Braxton stayed where he was, hands in his pockets, gaze soft and steady.
“You did well,” he said.
“No,” I said, and the truth slipped out before I could stop it. “I did what I always do.”
He tilted his head. “Which is what?”
I grabbed a towel, twisting it in my hands while I tried to tamp down my emotions. “I try to stay polite while someone else rearranges everything.”
His brow creased, his voice quiet but certain. “You don’t have to let him speak to you like that.”
“It is only for a week,” I murmured.
“That doesn't make it alright,” Braxton softly insisted.
The sincerity in his voice loosened something in my chest, something I had kept tied tight for years. I didn’t know what to do with that feeling.
I turned away so he wouldn’t see the tears gathering behind my eyes. Shame warmed my face. I hated that I still felt small around James. I didn’t want to let Braxton see me unravel.
“I am used to him,” I said softly.
“That isn’t reassuring,” Braxton replied, and his tone was so gentle, so careful, I nearly lost the fragile hold I had on myself.
I kept my back to him until I could trust my voice.
“If you need anything,” he said, “say so.”
I nodded. He waited one more moment, then stepped through the doorway, letting the door fall shut behind him.
A heavy silence filled the space.
I reached for my prep list again, though the words swam slightly as I tried to read them. Roast chicken. Winter vegetables. Brioche proofing. Stocks to simmer. Usually, those tasks would have grounded me. Today they felt harder to hold.
I wiped flour from the counter. Then wiped it again. And again.
My hands trembled. I pressed them flat against the cool surface until the tremor eased.
It was only for a week. Seven days. I could handle seven days.
But for the first time since reopening the Snowdrop Inn, the kitchen didn't feel entirely like mine.
Chapter Four: The Kitchen Isn’t Mine Anymore
Jane
I came into the kitchen earlier than usual the next morning, hoping that if I beat the sunrise I might also beat James. I didn't know if that was possible, but I needed to believe it anyway. I was wrong. The moment I opened the kitchen door, I felt something inside me sag.
James was already there.
With a film crew.
At first, my sleepy brain tried to make sense of what I was seeing. I blinked twice, wondering if I was hallucinating from lack of sleep. But no, the kitchen really was full of strangers with cameras, lights, and wires that stretched across the floor like traps waiting for me to catch my foot on them.
My spacious kitchen was made smaller by all the people taking up space.
James was standing at my worktable wearing one of my aprons. He had tied it incorrectly so it gathered oddly at his waist, creating a lopsided puff of fabric that made him look like he was smuggling a small pillow under it. He seemed oblivious.
“Jane,” he said brightly. “Perfect timing. We’re doing a morning segment.”
