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He smiled as he began chopping an onion into quarters. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
I gestured to where he was expertly chopping some green leafy thing I couldn’t even name. “Can I help?”
He slid what he’d been chopping off the knife into a silver bowl next to the board. “Nope. I’ve got this. You entertain me.”
“Entertain you? Ha.” I took a sip of wine. “You want a story about Mud Gulch? Okay, there is this legend…”
“Ohhh,” he dragged out the word, “I love a good legend.”
“It’s named Mud Gulch because when the early settlers first landed on our shore, the mud in the valley at the edge of town mysteriously pulled at the feet of some, and didn’t with others. The Indigenous people explained that the earth there connects to human heartbeats, staking claim to some, and not to others—for mysterious reasons unknown, of course.”
A smile floated around his beautifully shaped lips, his eyes held on his working hands, now chopping garlic so fast, the knife was practically a blur. “It asks some to stay and tells others they’re free to go?”
“So the legend says. Only, no one really believes it at this point. It’s just a fun story that probably has to do with the shoes you’re wearing as you walk through the valley of mud.”
“So, your family was wearing the right shoes, I take it?” he asked as he dropped pasta into the water now boiling on the stove top.
“Or wrong, depending on your opinion of life in Mud Gulch. But yes, according to legend, the earth pulled at my ancestors and asked them to stay.” I thought it was more likely the sea and the need to feed their families compelled them to make a home there, as I came from a long line of fishermen. But whatever the case, generations of Casteels had raised children in that small fishing town, enough of them feeling the pull to stay that, a hundred and fifty years later, we remained there still.
“And you?” he asked. “Has the mud staked its claim on you?” Something moved across his face, an expression that was too fleeting for me to attempt to name.
I took a long sip of wine and then shook my head as I swallowed. “No. I’ve always felt this pull…elsewhere.” I thought about how being here had seemed to free my thoughts surrounding that incessant pull. Perhaps I’d been scared to attach it to my paternal parentage because doing so would make it seem like I wasn’t appreciative of all the sacrifices my mother’s family had made for my sake, and the fact that I’d been loved so well. “It’s so difficult to explain because even I don’t understand it completely. Maybe the pull is just from inside of me…all of my unanswered questions, my longing to know who and where the other half of me came from… Or maybe it was my father,” I said, the words releasing on a breath, the admittance making me quake inside just a bit. “Calling to me in some mysterious way.”
He watched me for a moment, his expression soft. “Ah. You’re a romantic, Aurora Casteel.”
I felt heat infuse my face. It did sound romantic. Fanciful. And maybe silly too, though it didn’t feel that way. It felt true. And that truth simultaneously brought fear and a surge of relief. “Me? No. No, I don’t have a romantic bone in my body,” I insisted, waving my hand as though to scatter the notion. “It’s just the wine.”
He gave me a one-eyed squint, his lips tipping in a smile, but didn’t respond other than that. I watched him as he drizzled oil in a pan and then tossed in the ingredients he’d just chopped, a delicious aroma of basil and garlic rising in the air. Then he grabbed something from the refrigerator and added that to the pan of aromatic ingredients. Shrimp, I thought, my mouth beginning to water with all the delicious smells floating in the air. The last thing I’d eaten was a granola bar and coffee for breakfast. I’d been too nervous about the blood test to eat anything at all for lunch.
Mesmerized, I watched him work for a minute, his muscles loose, demeanor relaxed. He very obviously had an affinity for cooking. The way he moved as he chopped and whisked…it almost struck me as a sort of graceful dance. It looked natural and effortless. And something about his languid movements when he was preparing food reminded me of the way he’d moved over me on that pool table.
With skill and passion.
I quickly moved that aside with another glug of wine. “So tell me about your hometown,” I said, my voice slightly breathy. “Is your family originally from Calliope?”
He opened the oven door and looked in, peeking at a loaf of French bread I hadn’t even noticed him put inside, probably too busy staring at his ass every time he turned around and daydreaming about the things he’d done to me at Cakes and Ale. I picked up my wine and drained the glass.
“No, actually. My mother’s family is from here, but my father is from Boston. He grew up very poor but was smart and did well in school. He bought some rental properties with money he saved from working three jobs because he had a gut feeling about the area. That gut feeling paid off and he ended up selling them for ten times what he paid. He used that profit to buy more properties, kept listening to his gut and made his first million when he was thirty years old.
“My mother was the daughter of a business associate and he met her when he was traveling, fell in love, and moved to Calliope. He got in early on the investment properties that went up on the lakeshore which increased his net worth significantly, and then built The Buchanan when I was in college, the first in a string of luxury hotels bearing the family name. In the years since I started working at his company, we’ve built five more across the U.S. His ultimate dream is that someday the Buchanan name will be synonymous with Marriott or Hilton.”
“Thanks,” I said as Gage poured more wine in my glass. “And you’re following in his footsteps? To run the hotel dynasty one day?”
Gage picked up the pot of pasta and poured it in a strainer in the sink, the steam billowing in the air. His shoulders suddenly seemed stiff whereas he’d been so relaxed until he’d begun speaking about working with his father. He shook the strainer and then added the pasta to the pan of shrimp and tomatoes and whatever other delicious-smelling ingredients were in there. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I’m following in his footsteps. But more importantly, I’m helping him expand his empire internationally when we build the first of our European hotels in London.”
Right, London. It sounded like it should be exciting. So why did he seem less than overjoyed about that? “Are you…is there something else you’d rather do?”
His eyes met mine. “What? No, of course not. I’ve known I was going to take over my father’s company my whole life. It’s always been the plan, and I couldn’t be more honored to be entrusted with his life’s work. He sacrificed so much to live the life he’s created for all of us. It took perseverance and grit and drive like I couldn’t possibly understand having been born into the privilege he created.” He tossed the ingredients in the pan, appearing almost…breathless after the long string of words he’d just spoken.
He turned, reaching into a cabinet and pulling out two plates that he then set down, one in front of me, and the other to my left. As he was collecting silverware from a drawer next to the stove, I said, “I understand the honor of being entrusted to keep something alive that was built with the blood, sweat, and tears of generations before you,” I said. When he turned back to face me, I followed with, “And I also understand the pressure.”
He held eye contact for a few beats before his gaze slid away almost guiltily as he opened his mouth to say something, obviously decided against whatever it’d been as he let out a long breath. “I guess it can be both,” he finally said.
I nodded. Why do I have the feeling it’s more the latter than the former for you, Gage Buchanan?
But before I could say anything more, he began dishing up the steaming pasta, the cloud of fresh herbs and spices mixed with something creamy and decadent meeting my nose. I closed my eyes and inhaled, all rational thoughts fleeing. “My God, that smells good,” I said.
When I opened my eyes, I saw that Gage’s heated gaze was hanging on me. The moment felt heavy with the potential for physical pleasure and my blood began buzzing in my veins. I saw Gage swallow and then he moved, dishing a heaping serving of pasta onto my plate and breaking the momentary spell, his voice hoarse as he said, “Let’s eat.”
