"She's having the time of her life, you know," I say gently. "This place, these activities—it's good for her."
"It's hard to find the balance sometimes," Jules admits, surprising me with her candor. "Between being a CEO and being a mother. Between structure and whatever this is."
"Fun?" I suggest. "Spontaneity? Normal childhood experiences?"
She winces slightly. "That sounds more judgmental than you probably intended."
"You're right, I'm sorry." I lean forward, trying to convey my sincerity. "I didn't mean it like that. I've known Mia for all of two days, so I'm the last person who should be giving parenting advice."
"Yet somehow I sense you're about to."
I grin, caught. "Not advice. Just an observation. Mia lights up when she's creating things. In the kitchen, during craft time, even with those ridiculous blueberry pancake faces. She has this natural creativity that's pretty amazing to watch."
Jules is quiet for a moment, staring into her mug. "Her father is creative. Artistic. I always assumed she took after him."
"And you?"
"I'm practical. Organized. I make things work." She says this matter-of-factly, without self-pity.
"Those aren't mutually exclusive qualities, you know. You can be practical and creative."
"Says the chef who gets to play with food for a living."
"Hey now," I protest with mock offense. "I'll have you know I manage inventory, staff schedules, and food costs with ruthless efficiency. My spreadsheets would make your CFO weep with joy."
That brings her smile back. "Somehow I doubt that."
"Try me. I bet I could give your executive team a run for their money."
"While wearing an apron and covered in flour?"
"The flour is purely aesthetic. Adds to my rugged chef appeal."
The laugh that escapes her seems to catch her by surprise, like she wasn't planning to enjoy this conversation quite so much. The sound does something warm and dangerous to my insides.
Before she can retreat behind her professional facade again, I decide to push just a little further. "So what does Jules do when she's not being a CEO or a mom? What's your version of fun?"
She considers this for longer than should be necessary, which I find both sad and telling. "I swim," she finally says. "Three times a week, fifty laps. It clears my head."
"That sounds suspiciously like exercise disguised as recreation."
"It's relaxing," she insists.
"Fifty regimented laps? Let me guess. You count them precisely and track your times."
Her silence confirms my suspicion.
"When's the last time you did something with absolutely no productive value? Something just because it felt good in the moment?"
"Is this an interrogation?" But there's no real annoyance in her voice, just a hint of defensiveness.
"Think of it as market research. I'm developing a new product called 'Getting Jules Sinclair to Relax for Five Consecutive Minutes.'"
"That product would fail spectacularly in consumer testing," she says dryly.
"Challenge accepted." I drain the last of my cider and set the mug down with deliberate care. "Tomorrow, your team has that outdoor challenge thing, right?"
She nods, looking suddenly wary. "Team-building exercise. Orienteering and problem-solving in the woods. Why?"
