18. Caeleb

Guys, Emily says softly after lunch is over. I really appreciate all of you coming over to help me. But Im wiped, and I could do with a nap thatll probably spill over into nighttime. Can we pick up tomorrow, or any other day when youre not busy? I dont want to impose.

Im swimming in a sea of free time, an unexpected luxury for any parent. My son has become a temporary expatriate in the kingdom of Grandma, where the laws of spoiling are not just encouraged; theyre the constitution. My mom, with her trademark sass—which has only gotten sharper after she found a second chance at love at sixty-five, often jokes that her patience with me was a long-term investment banking on the high returns of grandchild cuteness. Judging by the current spoilage rates, shes hit the jackpot.

I cant help but crack a smile, imagining the grand duos latest caper: ensconced on the sofa like two peas in a pod—if the peas were swaddled in a blanket fortress and the pod was made of couch cushions. Their snack of choice? A daring culinary fusion of cheese and caramel popcorn, a snack that boldly challenges the very fabric of snack norms. Its a snack-tastrophe waiting to happen, yet somehow, under Grandmas rule, it becomes haute cuisine.

I miss my little rascal, sure, but my hearts at ease knowing hes in the safest hands possible—hands that are probably feeding him cookies before dinner. Ah, to be young and under the benevolent dictatorship of Grandma.

Ive got a meeting tomorrow, says Silas regretfully. Turns out Finn is busy, as is Flora. Emily looks at me, waiting for my response. My heart does that stupid thing where it decides this is the best time to skip a beat. Im free, I tell her.

She quirks a brow. We have a date, then.

Silas does a fake stabbing motion to his chest. Caeleb, you lucky bastard!

I all but roll my eyes.

On cue, Flo stands up. Okay, guys, thanks for the lunch. Ive got to go too—Em, if this place is too much for you right now, you can crash at mine.

Emily gives a grateful little nod. You sure?

Flo all but drags her up from her chair. Dont ever ask me that again.

All of us leave the mansion in unison. I head to my little restaurant in Emberton—the one that started it all—but work doesnt go too well, not when Emily is all I have on my mind. I make up my mind, though, to bring Emily back here tomorrow.

With my day sorted, and basically spent achieving nothing, I decide her route is best: when you cant narrow down on anything, take a nap. I go back home, spend the evening on video call with my son, sort out some things with my lawyer, and give myself the luxury of an early bedtime.

The first thing I do in the morning, after getting my bed made, is prepare a cup of coffee. My old home, a cozy blend of British warmth and the vibrant spirit of Brazil, feels especially welcoming today. Maybe its the warmth of the aged wood beneath my bare feet, or the way the sunlight catches the vibrant pottery my mother collected during her travels. Its been a while since Ive slept here alone, and a comforting sense of nostalgia settles over me.

The familiar chime of a video call breaks into the peaceful silence. Its Brian, my cheeky little whirlwind of a six-year-old. His face beams across the screen, his half-eaten breakfast clutched in his hand.

Daddy! he yells, crumbs flying. Guess what Im having for breakfast!

I brace myself. Brians culinary explorations are … adventurous. Let me see, I say, squinting dramatically at the screen. Is that a pickle-and-banana sandwich with ketchup frosting?

He dissolves into giggles, little pieces of breakfast escaping. No, silly! Its Pop-Tarts, he declares with a flourish. Strawberry. The best kind!

I feign a fainting spell, clutching at my chest. The horror! I raised a culinary barbarian! My theatrics earn me another bout of giggles.

I bet youre not eating Pop-Tarts for breakfast, he says through his mirth.

Absolutely not, I say, holding up my mug for inspection. See? Only the finest Colombian roast for this sophisticated palate.

Boring, Brian declares, taking another enormous bite.

Just then, the rustle of fabrics makes me glance behind Brian. My mother has materialized, the screen catching a glimpse of her warm smile. Caeleb, dear? she asks, tilting her head in concern. Is everything alright back home? I hear theres been some trouble with Harveys estate.

All under control, Mam?e, I reassure her. Just the usual family squabbles. And a possible treasure hunt, I think wryly, but I see no reason to alarm her.

Good, she says, her smile tinged with a touch of worry. Stay safe. And remember, sometimes the simplest solutions are the best.

Words of wisdom from the master, I chuckle, winking at Brian on the screen. We exchange goodbyes, and then its time to focus on the day ahead.

A quick, refreshing shower invigorates me, the water washing away the last vestiges of sleep. Thoughts of Emily and the strange events swirling around her fill my head as I dress. Wed agreed to meet at my restaurant later. Something in her voice last afternoon told me she might need a bit of distraction, and what better distraction than a kitchen buzzing with energy?

The familiar scent of fresh herbs and simmering sauces greets me as I step into the restaurant. Its still early for the lunch rush, but the kitchen is a symphony of organized chaos. Sous chefs chop vegetables with rhythmic precision, line cooks sizzle fragrant meats, and the pastry team works their magic on decadent desserts.

My second-in-command, a whirlwind named Rosa, spots me and waves a spatula in greeting. The boss arrives! Were just prepping for the onslaught.

Wouldnt have it any other way, I grin, rolling up my sleeves. The kitchen is my domain, my battlefield, and today I intend to fight for Emilys smile.

I slip into the flow seamlessly, my practiced hands dicing vegetables, tossing salads, and putting the finishing touches on a particularly decadent seafood medley. The rhythm, the scents, the camaraderie—it all grounds me, reminds me of what truly matters.

The chime of the door signals a new arrival. Turning, I spot Emily walking in, a hint of hesitation in her steps. She takes in the scene—the controlled chaos, the gleaming countertops, me at the center with a ridiculously large chefs knife—and lets out a soft laugh.

I feel a bit out of my depth, she admits, her smile tinged with amusement.

Nonsense, I say, gesturing towards the empty corner table Id reserved for us. Best seat in the house. Now, tell me what culinary masterpiece can I tempt you with today?

Lunch arrives as we settle down. Ive prepared a feast fit for a queen, or at least, a very lovely model. A vibrant salad bursts with the colors of summer, sprinkled with edible flowers and a citrus vinaigrette that makes my mouth water. Theres a creamy, cheesy polenta with wild mushrooms, the aroma earthy and comforting, like a warm hug. But the centerpiece is the fish—a perfectly seared grouper, nestled atop a bed of herbed risotto, adorned with a single, glistening prawn.

Caeleb, this is incredible, Emily exclaims, her eyes wide as she takes her first bite. How do you even create something so … perfect?

I shrug, a touch of pride warming my chest. Its simply about understanding the ingredients, the way textures and flavors dance together. A little respect, a bit of imagination, and a whole lot of love, I add with a mischievous grin.

We eat in companionable silence for a while, the food easing the tension, at least for the moment. As Emily savors the last morsel of grouper, a wistful look crosses her face.

You know, she says, her voice soft, Im starting to feel ridiculously out of my depth. All this farm business, my dads cryptic letter … and here you are, creating masterpieces from nothing.

I set down my fork, giving her my full attention. Emily, everybody starts somewhere. This place—I gesture around us—didnt appear overnight. It started as a hole-in-the-wall, me cooking, serving, washing dishes—a one-man show.

A flicker of surprise crosses her face. Really? You? Mr. Fancy Chef? she teases.

I grin. Oh, dont let the polished exterior fool you. There were nights I slept on a lumpy cot in the back, barely scraping together enough for the next shipment of tomatoes. Being mixed-race wasnt exactly an advantage back then either, I admit, the flicker of old hurts still there.

Things changed because I believed in what I was doing, I continue, a quiet determination in my voice. Every plate was my heart and soul. People noticed. One good review led to another, investors showed up, and before I knew it … I wave expansively at the bustling restaurant. We became this. I opened chains in different cities. The New York one is doing the best, but this remains my favorite. Its home, it always will be.

You make it sound so simple, she says, softly. Light spills from the window beside us and catches a lock of her hair. It flames like a sunset. My breath hitches. She isnt wearing an ounce of makeup today, save a dab of lip gloss. She has no business looking this stunning.

It never is, I reply, composing myself. But anything worth having rarely is. Reaching across the table, I cover her hand with mine.

A hint of a blush warms her cheeks, but she meets my gaze unflinchingly. So, what do you suggest? How do I fight for something Im not even sure I want?

Start with what you know, I say, squeezing her hand gently. Your dads letter is a puzzle, yes. But the vineyard—thats your world. Start there. Well figure out the rest together.

Questions alight in her eyes, matching the small smile on her lips. How much longer do you have to work?

I reply with a low chuckle. Im a free man, Em. What do you have in mind?

She runs her thumb over my knuckles. I have an idea. Your place, or mine?