Sophie held her breath as Nero lifted the fork to his mouth.
The bite held the perfect balance of the wild mushrooms she’d foraged that morning from the edge of his property, sautéed with herbs from his garden and a drizzle of his mountain honey.
She’d spent hours creating recipes that captured the essence of Bear Creek, dishes that told the story of this place that had unexpectedly begun to feel like home.
But would he taste what she was trying to convey? Would he understand the language she spoke best? The language of food, of memories made? The language of her heart?
“What do you think?” she asked, unable to mask the slight tremble in her voice as Nero chewed thoughtfully. His dark eyes closed momentarily, and Sophie studied the strong line of his jaw, the way his expression softened with every chew.
Why was she so nervous? It wasn’t as though she hadn’t had people taste her food before.
Her recipes had appeared in glossy magazines, been praised by critics, and devoured by patrons in Tito’s restaurant.
But this was different. Nero’s opinion mattered more.
Maybe because this food wasn’t about trends or technique.
It was personal. It was inspired not just by Bear Creek, but by him .
The realization startled her. Had Nero really become her muse so quickly? Yet there was no denying it. His dependable presence, his quiet encouragement, and his steadfast support had found its way into her cooking. And her heart.
Unlike Tito, who only valued her as an asset to his brand, Nero valued her simply for who she was.
He’d asked thoughtful questions about her inspirations, watched her cook with genuine interest, and offered his kitchen without conditions or expectations.
There were no strings attached to his kindness, no hidden agendas.
Just a sincere desire to see her succeed on her own terms.
How could she not lose her heart to such a man?
And now, as he swallowed that first bite, Sophie realized she was holding her breath, not for professional validation, but for something far more intimate.
“It’s incredible,” Nero said finally, his voice low with what sounded like awe. “The way the earthiness of the mushrooms plays against the sweetness of the honey... It’s like you’ve captured the forest on a plate.”
Relief flooded through her, warm and sweet as the honey she’d drizzled over the dish. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”
“Sophie,” Nero said, his gaze holding hers with an intensity that made heat infuse her very being. “I wouldn’t lie about something this important.”
She believed him. And that was the strange part. After Tito, after finding him in bed with Jules, she’d sworn she’d never trust so easily again. Yet here she was, three days after meeting Nero, believing him as if they’d known each other forever.
“I was worried I used too much seasoning,” she admitted, fiddling with her apron strings.
“No, I think there’s just enough,” Nero assured her, already reaching for another forkful. “The balance is perfect.”
Sophie relaxed into her chair, watching him eat with real pleasure.
She’d made four dishes—two savory, two sweet—each one a love letter to Bear Creek.
The mushrooms were the forest floor. Then, a trout fillet poached and paired with pine and lemon thyme, echoing the mountain streams. For dessert, a wild berry tart with a honeycomb tuile and, finally, pine nut brittle laced with dark chocolate.
“You have to try this next,” she said, nudging the trout toward him.
Nero cut into the fish and took a bite. His eyebrows lifted in surprise after the first bite. “The pine flavor is subtle but clear. How did you manage that?”
“I steeped the needles in warm butter, then strained them before making the sauce,” she explained, pleased he’d noticed. Most people wouldn’t have. “I wanted the taste of the forest to be subtle but not overpowering.”
He nodded appreciatively. “It’s brilliant. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
They moved on to the berry tart, and Nero took a moment to inhale the scent before tasting.
“This honey,” he murmured, “lavender, clover...and something citrusy?”
Sophie’s smile widened. “You’re good. Not many people would be able to decipher the flavors.”
“I grew up at the vineyard, remember?” Nero said with a modest shrug. “Wine tasting isn’t so different from honey tasting. It’s about paying attention to the subtle notes, and how they work together.”
“I’m impressed,” Sophie said.
“Not as impressed as I am,” Nero told her. “Okay, what’s next?”
As she reached the brittle, Sophie caught herself watching the way he licked a smear of chocolate from his fingers, slow and precise, like everything he did. Nero didn’t rush. He took his time as if everything he did had a purpose.
He lived in the present. Enjoyed the moment. Something she sure could learn from him.
“Oh, goodness, this is so good. You have a gift,” he said between bites. “The flavors are layered but never crowded. Just enough. Never too much.”
Sophie’s shoulders eased. It had been so long since she’d cooked like this, for the joy of it.
With Tito, every dish had been filtered through the lens of his brand. He’d hover in the kitchen, commenting on lighting or plating before she’d even finished a dish.
Nero asked nothing of her but authenticity. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t critique. He had simply left her to create, trusting that something beautiful would emerge. And it had.
The way he paid attention, without agenda or ego, made her feel more seen than a thousand five-star reviews ever had.
Tito had tasted to critique. Nero tasted to understand. And enjoy.
“I may have made a bit too much,” she admitted, eyeing the remaining portions. “Habit from developing recipes for group tastings.”
“That’s not a problem,” Nero said, eyes lighting up. “We could take the leftovers to the vineyard. Cassia, my brother’s girlfriend, runs the restaurant there, and she’d love to try your food. My parents would, too.”
Sophie blinked. “Oh. That sounds...wonderful.”
“There’s just one risk,” he said with a wink. “If Kris and Philip get to it first, there might not be anything left. Philip’s especially dangerous after a long day in the vines.”
Sophie laughed, surprised by how natural it felt. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should, although they would eat practically anything if they were hungry,” Nero said as he rose and began gathering the containers.
Sophie stood to help, still feeling the quiet thrum of nerves beneath her excitement. Was this too soon? Too much? She was still trying to rebuild her life, still patching together who she was without Tito. Getting close to Nero and to his family could complicate everything.
But as she watched him gently transfer the remaining tart to a container, his movements precise and unhurried, she couldn’t deny the pull he had on her. He wasn’t a rebound.
No, he was the first person in a long time who made her feel safe without making her feel small. He didn’t try to rescue her or fix her, he simply stood beside her. Listened. Shared. Respected.
And somehow, that felt more dangerous than anything.
They packed the dishes at an easy rhythm, falling into step as if they’d done this dozens of times. Sophie found containers in his neatly organized kitchen—“My mother’s influence,” Nero admitted with a sheepish smile—and lined each one with fresh herbs to protect the presentation.
“I’m looking forward to seeing the vineyard,” she said, snapping the final lid into place. “I’ve been thinking about how food and wine tell the story of a place. I’d love to include a chapter about that in the cookbook.”
“It’s the perfect setting,” Nero replied, eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Every bottle we make holds something of this land, its minerals, its air, its memory.”
The way he spoke made something stir deep inside her. His passion felt familiar. Like her own.
She hesitated. “Are you sure your family won’t mind? Me coming along, I mean?”
“They’ll be thrilled,” he said with easy certainty. “Especially when they taste what you’ve made.” Then, he added, “You don’t need to worry. My family isn’t complicated. What you see is what you get with the Thornbergs.”
Now that was quite a claim. But she was ready to believe him. To trust him. And maybe even to love him.
“Okay,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Let’s go to the vineyard.”