Page 48 of Blurred Lines

I all but roll my eyes.

On cue, Flo stands up. "Okay, guys, thanks for the lunch. I've got to go too—Em, if this place is too much for you right now, you can crash at mine."

Emily gives a grateful little nod. "You sure?"

Flo all but drags her up from her chair. "Don't ever ask me that again."

All of us leave the mansion in unison. I head to my little restaurant in Emberton—the one that started it all—but work doesn't go too well, not when Emily is all I have on my mind. I make up my mind, though, to bring Emily back here tomorrow.

With my day sorted, and basically spent achieving nothing, I decide her route is best: when you can't narrow down on anything, take a nap. I go back home, spend the evening on video call with my son, sort out some things with my lawyer, and give myself the luxury of an early bedtime.

The first thing I do in the morning, after getting my bed made, is prepare a cup of coffee. My old home, a cozy blend of British warmth and the vibrant spirit of Brazil, feels especially welcoming today. Maybe it's the warmth of the aged wood beneath my bare feet, or the way the sunlight catches the vibrant pottery my mother collected during her travels. It's been a while since I've slept here alone, and a comforting sense of nostalgia settles over me.

The familiar chime of a video call breaks into the peaceful silence. It's Brian, my cheeky little whirlwind of a six-year-old. His face beams across the screen, his half-eaten breakfast clutched in his hand.

"Daddy!" he yells, crumbs flying. "Guess what I'm having for breakfast!"

I brace myself. Brian's culinary explorations are … adventurous. "Let me see," I say, squinting dramatically at the screen. "Is that a pickle-and-banana sandwich with ketchup frosting?"

He dissolves into giggles, little pieces of breakfast escaping. "No, silly! It's Pop-Tarts," he declares with a flourish. "Strawberry. The best kind!"

I feign a fainting spell, clutching at my chest. "The horror! I raised a culinary barbarian!" My theatrics earn me another bout of giggles.

"I bet you're not eating Pop-Tarts for breakfast," he says through his mirth.

"Absolutely not," I say, holding up my mug for inspection. "See? Only the finest Colombian roast for this sophisticated palate."

"Boring," Brian declares, taking another enormous bite.

Just then, the rustle of fabrics makes me glance behind Brian. My mother has materialized, the screen catching a glimpse of her warm smile. "Caeleb, dear?" she asks, tilting her head in concern. "Is everything alright back home? I hear there's been some trouble with Harvey's estate."

"All under control, Mamãe," I reassure her. "Just the usual family squabbles." And a possible treasure hunt, I think wryly, but I see no reason to alarm her.

"Good," she says, her smile tinged with a touch of worry. "Stay safe. And remember, sometimes the simplest solutions are the best."

"Words of wisdom from the master," I chuckle, winking at Brian on the screen. We exchange goodbyes, and then it's time to focus on the day ahead.

A quick, refreshing shower invigorates me, the water washing away the last vestiges of sleep. Thoughts of Emily and the strange events swirling around her fill my head as I dress. We'd agreed to meet at my restaurant later. Something in her voice last afternoon told me she might need a bit of distraction, and what better distraction than a kitchen buzzing with energy?

The familiar scent of fresh herbs and simmering sauces greets me as I step into the restaurant. It's still early for the lunch rush, but the kitchen is a symphony of organized chaos. Sous chefs chop vegetables with rhythmic precision, line cooks sizzle fragrant meats, and the pastry team works their magic on decadent desserts.

My second-in-command, a whirlwind named Rosa, spots me and waves a spatula in greeting. "The boss arrives! We're just prepping for the onslaught."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," I grin, rolling up my sleeves. The kitchen is my domain, my battlefield, and today I intend to fight for Emily's smile.

I slip into the flow seamlessly, my practiced hands dicing vegetables, tossing salads, and putting the finishing touches on a particularly decadent seafood medley. The rhythm, the scents, the camaraderie—it all grounds me, reminds me of what truly matters.

The chime of the door signals a new arrival. Turning, I spot Emily walking in, a hint of hesitation in her steps. She takes in the scene—the controlled chaos, the gleaming countertops, me at the center with a ridiculously large chef's knife—and lets out a soft laugh.

"I feel a bit out of my depth," she admits, her smile tinged with amusement.

"Nonsense," I say, gesturing towards the empty corner table I'd reserved for us. "Best seat in the house. Now, tell me what culinary masterpiece can I tempt you with today?"

Lunch arrives as we settle down. I've prepared a feast fit for a queen, or at least, a very lovely model. A vibrant salad bursts with the colors of summer, sprinkled with edible flowers and a citrus vinaigrette that makes my mouth water. There's a creamy, cheesy polenta with wild mushrooms, the aroma earthy and comforting, like a warm hug. But the centerpiece is the fish—a perfectly seared grouper, nestled atop a bed of herbed risotto, adorned with a single, glistening prawn.

"Caeleb, this is incredible," Emily exclaims, her eyes wide as she takes her first bite. "How do you even create something so … perfect?"

I shrug, a touch of pride warming my chest. "It's simply about understanding the ingredients, the way textures and flavors dance together. A little respect, a bit of imagination, and a whole lot of love," I add with a mischievous grin.

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