“Not anymore,” Kirk replied.
“No,” she agreed. “Not anymore.”
The greenhouse was quiet around them, filled only with the soft drip of the irrigation system and the distant call of birds outside. Kirk studied her face, searching for any sign of doubt or hesitation.
There was none.
When their lips met, it felt different from all the kisses that had come before—not desperate like their first, not wonder-filled like the one after his shift, not wild like the ones they had shared in the forest. This kiss held something steadier. Something that felt like a beginning.
Kirk drew back slightly, his forehead resting against hers. “I love you,” he said simply, the words he had been holding back finally finding their way out. “And I love Percy too.”
Isla’s eyes filled with tears, but she was smiling. “I love you too,” she whispered. “So much it terrifies me sometimes.”
“Then let me spend the rest of my life proving you’re safe with me,” Kirk promised, drawing her closer. “Because this chili farmer isn’t going anywhere. Not through the good, and not through the bad.”
“Add in a little spice now and then, and I’m sold,” she said lightly.
“Oh, I was thinking plenty of spice,” he said, kissing her lips again. “All the spice you can handle.”
“Show me,” she murmured, breathless.
And he did.
Epilogue
The cursor blinked on the blank screen, a steady rhythm like a heartbeat. Isla stared at it, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. For the first time in years, her audience wasn’t waiting for her signature takedown of some hapless restaurant. They were waiting for whatever she chose to become next.
Sunlight streamed through the greenhouse glass, warming her shoulders as she sat at the small wooden desk Kirk had built for her the month before. It fit perfectly in the corner near his prized Scotch Bonnet peppers—plants he swore produced better fruit when they could “hear her typing.” She smiled at the thought, running her fingers along the smooth edge of the desk.
Percy’s dinosaur figures were scattered across the potting bench nearby, a plastic Stegosaurus standing guard over a row of seedlings. Her favorite blue mug—the one with the chipped handle—sat half-full of coffee beside her laptop. Little signs that this greenhouse, this home, belonged to all of them now.
“Mom, is it time yet?” Percy called from where he was carefully arranging small pots in a row.
“Almost, honey. Let me finish this first paragraph.”
Isla took a deep breath and began to type, the words coming slowly at first, then faster as she found her rhythm.
For years, I’ve built my reputation on telling you what not to eat,she wrote.Today, I want to start telling you what you should.
She paused, rereading the line. It was simple. Direct. Honest. Nothing like the sharp, clever, brutal voice her followers hadcome to expect. But that voice did not fit anymore—hadn’t for a while now.
I’m leaving behind the takedowns and the clever critiques,she continued.Instead, I want to celebrate the growers, the cooks, the makers—the people who pour their hearts into creating food with care and intention.
The words flowed more easily now, her fingers dancing across the keys as she outlined her new direction. A series focused on small producers, family restaurants, and traditional techniques. Stories that built up rather than tore down.
And I’m beginning this journey where my own journey began again—at Thornberg Restaurant in Bear Creek.
As she typed the name, warmth spread through her chest. When she had arrived in this small town, she had planned to write a scathing review of its most famous restaurant. Now she was living here, loving here, building a new life with the family who owned it.
Thornberg Restaurant isn’t just about the food—though the food is exceptional,she wrote.It’s about the connection between the land and the plate. The respect for ingredients. The understanding that a meal is more than sustenance—it’s community.
She described the restaurant’s commitment to local sourcing, the seasonal menu that changed with what the land provided, and the generations of care that went into each dish. She wrote it with honesty and with the quiet pleasure of someone who had remembered why food mattered.
Someone in Bear Creek reminded me why I fell in love with food in the first place,she typed, thinking of the day Kirk had taken them foraging for forest treasures.He showed me that true heat isn’t about burn—it’s about depth. About the layersthat unfold on your palate, telling the story of sun and soil and careful tending.
“Mom! Can I help now?” Percy appeared at her side, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Perfect timing,” Isla said, saving her document. “Ready to be my assistant?”
