Following Nero to his car, she felt a pang of guilt.
She should be working on her recipes, even though it was Sunday.
Her throat tightened. Sundays had often been spent with Tito.
It was the one day neither of them worked, making it easier to meet.
Sometimes in public, where he’d introduce her as his recipe tester.
Never once had he shared that she’d been his recipe creator for years.
Yes, that was another secret Tito kept close. He could cook, sure, but when it came to creativity, to trying new flavors or setting trends, he had nothing. His fame had been built on the backs of others. Of her.
Not that she believed using others’ work was inherently wrong.
Plenty of chefs didn’t invent their own dishes, just like not every singer wrote their own songs.
But the difference was, those chefs gave credit where it was due.
And those songwriters earned royalties. Tito had always negotiated hard on Sophie’s fees.
He was not a generous man. Not with money, and not with his love.
“Are you sure you want to come?” Nero asked as they reached the car. “I don’t want you to feel obliged. If you would rather use the kitchen…”
“No,” she replied quickly, aware she must have zoned out. “I want to come. And time away from my notes will give my ideas time to marinate.”
Nero cracked a grin. “I’ve never thought of it like that, but I know what you mean. Sometimes getting out of the workshop, being in nature, that’s when the ideas come. There’s so much inspiration out here.” He nodded toward the trees.
“Exactly,” she said as she slid into his bright red convertible. “It’s not exactly built for these mountain roads, is it?”
Nero patted the polished dashboard and said, “It’s worth getting stranded up here a few times a year just to have the pleasure of driving with the top down and the wind in your hair.”
“You make a good point,” Sophie agreed. There was something freeing about the feel of the wind in your hair. Even if it did nothing for her appearance. She’d have to detangle the knots later.
He started the car and drove away, top down. Sophie brushed her hair from her face, resisting the urge to whoop with joy. The ride was invigorating. The scenery, awe-inspiring. And the man beside her? Equally so. He stirred something inside her she hadn’t felt in far too long.
They drove on. Sophie stared up at the distant peaks, breathed in the scent of pine and earth, and marveled at the colors flashing past. No wonder Nero was inspired. She could feel it. And she wanted to taste it—to distill it all into the perfect selection of recipes.
“Do you smell that?” she asked, leaning forward as they rounded a bend. “Pine, and something sweet.”
“Wildflowers,” Nero answered, eyes on the road. “The bees love them. Makes the honey special.”
Sophie closed her eyes, letting the scent soak into her senses. “Pine-infused honey glaze,” she murmured. “Over a dark chocolate tart with fresh berries.”
Nero glanced at her, amusement in his eyes. “Creating already?”
“I can’t help it,” she admitted. “It’s how my mind works. Scents become flavors, feelings become textures.”
“Like how this drive feels like the first bite of something unexpectedly delicious?” he asked.
Sophie turned to look at him, surprised by his insight. “Yes, exactly like that.”
Their eyes met briefly before Nero returned his attention to the road. But in that fleeting moment, something passed between them, a recognition, a connection that went deeper than their brief acquaintance should allow.
The car slowed as they approached a small cabin nestled among towering pines. It was the perfect setting. Quiet, secluded.
The kind of place where two people could learn everything there ever was to know about another person. And love them unconditionally.
Sophie smiled at the sentiment. What would it be like, she wondered, to build a life with someone who would still look at you with the same love after fifty years that they had on your wedding day?
She couldn’t imagine that with Tito. Even before discovering his betrayal, she’d sensed an expiration date. It was obvious now that he had never been the forever kind of love she was looking for.
But as she watched Nero carefully tuck the velvet box into his jacket pocket, his movements precise and respectful of the treasure within, Sophie found herself wondering what kind of man he was. The forever kind? Or just another Tito, wrapped in a more appealing package?
As they reached the door, Sophie hesitated. Everything about Nero, from his quiet confidence, his passion for his craft, and the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, told her he was genuine. Yet a small voice inside whispered caution. Tito had seemed real, too, at first.
She hated that he’d left her like this, unable to trust her own heart. That he’d made her build walls around her heart. They might be for protection, but they were also suffocating.
The door opened before she could spiral further. An elderly man with gray hair and striking pale blue eyes greeted them, surprise and warmth in his gaze.
“Nero, I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” he said.
“I worked through the night to match the emeralds and repair the clasp,” Nero replied. “So, I thought I’d drop off the bracelet, so you’d have it in time. I didn’t want you to stress over not being able to return it to Hilda.”
Norman’s face lit up. “You must have read my mind. I was worried you might not be able to match the emeralds before the special day.”
“Take a look.” Nero opened the box with quiet pride.
Norman gasped. “It looks like new.”
“I polished all the stones, cleaned the gold, and checked over all the fixings,” Nero replied, his voice filled with well-deserved pride.
“It’s just like the day I gave it to Hilda on our wedding day.” Norman smiled as he accepted the box, his eyes distant, as if he were reliving the moment once more. “The emeralds matched her eyes, you see.”
“Norman, who is it?” a woman’s voice called from inside the cabin.
Norman quickly snapped the box shut and pressed his finger to his lips in a conspiratorial gesture. “It’s young Nero Thornberg and his...” His gaze flicked to Sophie, then back to Nero. “Friend,” he finished, though Sophie had a feeling that wasn’t the word he’d intended to use.
If she had to guess, he was going to say “mate.” It was a curious word she’d heard more than once since arriving in Bear Creek, always spoken with more weight than its dictionary definition carried.
“Come in...” An elderly woman appeared behind Norman and then froze when she saw Sophie, her face lighting up with recognition.
“Eat it Simple with Sophie! Why didn’t you say!
” Hilda beckoned enthusiastically. “Come in, come in. I’ve just pulled a batch of your lemon-thyme shortbread cookies from the oven. I’d love you to try them.”
“Oh, we don’t want to intrude,” Sophie said, glancing at Nero.
“Are you kidding me?” Hilda asked, her tone brooking no argument. “Come in.”
They followed the elderly couple inside, and Sophie found herself mesmerized by the way Hilda and Norman moved together. It was as if they anticipated each other’s movements, communicating with shared looks and subtle gestures. It was as if they had learned the silent language of love.
The cabin was warm and cozy. Snug would be a good word to describe it, filled with handcrafted furniture and shelves of books. Photos spanning generations adorned the walls, telling the story of a life well-lived together.
When they sat down at the kitchen table, Norman poured tea while Hilda arranged the shortbread cookies on a hand-painted plate. They sat close, their arms brushing, Norman’s hand resting on Hilda’s.
“So, what brings you to town?” Hilda asked.
“The wedding expo,” Sophie explained as the couple exchanged a glance she couldn’t quite read.
“You two went along for wedding ideas?” Hilda asked, her eyes twinkling as she looked between Sophie and Nero.
“Oh, no, we are not a couple,” Sophie said quickly, feeling heat rise to her cheeks.
But sitting here with Nero, in the presence of these two lovebirds who had clearly found something rare and precious in each other, she couldn’t help but wish they were. The realization startled her, and she picked up her teacup and raised it to her lips to hide her confusion.
“We just met yesterday,” Nero added. But something in his voice made Sophie glance at him. There was a wistfulness there, a longing that mirrored her own.
“Yesterday?” Norman chuckled, exchanging another of those meaningful looks with his wife. “Some of the best things happen in an instant.”
“Like lightning,” Hilda agreed, squeezing her husband’s hand. “I knew the moment I saw Norman that he was special.”
“You ran the other way,” Norman teased.
“Well, you were covered in mud and looked like a wild man,” Hilda retorted, her eyes dancing with mirth. “But I came back, didn’t I?”
Sophie watched them, heart aching. This was what love should look like after fifty years. Deep and wide. And still sparkling like the most perfectly polished gem.
“Try one,” Hilda urged, pushing the plate of cookies toward Sophie. “I followed your recipe exactly, but I’m not sure I got the balance of lemon and thyme quite right.”
Sophie took a cookie, touched that this woman had made her recipe. The shortbread was buttery and crumbly, the flavors perfectly balanced. “It’s perfect,” she said honestly. “You’ve got a natural touch.”
“High praise from the master herself,” Norman said, taking a cookie for himself. “Hilda watches all your videos. Says you remind her of herself when she was younger, making something extraordinary out of simple ingredients.”
“That’s very kind,” Sophie murmured, deeply touched by their kind words.
“It’s the truth,” Hilda said. “Now, tell me the secret of your five-minute chocolate mug cake. I’ve tried it three times, and it keeps turning out too dry.”
Sophie leaned forward, grateful for the familiar territory of cooking advice. “The secret is in the milk measurement. Most people use too little because they’re afraid it won’t set properly. But you need that extra moisture to keep it from becoming rubbery.”
“I knew it!” Hilda exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “I kept second-guessing myself and adding less each time.”
“Trust your instincts,” Sophie said with a smile. “They’re usually right.”
And not just where cooking was concerned, she thought as she risked a sideways glance at Nero.
Their eyes met across the table, and Sophie felt that same jolt of recognition she’d experienced the day before.
Her instincts were telling her something about this man, something her rational mind wasn’t ready to accept.
“Speaking of instincts,” Norman said, his pale blue eyes twinkling as he looked between them, “sometimes the heart knows things the head hasn’t figured out yet.”
Sophie felt her cheeks warm again. Were they that obvious?
“Norman,” Hilda chided gently, though she was smiling. “Why don’t you go and pick some gooseberries from the garden for Sophie to use in one of her recipes?”
“Oh, you don’t have to go to any trouble,” Sophie insisted.
“It’s no trouble,” Hilda assured her. “It’s my way of saying thank you for your recipes.”
“I’ll come and give you a hand,” Nero finished his tea and set the cup down on the table.
When Nero and Norman had left the kitchen, Hilda leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile.
“He’s a good one, you know,” she said softly. “The Thornbergs are all good people, but Nero, he’s special. The kind who sees the beauty in broken things.”
Sophie didn’t know how to respond. Part of her wanted to explain that there was nothing between her and Nero, but another part—a growing part—hoped that wasn’t entirely true.