Page 72

Without looking up from the pastry tin, Emma held out her left hand into empty air. "Zester."

Victoria didn't even pause her mental math. She reached to her right, picked up the microplane from the drying rack, and placed the handle squarely into Emma’s open palm.

From the back doorway, a loud, dramatic groan broke the quiet.

Lucy was leaning against the frame, holding a bucket of fresh dahlias for the dining room tables, staring at the two of them with an expression of profound disgust.

"I can't watch this anymore," Lucy announced, marching into the kitchen and setting the bucket on the floor. "It’s sickening. Three weeks ago you two were ready to murder each other with a rolling pin, and now you’re passing kitchen utensils by telepathy. Who are you, and what have you done with the terrifying woman from Manhattan?"

"I am optimizing kitchen workflow, Lucy," Victoria replied, turning a page in the ledger without looking up. "If I hand her the tool, she doesn't track flour across the floor I just swept."

"You swept the floor," Lucy deadpanned, looking at Emma. "Em, blink twice if you've put something in her coffee."

Emma grinned, grating lemon peel over the honey glaze. "She likes sweeping. She says my technique is inefficient."

"It is," Victoria murmured. She stood up from the stool, carrying her empty teacup toward the sink. To get there, she had to pass directly behind Emma.

She didn't leave space between them anymore. As she walked past, Victoria let her free hand settle naturally against the warm curve of Emma’s hip, her fingers brushing the cotton of her apron, pressing a quick, unthinking kiss to the bare skin at the nape of Emma’s neck before continuing to the tap.

Emma didn't jump. She just leaned back an inch into the touch, a soft, private smile curving her mouth as she kept grating the lemon.

Lucy slapped both hands over her eyes. "Oh, good Lord. Domesticity. In my presence. I’m leaving before you start discussing curtain fabrics. Tell Chloe she still owes me a text back about which wine she likes."

"Leave my sister alone, Lucy," Victoria called out, though there was zero heat in the warning.

Lucy winked, backing out the screen door and letting it slam shut behind her.

The kitchen fell back into a warm, sunlit quiet. Emma set the zester down, turning around to lean her hips against the counter. She caught Victoria by the belt loop of her jeans as she walked back from the sink, tugging her into the space between her knees.

"Did you finish the invoices?" Emma asked softly, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of dark hair behind Victoria's ear.

"Almost," Victoria murmured, resting her hands on Emma's waist, breathing in the scent of roasted honey and vanilla. "Mrs. Higgins overpaid by four pounds again. I think she's trying to bribe you for the scone recipe."

"She's bribing you, actually," Emma corrected with a quiet laugh, leaning in to brush her lips against Victoria's mouth—slow, unhurried, tasting of sweet glaze. "She told me this morning you're the polite one."

"Mrs. Higgins is an exceptionally poor judge of character," Victoria whispered against her lips.

The bell at the front reception desk chimed once, signaling the final weekend checkout. Emma sighed against Victoria's mouth, giving her waist a reluctant squeeze before stepping back. "Give me five minutes to take the Portmans' keys and wipe down the desk."

"Take your time," Victoria said.

The moment Emma pushed through the swinging door into the hallway, the smile lingered on Victoria’s face for three seconds—until her phone vibrated against the butcher block.

The sound was sharp, cutting cleanly through the hum of the refrigerator.

Victoria looked down at the screen. The twenty-one days evaporated in a single heartbeat.

There were two notifications. The first was an automated alert from the county registry: Phase II Environmental Compliance Survey: APPROVED & CLEARED.

The second was an email from Harrison, marked high priority.

Your three-week stall tactic is officially over, Victoria. The county cleared the dirt. Vance’s final demolition intent is attached. I expect your digital signature in my inbox by 5:00 PM EST today, and I expect you on the Monday morning flight to JFK. If that document is not signed before I leave the office tonight, I will convene an emergency board vote at dawn and strip every single share attached to your name.

Victoria’s fingers went ice cold. The air in the bright, warm kitchen suddenly felt impossible to breathe. There were no more surveys to request. There were no more legal loopholes left to pull. The clock had hit zero.

Before she could even process the panic tightening around her throat, the swinging door pushed open again.

Victoria snapped the phone screen face-down onto the ledger, schooling her features into stillness just as Emma walked back in, a tea towel dangling from her fingers.