I laugh, but it’s shaky. “Stephen said?—”
“Stephen is a soul-sucking narcissist who wouldn’t know a good thing if it braised itself in red wine and presented itself on a bed of roasted vegetables,” she says, her tone gaining steam. “Stephen’s opinion is worth less than gas station sushi. Stephen can take his criticisms and shove them directly up his?—”
“Okay, okay.” I’m actually laughing now, the tension in my chest easing. “Message received.”
“Good. Now, I have to go—my boss is giving me the look that means I’ve been on the phone too long during my break. But text me updates. I want to knoweverything. And Marce?”
“Yeah?”
“This is going to go so right. I can feel it.”
The call ends, and the ranger station—cabin, I remind myself,rental cabin—settles into comfortable silence around me. Just the crackle of the fire I started earlier, the gentle bubble of the braise, the wind picking up outside. Through the window, I can see snow-dusted peaks catching the last of the afternoon sun, all pink and gold and impossible.
I take a breath. Hold it. Let it go.
I’m Marcella Campos. I’m a food blogger with fifty thousand followers and a gift for making people feel loved through what I cook. I’m plus-size and passionate and probably too loud in restaurants. I’m divorced and scarred and stubbornly, foolishly hopeful.
And I’m done making myself small.
The words feel like a declaration, even if I’m the only one here to witness it. This is me, trying. This is me refusing to let Stephen’s voice in my head win.
I tie my hair back into a messy bun—functional, not cute, but Boyd’s going to have to deal with the reality of a woman who actually cooks. I survey my workspace. Root vegetables need peeling. Bread dough should probably get started if I’m going to attempt it. The table’s set with mismatched plates I found in the cupboard, a Valentine-themed candle I brought from home, cloth napkins that might be overkill but felt right.
It looks like someone’s home.
I lose myself in the rhythm of cooking, the way I always do. Peel, chop, toss with olive oil and herbs. Check the braise, adjust the seasoning, add another splash of wine. The kitchen fills with warmth and scent and the quiet satisfaction of making something good.
My blog followers would love this kitchen. The lighting’s incredible, all natural and golden, perfect for photos. I snap a few shots of the vegetables going into the oven, compose a caption in my head:Sometimes the wrong turn leads to the best discoveries. New series coming soon: Mountain cooking adventures?
Too corny. I delete the draft and focus on my bread dough instead.
By five-thirty, the ranger station smells like heaven—or at least like the most romantic dinner I’ve ever prepared. The short ribs are fall-apart tender. The bread is rising beautifully. The root vegetables are caramelizing into sweet, earthy perfection.
I light the candle on the table and step back to admire my work.
This feels right. All of it—the cooking, the setting, the attempt at vulnerability. Even if Boyd turns out to be boring or incompatible or not what I’m looking for, I’mhere. I’m trying. I’m refusing to let fear keep me from reaching for something good.
The wind howls outside, stronger now, and I notice the light has shifted from golden to gray. Snow flurries dance past the windows. A perfect night to be cozy inside with good food and maybe, possibly, someone worth sharing it with.
I smooth down my sweater—my favorite deep green one, the one that makes me feel pretty—and tuck a stray curl behind my ear.
“You’ve got this,” I tell myself. “You’re not too much. You’re exactly enough.”
The words feel foreign in my mouth, like a language I’m still learning. But I keep saying them, keep believing them, keep stirring my braising liquid and checking my bread and setting the scene for a new beginning.
I check the clock on the wall. 5:42. Still time before Boyd arrives. Still time to finish the bread, plate everything beautifully, maybe fix my hair into something more intentional than this messy bun.
But for now, I turn back to my braising liquid and let myself hum along to the music. Let myself enjoy this moment—the warmth of the kitchen, the smell of good food, the quiet hope blooming in my chest.
Maybe this will work, maybe not. But no matter how this date turns out, I know one thing: I’m enough.
Chapter 2
FINN
The aroma hits me fifty yards out.
Real food—wine, herbs, slow-cooked meat—drifting through the trees like some kind of cruel joke, especially today. Valentine’s Day. For most people, a night for flowers and dinners out. For me, just another evening alone—until now.
