"And that's all it is?" She studies me over the rim of her mug. "Because Mia mentioned something about New York visits when I saw her at breakfast."
My stomach drops. "Mia needs to learn the concept of discretion."
"She's seven," Andrea points out. "And excited about her new friend. Though I suspect 'friend' doesn't quite capture what's happening between you and the chef."
"Nothing is happening," I say with finality. "Nothing can happen. We're leaving tomorrow, returning to our actual lives."
"And that's what you want?"
The question catches me off guard with its simplicity. What I want has rarely been the point. What works, what's practical, what's best for Mia and the company—those are the considerations that drive my decisions.
"What I want is irrelevant," I finally say. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to prep for the next session."
Andrea gives me a long look but mercifully drops the subject. As she walks away, I check my phone, thumbing through emails that don't actually require my immediate attention.
The outer door to the conference room opens, and my heart seizes—but it's only Jameson Callahan, carrying a fresh tray of pastries.
"Morning refreshments," he announces cheerfully. "Apple turnovers, courtesy of Chef Declan and his sous chef Mia."
I glance up sharply. "Mia helped make these?"
"She did," Jameson confirms, arranging the pastries on the refreshment table. "Kid's got talent. Declan says she has better instincts for baking than most of his staff."
An unwelcome warmth spreads through my chest at the pride in his voice when speaking of my daughter. "Where is Mia now?"
"Nature photography with our activities group. They're documenting wildlife around the property for the lodge website." He grins. "Mia insisted on taking pictures of the footbridge specifically. Said it was 'extra special' for some reason."
The coffee turns sour in my stomach. I force a neutral expression. "Thank you for the update."
"No problem. Oh, and Declan asked if you had any special requests for tomorrow's farewell dinner. He's planning the menu today."
Of course he is. Of course he's being thoughtful and professional despite everything. "No special requests. Whatever he typically serves for corporate retreats is fine."
Jameson nods, but lingers. "You know, Ms. Sinclair, my brother's a good guy. Best chef in three counties, great with kids, terrible at poker." He grins. "Just saying."
Before I can formulate a response to this unsolicited character reference, he's gone, leaving me with a dozen apple turnovers I suddenly have no appetite for.
The team returns for our next session, and I force myself back into CEO mode, discussing product features and development timelines with appropriate authority. This is who I am. This is what I'm good at. Everything else is a distraction I cannot afford.
When we break for lunch, I announce my intention to skip the meal in favor of returning some urgent calls. No one looks convinced, least of all Andrea, but they file out toward the dining room without comment.
Alone in the conference room, I finally exhale. One more day. Just one more day of avoiding Declan Callahan, of pretendingthat kiss never happened, of ignoring the way my pulse jumps every time a kitchen door opens.
Then we'll be on a plane back to New York, back to reality, where mountain chefs with kind eyes and gentle hands don't exist.
I gather my laptop and notes, intending to retreat to my suite. When I open the door, Declan stands in the hallway, clearly waiting for me, arms crossed over his chest. The kitchen whites are gone, replaced by jeans and a simple blue henley that brings out the gold flecks in his eyes. His expression is determined but gentle.
"Running away again?" he asks quietly.
"I have calls to return," I say, clutching my portfolio like a shield.
"No, you don't." His certainty irritates me. "You're hiding."
"I'm busy," I correct him, trying to step around him. "Some of us can't spend all day making pastries and charming children."
He doesn't rise to the bait. "We need to talk about what happened."
"Nothing happened," I insist, even as my traitorous body remembers the warmth of his lips, the solid strength of his hand holding mine.
