Jules Sinclair nods, her eyes scanning every inch of the space with the focus of someone conducting a military inspection. I've seen that look before from high-powered guests, usually right before they demand special accommodations for their gluten-free-vegan-no-nightshade diet.
"It's very clean," she says, which I take as corporate-speak for approval.
"Health department seems to think so too." I wink at Mia, who giggles. "Want to see where the cookie magic happens?"
"Yes!" Mia bounces on her toes, reminding me of my cousin Jameson's hyperactive golden retriever.
I lead them to the large center island where I've already laid out ingredients for the day's baking. "This is command central. All the most important kitchen decisions happen right here."
"Like what kind of cookies to make?" Mia asks, her eyes wide.
"Exactly. Critical business decisions."
Jules checks her watch, her third time since entering the kitchen. "The Pine Room is down the hall from here?"
"First door on the right past the main dining area," I confirm. "About a two-minute walk."
She hesitates, and I see the internal battle playing out across her face. She doesn't know me, doesn't trust easily, and is clearly used to controlling every aspect of her environment. Leaving her daughter with a stranger isn't in her playbook.
"Ms. Sinclair," I say, dropping the casual tone, "I understand your hesitation. If it helps, I've worked here my entire life. My mother runs this place, my brothers and cousins all work here, and half the town knows me. I'm pretty much the least threatening person in Elk Ridge." I gesture toward the large windows that look out onto the dining area. "Plus, we're in full view of the staff and any guests who come through."
Her shoulders relax slightly, but her expression remains guarded. "Mia has strict dietary restrictions. No excessive sugar, no artificial colors or flavors, limited gluten."
I bite back a smile. Of course her kid has dietary restrictions.
"Fresh, whole ingredients only in my kitchen," I assure her. "Farm to table is kind of my thing."
"And no running in the kitchen," she continues, turning to Mia. "No touching anything hot, no wandering off, and you listen to Mr. Callahan."
"Declan," I correct her gently. "Mr. Callahan is my dad, and he's been gone for eight years."
Something flickers across her face—recognition, maybe even a hint of sympathy—before the professional mask returns.
"Declan," she repeats, the name sounding oddly formal in her clipped tone. "I'll be back to check on her during the break."
"We'll be fine," I say with more confidence than I probably should have. I've never actually watched someone's kid before, but how hard can it be?
"Mia, be good," Jules says, giving her daughter's hand a squeeze. "Remember, we're guests here."
"I promise, Mommy."
With one last scrutinizing look at me, Jules Sinclair turns on her heel and walks out, leaving behind the faint scent of expensive perfume and the weight of sky-high expectations.
"Does your mom always walk that fast?" I ask Mia once Jules disappears down the hallway.
Mia nods solemnly. "She says efficient walking saves approximately twenty-seven minutes per day."
I can't help but laugh. "She's calculated it?"
"Mom calculates everything." Mia peers into the bowl of chocolate chips. "Can I have one?"
"Quality control is an essential part of the baking process." I slide the bowl toward her. "Just don't tell your mom I corrupted you with contraband chocolate."
She giggles, popping a chocolate chip in her mouth with the delighted secrecy of someone getting away with a major heist. "So what do we do first?"
"First, we wash our hands," I say, guiding her to the sink. "Then I'll get you set up with the most important job."
After helping her roll up her sleeves and wash her hands (which she does with surprising thoroughness for a kid her age), I grab a clean apron from the rack.
