Chapter 1
MARCELLA
The short ribs are browning perfectly, and I’m trying not to take it as a sign.
Valentine’s Day. Of all nights to be standing in a stranger’s kitchen, humming over a Dutch oven like some hopeful romantic cliché.
“You’re humming,” Coralyn says through my phone’s speaker, her voice tinny but unmistakably smug. “You only hum when you’re happy-nervous. This is good. This isprogress.”
“I’m not humming.” I flip the meat with practiced ease, watching the caramelized crust form on the other side. The sizzle fills the small kitchen, and okay, maybe I was humming. A little. “I’m concentrating.”
“You’re making short ribs for a first date. On Valentine’s Day. That’s not concentrating, that’smanifesting.”
I can’t argue with that. My signature braised short ribs with red wine reduction isn’t exactly a casual Tuesday night meal. It’s the dish I make when I want to impress, when I want someone to taste how much care I’m capable of giving. The fact that I’m making it for a blind date with a man I’ve never met—on the most loaded, heart-shaped night of the calendar—probably says something about how desperate I am for this to go well.
Not desperate. Hopeful. There’s a difference.
“Tell me about him again,” I say, reaching for the bottle of cabernet I picked up in town. The wine glugs into the Dutch oven, releasing a cloud of aromatic steam that makes my shoulders drop half an inch. This, at least, I know how to do. This, I can control.
“Boyd Mitchell. Thirty-two. Finance something-or-other—don’t make that face, I know you’re making that face. He’snice, Marce. A little shy, which is why he wanted somewhere private for the first meeting instead of a restaurant. Very outdoorsy. Loves hiking.”
“You said that already.” I stir the deglazing liquid, scraping up the fond from the bottom of the pan. “Twice.”
“Because it’s important! You need someone who’ll actuallydothings with you instead of just criticizing everything you enjoy.” Coralyn’s voice softens, losing some of its manic matchmaker energy. “You deserve someone who sees how amazing you are. Boyd’s going to take one look at you, taste your cooking, and fall completely in love.”
The words hit somewhere raw, and I have to blink a few times before I trust my voice. “That’s a lot of pressure to put on short ribs. Especially on Valentine’s.”
“Your short ribs could end wars, babe. He doesn’t stand a chance.”
I laugh, and it comes out only slightly watery. Six months since the divorce was finalized, and I’m still not used to having someone in my corner like this. Stephen spent three years convincing me that my friends were too demanding, my cooking was a waste of time, myeverythingwas too much. Coralyn spent those same three years refusing to disappear, texting me stupid memes and showing up with wine whenever Stephen had a “work trip.”
She’s earned the right to set me up on questionable blind dates—especially on Valentine’s Day.
“Okay,” I say, adding beef stock to the pot. “Tell me about this cabin again. Tower Seven, right?”
“Tower Seven, up on Ridgeback Road. Super cozy, very romantic. Fireplace, mountain views, the whole thing. I told Boyd to meet you there at six.”
I glance at my phone’s screen. 4:47. Plenty of time to let the braise work its magic, get the root vegetables roasting, maybe even attempt the homemade bread I’ve been practicing. The kitchen is well-stocked—better than I expected for a rental—and whoever owns this place clearly knows their way around a meal. The spice rack alone is impressive, organized alphabetically with several varieties I don’t recognize.
“It’s really beautiful here,” I tell Coralyn, wandering toward the living area while the short ribs simmer. “Like,reallybeautiful. Whoever decorated has incredible taste.”
The furniture catches my eye again—it’s been catching my eye since I arrived. A leather armchair sits beside the stonefireplace, worn soft in all the right places. The coffee table looks handmade, its surface smooth and gleaming, the wood grain almost hypnotic in the afternoon light filtering through large windows. Built-in bookshelves line one wall, filled with what looks like an actual collection rather than decorator staging. Thrillers, survival guides, woodworking manuals. A few worn paperbacks with cracked spines.
“Rustic chic,” Coralyn agrees. “Very mountain man aesthetic. I thought you’d appreciate it.”
I run my fingers along the arm of a wooden dining chair, marveling at the craftsmanship. The joints are seamless, the curves organic, like the piece grew into this shape rather than being forced into it. There’s a signature carved into the underside—I spotted it earlier when I was setting the table. Just initials.F.M.
“Someone made all this furniture by hand,” I say. “It’s gorgeous. Like, museum-quality gorgeous.”
“Fancy rental. Boyd knows people.”
Something about that doesn’t quite track—the coffee mug in the sink, the slight indentation in the leather armchair, the way the bookshelves have that particular organized chaos of someone who actually reads—but I push the thought aside. Mountain rentals are different from city apartments. People probably leave their personal touches behind.
I drift back to the kitchen, checking on my braise. The smell is intoxicating: wine, herbs, the deep umami of searing meat. This is what I do best. This is who I am when I’m not trying to be smaller, quieter,less.
“I’m nervous,” I admit, surprising myself. “What if he doesn’t... what if I’m too...”
“Don’t.” Coralyn’s voice goes sharp. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Marcella Campos. You are not too anything. You’re exactly the right amount of everything, and if Boyd can’t see that, he doesn’t deserve your short ribs.”
