Susan met her friend’s eyes, seeing only genuine curiosity. “I don’t know. He seems serious about creating an amazing resort for people coming to Sapphire Bay.”
“But?” Isabel prompted gently.
“But I moved here to get away from that level of responsibility,” Susan said. “Running a restaurant isn’t teaching cooking classes twice a week. It’s long hours, constant pressure, and endless decisions. I’ve been there, done that, and sold the business to escape it.”
“That’s a good point.” Isabel finished her wrap, then added, “The only thing I’ll say is that you’ve been restless lately. Every time we get together, you mention feeling like you’re not quite doing enough. As if you’re waiting for something.”
Susan wanted to deny it but couldn’t. Isabel knew her too well. “Maybe that’s just me being unable to relax. Maybe I need to learn how to be satisfied with a quieter life.”
“Or maybe,” Isabel said softly, “there’s a difference between your old life in Georgia and working in Montana. If you’re worried about the resort consuming all your time, we’ll keep you grounded. It doesn’t have to be the same just because it’s a professional kitchen.”
Susan thought about what Isabel had said as they finished their meal. Cole seemed like the type of person who meant what he said. As Isabel pointed out, Noah wouldn’t partner with someone who didn’t share the same values as he did.
After they’d finished lunch, Susan walked back toward Main Street with Isabel. The weight of the new opportunity settled on her shoulders. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it was significant. It was a feeling Susan recognized. It came before any major decisions. Before life shifted in ways she couldn’t fully predict.
“Do you want to walk with me to the bookstore?” Isabel offered. “I have a cookbook I know you’ll enjoy.”
“That sounds perfect,” Susan said, grateful for the normalcy of the suggestion. Cookbooks she could handle. Professional decisions about her future could wait.
At least for now.
Chapter 13
Paul stood at the Lakeside Grill’s prep counter, running his knife through a pile of herbs. Two days had passed since he’d kissed Susan. Two days since they’d admitted they wanted to try building something together.
Two days, and he still couldn’t quite believe it was real.
Harry glanced over from where he was portioning chicken breasts. “You okay, Chef? You’ve been chopping that parsley for five minutes. It’s basically dust at this point.”
Paul looked down at the cutting board, realizing Harry was right. The herbs had gone from chopped to pulverized. “I guess I got distracted.”
“By a certain cooking teacher?” Harry’s grin was knowing. “Jenny said she saw you and Susan leaving together Monday afternoon. She said you both looked pretty happy.”
Heat rose to Paul’s face. “We’re collaborating on the menu.”
“Sure you are.” Harry’s tone was teasing but kind. “For what it’s worth, Chef, I think it’s great. You’ve seemed different this week. Less intense, somehow.”
Paul wanted to deny it, but Harry was right. He was happier than he’d been in a long time. The constant weight of loneliness that had pressed on his chest for years had eased, replaced by something that felt dangerously like hope.
He thought about Susan constantly—the way she’d tasted his crab cakes with her eyes closed in concentration, the soft sound she’d made when he’d tucked her hair behind her ear, and the courage it had taken for both of them to admit they wanted to explore what was happening between them.
The courage it would take to actually follow through.
Because admitting you wanted something was easy compared to the daily work of building it. Paul knew that better than anyone. He’d spent twenty years learning exactly how to destroy the things he claimed to want the most.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Paul pulled it out, expecting to see a text from Susan. They’d been exchanging messages throughout the week, casual updates about recipe ideas and scheduling, carefully avoiding anything too heavy or too honest.
But the caller ID showed a number he didn’t recognize. A California area code.
Paul’s stomach dropped.
He hadn’t lived in California for three years. He’d cut ties with almost everyone from his old life when he’d moved to Montana. The only people who still had this number were his brother Marcus, a handful of former colleagues, and?—
Paul’s throat tightened.
And Michelle.
“I need to take this,” Paul said to Harry, already moving toward his office at the back of the kitchen. “Hello?”
