Meeting Nero had been freeing in more ways than Sophie could count. His unwavering optimism had started to rub off on her, gently chipping away at the cynicism left behind by betrayal.
Which was helpful, considering his fake proposal was still blowing up on social media.
To make things worse—or possibly better—the journalist who had approached her that morning had now posted a photo of her and Nero leaving the bakery.
It was slightly blurry, but her face was visible.
His arm was just behind hers, protective without touching.
Strangers on the internet were running wild with theories.
Sophie scrolled through her phone, torn between amusement and dismay. #FakeProposal was trending. Her notifications were a chaotic mix of speculation, support, and far too many opinions from people who didn’t know her.
At least the focus had shifted. The journalist’s new narrative speculated about her and Nero rather than dredging up gossip about her and Tito. That alone felt like a win.
With a sigh, she slipped her phone into her bag and focused on her grocery list. After checking out of the hotel, she’d stopped at Bear Creek’s compact but surprisingly well-stocked grocery store. If she was going to stay at The Lookout and use Nero’s kitchen, she wanted the right ingredients.
She moved through the aisles methodically, gathering fresh produce, fragrant herbs, and a few specialty items that sparked her curiosity.
Her mind buzzed with ideas—wild mushroom risotto with pine-infused cream, berry tarts glazed in mountain honey, herb-crusted trout with lemon and thyme. Recipes that belonged here.
As she placed her items on the checkout counter, she found herself smiling. For the first time in days, she felt excited about cooking again. Not just going through the motions to fulfill her contract with Tito, but genuinely inspired to create recipes people would love.
Speaking of love, she needed to come up with a recipe for the plump gooseberries Hilda and Norman had gifted her. It had to be something special, just like the couple themselves.
After paying, Sophie wheeled her cart to her car and began loading the grocery bags into the trunk. She glanced around the parking lot, half-expecting to see the journalist lurking between vehicles, phone camera ready. But there was no sign of him.
Still, as she drove out of town toward The Lookout, Sophie kept checking her rearview mirror. Just to be safe, she took a few extra turns on her drive up the mountain, circling back once or twice to be sure she wasn’t followed.
“You’re being paranoid,” she muttered, even as her eyes darted to the rearview mirror again. But the truth was, the last thing she wanted was for someone to discover she was staying at Nero’s place.
Not because it would fuel speculation about their relationship, but because this place—this quiet space Nero had offered—felt fragile and precious. She wanted to protect it.
And then there was Nero himself. Her fingers gripped the wheel a little tighter.
She still hadn’t shaken the sensation of his hand on her shoulder.
The charged energy that passed between them was like static, sending tingling sensations racing across her skin.
It lingered on her skin and in her thoughts.
“What is happening to me?” she whispered. She’d known the man for barely twenty-four hours, yet somehow, she felt more connected to him than she had to Tito after a year of dating. It defied logic.
Love at first sight? The thought seemed ridiculous, yet she couldn’t dismiss it entirely. There had been something—a recognition, a pull—from the moment he’d fallen at her feet with that ring box.
Sophie shook her head, forcing herself to be practical. She was on the rebound, that was all. Her heart was bruised from Tito’s betrayal, and Nero was kind and attentive and understood her. Of course, she was attracted to him. That didn’t mean they were somehow mystically connected.
The road narrowed as she climbed, the forest thickening around her.
She let the natural beauty ground her thoughts.
What mattered was her work. She had recipes to finish for Tito’s cookbook.
Not because he deserved them, but because she kept her promises.
She certainly wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of claiming she’d breached their contract.
No. She would finish the job—and then she’d be free.
And after that? Maybe Nero was right. Maybe this was her chance to step into the light.
A cookbook with heart. Recipes and stories woven together. She could start right here in Bear Creek, with Norman and Hilda’s fifty-year love story. Nero’s honey, the Thornberg wine.
By the time The Lookout came into view, she was overflowing with excitement. She parked beside Nero’s car and waited a moment, half-expecting him to emerge from the house to greet her. When he didn’t appear, a wave of disappointment washed over her.
“Don’t be silly,” she chided herself. “He’s probably busy in his workshop.”
Still, she couldn’t help wondering if she’d misread everything. Maybe Nero was just being kind, offering shelter to a woman clearly in distress. Maybe all those meaningful looks and charged moments existed only in her imagination.
Well, if that was the case, she would simply be a gracious guest. She would use his kitchen, complete her work, and thank him the best way she knew how—with food.
Sophie unloaded the groceries from the car and carried them to the kitchen, setting the bags on the counter. She began unpacking methodically, organizing ingredients by recipe and placing perishables in the refrigerator. Her suitcase could wait. Right now, she needed the comfort of cooking.
She tied on an apron, washed her hands, and scanned the kitchen layout. It was beautifully equipped, slightly old-fashioned, but all the more charming for it.
She set to work on a simple but memorable meal: wild mushroom risotto, roasted vegetables, a fresh herb salad, and berry tarts for dessert.
As she chopped onions, a familiar calm settled over her. This was where she belonged—here, in a kitchen, creating something from scratch. Whatever was happening with Nero could wait. Here, she was in control.
The kitchen door swung open.
She turned to see Nero—hair tousled, a smear of polish on his forearm. He froze in the doorway, eyes wide.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, rubbing a hand through his hair. “I lost track of time in the workshop.”
Sophie’s heart skipped at the sight of him. “It’s fine. I thought I’d make dinner as a thank you for letting me stay.”
“It smells amazing,” he said, stepping closer. His gaze skimmed the ingredients. “What’s on the menu?”
“Wild mushroom risotto with roasted vegetables.” She turned back to the cutting board. “Hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “Can I help?”
She hesitated. Normally, she declined offers of help—her kitchen was her domain. But something about the way he asked—earnest and unassuming—softened her.
“Sure,” she said, handing him a knife. “Dice the peppers while I finish the onions?”
He nodded, washed his hands, and joined her. They moved in sync, adjusting without speaking. She handed him a bowl before he could ask. He passed her a spoon just as she needed it. When he reached for the oil, she pointed without turning her head.
Their movements were effortless.
Like Norman and Hilda, she thought suddenly. That easy rhythm of two people who just fit.
“What?” Nero asked, catching her glance.
“Nothing,” she said, smiling as a blush rose to her cheeks. “This is nice.”
“It is,” he agreed, and the warmth in his voice made something unfurl inside her.
She wasn’t ready to name it yet. But it was real.
As they cooked, she found herself sharing more—her cookbook idea, her dreams for something meaningful. He listened, then offered to connect her with local farmers and families.
“Bear Creek is full of stories,” he said simply. “You just have to know where to look.”
Sophie blinked. “You’d help me with that?”
“Of course.”
Because it’s you, his voice seemed to say.
And for once, she didn’t question it.
They ate as the sun set, their silhouettes framed by golden light and floating dust motes. The food was perfect. The wine, exquisite. The moment—unexpectedly intimate.
And as Sophie looked across the table at Nero, she realized something that made her chest ache in the best possible way.
This didn’t feel temporary.
It felt like the beginning of something real.
Something like this.