"Where did you learn to work a kitchen like that?" I asked, leaning against the counter.
"Le Cordon Bleu," she said, not looking up from the chocolate she was stirring. "In Paris. Two years of training."
My eyebrows rose. "That's impressive."
"Best and worst decision of my life," she said lightly.
"Why worst?"
"Long story." She glanced up with a quick smile. "Involves a cheating ex and some burned bridges in Denver. I'll spare you the details."
"Fair enough." I watched her hands work. "You could always look for restaurant work again."
"Maybe. Or maybe I'll open my own place someday. When I figure out how to make that happen."
The way she said it made me want to help somehow, but I kept that thought to myself. Too soon for that conversation.
"Here," she said, moving closer. "Let me show you how to do this."
She guided my hands, showing me how to dip the strawberries just right, how to twist them so the chocolate coated evenly. Her smaller hands corrected my grip, her body close enough that I could feel the heat of her.
"You're good at this," I said, my voice coming out lower than I'd intended.
"I love baking. Cooking. There's something about working with your hands." Her voice took on a wistful quality as she continued dipping strawberries. "Imagine a real kitchen—not a food truck, but a proper professional kitchen with a full team. Where you're creating warm croissants by the hundred, not the dozen. Where you have a pastry team executing your vision, and the equipment to make anything you can dream up. The kind of place where you're not just surviving—you're creating art that people remember."
The longing in her voice was unmistakable.
"Sounds like you miss working at that level," I said, watching her face.
"Every single day." She held up a chocolate-dipped strawberry, examining it critically before setting it aside to cool. "Don't get me wrong—I'm grateful for Rise & Grind. But going from a professional kitchen where you have sous chefs and stations and endless possibilities... to working alone in a truck barely big enough to turn around in?" She shrugged. "It's not where I thought I'd end up with a Le Cordon Bleu degree."
Her honesty surprised me. And the vulnerability underneath it—the admission that she wanted more, deserved more—made me want to give it to her.
We worked together, her teaching and me learning, the simple act of making chocolate-covered strawberries somehow becoming the most erotic thing I'd done in months.
"Taste," she said, holding a strawberry up to my mouth.
I did. Bit down, felt chocolate and fruit burst on my tongue, but I was more focused on the way she watched my mouth, the slight flush on her cheeks.
"Good?" she asked.
"Very."
She reached up with her thumb, wiped a bit of chocolate from the corner of my mouth. Brought her thumb to her own lips and licked it clean.
Christ.
"What do you want from all this?" she asked as we arranged the finished strawberries on a plate, but I sensed she meant more than just the building. "The resort, this life you're building here?"
I considered the question. "Something that lasts. Something I build with intention, not just another acquisition to flip and forget. This is my last project, Ruby. My final one. Not another property to develop and sell. This is where I'm staying. This has to mean something."
"That's rare," she said softly. "Most people just want the profit."
"Profit matters. But there's got to be more than that, right?"
"Right," she agreed, and the way she looked at me made me think maybe we understood each other better than I'd expected.
We moved from the kitchen back to the couch, carrying the plate of strawberries and fresh glasses of wine. The fire had burned down to embers, casting everything in warm shadow.
