We kiss every night—when she arrives, sometimes while cooking, always before she leaves. But each kiss feels different now. They’re still sweet, still make my heart race and my hands shake. But there’s something haunting about them, something that tastes like goodbye even though neither of us has said the word.
Like she’s memorizing the feeling of my lips on hers because she knows it won’t last.
I’m terrified she’s going to break up with me. The thought sits heavy in my stomach, making it hard to eat, hard to sleep, hard to focus on anything else. And the worst part is I don’t know why. I’ve replayed every conversation, every moment, trying to figure out what I did wrong or what changed.
Was it too much, too fast? Did I push too hard by telling her I was falling for her? Did my mother’s visit scare her off, make her realize how complicated my family dynamics are?
Or is it simpler than that—did she just realize I’m not worth the trouble?
“River?”
I blink and find Kiera watching me, concern creasing her forehead. “You okay? You zoned out there for a minute.”
“Yeah.” I force a smile. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
She doesn’t push, just returns her attention to the menu. Another sign something’s wrong. The old Kiera would have made a sarcastic comment about me getting lost in my own head. This version just lets it slide.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” she says, and there’s genuine warmth in her voice. “This place is incredible.”
I look around Le Jardin, trying to see it through her eyes. The restaurant occupies a converted Victorian mansion on the mainland, all ornate crown molding and original hardwood floors. Vintage French posters line the walls, and soft jazz plays underneath the murmur of conversation. Our table is tucked into a corner by a window overlooking the garden—hence the name—where fairy lights twinkle among the roses.
“I picked it because of the reviews,” I say. “But also because I wanted to challenge you tonight.”
Her eyebrows raise. “Challenge me how?”
“I want you to taste the dishes and try to guess what ingredients are in them.” I lean forward, warming to the idea I’ve been planning all week. “The chef here is known for his complex flavor profiles and unexpected ingredient combinations. I thought it would be good practice for the competition—training your palate to identify individual components in a finished dish.”
For the first time in days, genuine excitement lights up her face. That sparkle I’ve been missing flares to life, and it makes my chest ache with relief and longing all at once.
“That’s brilliant,” she says. “I’ve been so focused on cooking that I haven’t thought enough about developing my palate. Judges probably taste hundreds of dishes—they can identify ingredients in seconds.”
“Exactly.” I gesture to the menu. “So let’s order a variety of things. We can share everything, and you can try to break down each dish.”
She grins—a real, unguarded grin that reminds me of the night we walked on the beach under the moonlight. “You’re on.”
We order an array of dishes, probably too much food for two people but perfect for a tasting challenge. Kiera chooses a butternut squash soup to start, and I add the duck confit and the pan-seared sea bass. For dessert, we decide on the chocolate soufflé and the lavender crème brûlée.
When the soup arrives in delicate porcelain bowls, Kiera leans over it and inhales deeply, her eyes closing.
“Okay,” she says, picking up her spoon. “Let me taste it first without analyzing, just to get the overall impression.”
She takes a small spoonful, lets it rest on her tongue for a moment, then swallows. I watch her face, the way her expression shifts as she processes flavors.
“It’s fabulous,” she says. “Sweet from the squash, obviously. But there’s something else, something that gives it depth.” She takes another spoonful, this time holding it in her mouth longer. “Brown butter. Definitely brown butter—I can taste the nuttiness. And sage, but it’s subtle, not overpowering.”
“What else?”
She takes a third taste, concentrating. “There’s a brightness to it. Lemon? No, not lemon. Something citrus but different.” Her brow furrows. “Maybe orange zest? And there’s a warmth at the back of my throat. Not spice exactly, but...” She pauses, thinking. “Nutmeg. Just a hint of nutmeg.”
I grin at her. “Keep going.”
“The texture is incredibly smooth, which means they probably used heavy cream. But there’s also this silkiness that makes me think they might have finished it with a touch of mascarpone or crème fraîche.” She sets down her spoon, looking pleased with herself. “How did I do?”
“I have no idea,” I admit. “But that was impressive.”
The duck confit arrives next, the skin crackling and golden, served over a bed of what looks like braised cabbage with pearl onions and bacon. Kiera goes through the same process—smelling, tasting, analyzing.
“Duck confit is pretty straightforward,” she says. “Salt, herbs, duck fat for the cure. But this glaze...” She takes another bite. “It’s complex. There’s definitely a fruit component—cherry, maybe? Or fig? Something dark and sweet. And there’s acid balancing it. Red wine reduction for sure. But there’s something else, something I can’t quite place.”
