She laughs as I steal the whisk from her hand. “You’re worse than my crew.”
“You’re inmykitchen. You have to follow my rules.”
“What rules?”
“No whisking without supervision,” I say, leaning in to kiss the corner of her mouth. She smells like vanilla and confidence. “Safety first.”
She kisses me back, soft and quick. “Then maybe you should supervise better.”
I’m still smiling when her phone buzzes on the counter. She glances at the screen. “Sorry, it’s my agent. I should take this.”
“Sure.” I nod, still whisking. “Don’t let Hollywood steal you away.”
She grins, slipping out the back door. “No promises, Chef.”
The screen door creaks shut, leaving me in the quiet hum of the kitchen.
I’m grinning like an idiot when the barn door opens again—but it’s not her voice that greets me.
“Hey.” Quinn steps in, phone in hand, expression tight. “You busy?”
“Always,” I say, still half-distracted by the sound of her voice outside. “What’s up?”
He hesitates. That’s never good. “Just came from a call with Tricia. Wanted to give you a heads-up before you hear it from someone else.”
The whisk stills in my hand. “Okay…”
“There’s a rumor going around online.” He scrolls, turns the phone. The headline flashes:
Celebrity Chef to Take Over Carver Farm Kitchen? Inside Sources Say Change Is Coming.
My stomach drops.
“Where did this come from?”
“The damn newspaper picked it up. Now it’s spreading. They’re quoting ‘anonymous sources’ again and saying Katelyn told people she’s taking over as head chef next season.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I hear the edge in my voice, can’t soften it. “She’d never?—”
“I know,” Quinn says quickly. “Tricia said we’ll handle it. Hell, it’s probably our good friends Karen and Chad causing trouble. Just—don’t freak out.”
“Why would I freak out?”
He gives me a look that saysyou know why.“Because you’ve got feelings involved, and you don’t like surprises.”
I start to argue, but he’s not wrong. He claps my shoulder, gentle. “She’s been good for this place. For you. Don’t forget that.”
He leaves before I can answer. The door swings shut and the kitchen feels smaller again.
I stare at the screen until the headline blurs. My pulse drums in my ears. Taking my job. As if I haven’t done enough to keep it.
She reappears, phone in hand, cheeks pink from the cold. “Sorry. My manager doesn’t understand the phrase ‘Now isn’t a great time.’”
I force a smile. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” She’s glowing, and it twists something in me. “A producer for a major network called. They want me to come out next week to film a pilot. Can you believe it?”
It should make me proud. Instead it hits the same sore spot the rumor just opened.
