I’m in my element here. I pipe choux pastry, I glaze tarts, I temper chocolate. My hands move on autopilot, executing the techniques I’ve spent a lifetime perfecting. But my mind is not fully on the pastry station.
It keeps drifting back to the parking lot. The way her lower lip trembled. The resilience in her eyes when she said,I can handle it.She’s hurting. I can taste it in the air around her. And my Alpha instincts are howling at me to fix it, to wrap her up and feed her until the sadness recedes.
This isn’t just attraction. It’s a deep, resonant pull that scares me a little.
Around noon, while the kitchen takes a brief lull between lunch and dinner prep, I find myself thinking about Nai Nai. I remember the tiny apartment above the bakery in San Francisco. The windows would steam up from the humidity of the rising dough, and the whole neighborhood would smell like sugar and warm milk.
I was ten years old, sitting on a high stool while she kneaded dough for mooncakes. I had scraped my knee falling off my bike, and I was crying more out of embarrassment than pain. Shehadn’t just put a bandage on it. She had made me a steamed bun filled with sweet red bean paste.
“Eat, Eli,”she had told me in Cantonese, her voice raspy but kind.“Food is medicine for the heart. When you hurt here,”she tapped her chest,“you must fill your stomach. It reminds the body that life is sweet, that there is still good in the world.”
She taught me that baking is an act of love. It’s a way to sayI see you, I care for you,without ever speaking a word. That philosophy became the backbone of my career. It’s why I’m here in Fox Hollow, why I pour my soul into every crust and custard.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, needing a connection to that part of me. I dial my sister, Lily.
She answers on the third ring, looking exhausted in her scrubs, her hair pulled back in a severe bun. The background of her video feed is the sterile white of the hospital break room.
“Eli?” She rubs her eyes. “Is everything okay? It’s the middle of the day for you.”
“Everything is fine,” I assure her, leaning against the prep table. “Just needed a break. How are things in the ER?”
“Crazy. Flu season is starting early.” She sighs, taking a sip of coffee. “But I’m alive. How is the restaurant? Knox still grumpy?”
I chuckle. “Constantly. But the business is good. We’re breaking even, finally.”
“That’s good. Mom and Dad were asking about you. They want to know when you’re coming to visit.”
“Soon. I promise.” I pause. “How are you? Really?”
Lily softens. “I’m tired. But I like helping people. You know? Reminds me of why you do the baking thing. It’s the same energy, just… more blood.”
“And significantly higher stakes than a fallen soufflé,” I say, my voice dropping an octave. “Just don’t forget to take care of yourself while you’re taking care of everyone else. I need youfunctional so I have someone to complain to when Knox finally loses it.”
She laughs, a genuine sound that cuts through the exhaustion in her eyes. “I can handle the ER, Eli. You can handle B&B. Now go back to your flour and sugar before you start getting sentimental on me.”
“Too late for that,” I admit, offering a small, tired smile to the camera. “Get some sleep, Lil. Love you!”
“Love you too, little brother.” She smiles, and for a second, she looks like the girl I grew up with, not the overworked doctor. “Call me on the weekend. I want to hear more.”
“I will.”
I hang up, sliding the phone back into my pocket. The connection steadies me. I’m not just waiting for Amber’s arrival; I have a life here, a purpose. But she has become a new variable, a fascinating unknown in a recipe I thought I had perfected.
The afternoon drags on, the kitchen shifting from the high heat of service to the methodical cleanup and prep for tomorrow. Knox is in full drill sergeant mode, reorganizing the spice rack and critiquing the way the line cooks stacked the clean pans.
Around four o’clock, Knox finally stops. He looks down at his watch, then up at the ceiling, rolling his shoulders. The tension in his posture releases, just a fraction.
“I’m done,” he announces, his voice gravelly with fatigue. “Service was solid, but my brain is fried.”
“Go home,” I tell him, wiping down the stainless steel counter. “We’ve got this.”
Knox nods, untying his apron. He hangs it up with precision, the folds exact. “I left a portion of the lamb stew on the back burner, Fallon. Make sure you eat it. Don’t fill up on junk.”
“Yes, Mom.” Fallon salutes from the sink, where he is scrubbing a large pot.
Knox shoots him a glare that lacks any real heat. He grabs his coat and bag. “Lock up properly. See you tomorrow.”
He walks out, the heavy door swinging shut behind him. The silence he leaves in his wake is profound.
