And miss her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Josie
Denver is cool.
Like, surprisingly, actually cool.
I’ve never been here before, and I half expected it to feel like just another big city, loud, fast, anonymous. But there’s something else beneath the concrete and glass. Murals blooming across brick walls, coffee shops tucked into alleyways, and rooftop gardens on old warehouses. The energy hums with possibility.
The restaurant is tucked into the base of a sleek high rise, all black steel and mirrored windows. Inside, it’s like stepping into a culinary spaceship. Clean lines. Modern lighting. Every surface gleaming like it was buffed thirty seconds ago. It’s not just state-of-the-art, it’s borderline sci-fi.
“This,” Adela Vaughn declares, throwing her arms wide with a flourish, “is my sacred temple.”
I barely manage to hide a smile.
Adela is exactly as I remembered her from that one chef’s symposium back in culinary school—flamboyant, hilarious, and completely impossible to ignore. Her white coat is tailored like a designer blazer, and she’s wearing a gold truffle shaver on a chain around her neck like it’s a holy relic.
“Is that?—?”
“Of course it is,” she says, striking a pose. “You never know when tragedy will strike in the form of unshaved risotto.”
I laugh, for real. She winks.
The kitchen she leads me through is breathtaking, with glass front walk-ins, automated plating arms, touch screen timers, and a dedicated fermentation chamber that looks like it could launch into orbit.
“You’d be executive sous,” she explains, dragging me past pastry like a kid on a field trip. “Salary’s competitive, full benefits, profit share, and…” she points dramatically upward, “a mezzanine test kitchen. For R\&D. Imagine it, Josie. You, a canvas, and no rules.”
It’s a lot.
Everything I thought I wanted, all those years back in culinary school, is standing right in front of me. Opportunity. Prestige. A kitchen that runs like a dream.
I should be elated.
But as I trail my fingers across the cool edge of a marble prep station, something inside me hesitates.
I try to picture myself here, mornings full of menu planning and staff briefings, afternoons elbow deep in sauces and foams and technique. Late nights with Adela tossing around flavor profiles like confetti.
But instead, I see a different kitchen.
Smaller. Warmer. Smelling like cinnamon and fresh bread and pine from the forest outside.
I see Knox leaning on a prep table, arms crossed, one eyebrow lifted, while I defend the “superiority” of ranch on pizza.
I see Nova trying to fix the speaker again while Gracie passes me a stolen brownie chunk.
I see the pantry.
The silence.
His face when I told him.
I’m pregnant.
The memory crashes over me like cold water. His expression, like the ground just dropped out from under him. Like I had confirmed every fear he’d ever carried.
I blink and shake it off. Focus on Adela, who is now dramatically unveiling a digital immersion circulator like it’s a lightsaber.
