being here, cooking dinner, sharing space with someone he cares about—is completely ordinary.
I hesitate before deciding to ask.
“Can I ask you something else?” I ask.
He turns his attention to me, attentive. “Of course.”
“I noticed you’ve been working from the shop,” I continue. “I assume what you do can be done remotely.” I shrug lightly. “Why Redwillow?”
It’s not an accusation. Only curiosity.
He considers the question, eyes unfocused as if weighing the shape of the truth.
He lets the silence stretch before speaking. “I’m here for a job.”
“That’s what I figured,” I reply. “Is it something you can talk about?”
“I can tell you it’s an ongoing one,” he says, carefully. “Remote work covers most of it so I can typically work where I want. Your bookshop is very convenient. The atmosphere is inviting. Better than being at my Airbnb.”
I nod. “So it’s temporary?”
“Yes,” he answers. Adding “At least, that was the plan.”
Something in his tone shifts, subtle, but present.
I cock my head. “And now?”
He meets my eyes. There’s no evasion there, only restraint. “Now it’s complicated.”
I smile faintly, not pushing. “Fair enough. I won’t push,” I say, showing my hands.
He returns the smile, appreciative. “Thank you for not interrogating me.”
He turns back to the stove and lifts the lid, steam rising between us in a slow, hazy veil. Whatever brought him here—it’s serious. That much is clear.
But there’s something else, too.
A steadiness in him. A deliberateness in the way he measures his words before letting them fall. He isn’t dodging or deflecting. It doesn’t feel like deception. It feels…contained. Like he’s holding back not to mislead me—but because whatever sits beneath the surface runs deeper than he can reveal.