Page 11 of Bittersweet Valentine

"These are beautiful," Sophie breathed, examining the chocolate roses I'd just finished. Each petal was paper-thin, created by painting tempered chocolate on rose petals, letting it set, then carefully peeling away the natural petal to

leave a perfect chocolate replica. When assembled, they looked almost real, their deep burgundy color achieved through careful blending rather than artificial dyes.

"They're just the beginning," I said, carefully arranging the roses on a cooling rack. My signature piece would tell our town's love story—a chocolate sculpture featuring Kings Valley landmarks crafted entirely in chocolate, from the Queens Inn to Sugarplums to The Chocolate Hart itself. But at its heart there would be something more personal: a series of messages, like the candy conversation hearts of childhood, but elevated into art.

The bell above the door chimed, and I looked up to find Granny Mae entering, carrying a familiar burgundy box.

"Special delivery," she said, setting the box on my work bench. "Though I think this one's meant just for you."

I recognized my own packaging, but I hadn't made this box. Opening it revealed six perfectly crafted chocolates, each one decorated with a single word in gold:Remember. Return. Regret. Restore. Rebuild. Reconnect.

My heart made a familiar flip as I studied the tiny confections. The technique was good—not quite up to my standards, but skillful. More importantly, the messages were clear. After ten years, Roman Archer was finally learning to communicate in my language: chocolate.

I picked up one of the candies—"Remember"—and examined it closely before taking a bite. The hardened shell broke, releasing a gooey ganache center flavored with vanilla and the barest hint of maple. Simple. Classic.

"Well," Granny Mae said, her eyes twinkling, "I suppose some things are worth waiting for. Even if they take ten years to set properly."

"This doesn't change anything," I said, but my voice lacked conviction. "The competition…"

"The competition is just that—a competition." She patted my hand. "But some things matter more than winning, dear. Some things are worth more than perfect technique."

The door chimed again, and Roman himself entered, bringing a swirl of snow and cold air with him. He looked slightly nervous—so different from his usual professional confidence.

"I see you got my message," he said, nodding toward the open box.

"Six messages, actually." I picked up the next truffle: "Return." "Though I have to ask—who taught you to temper chocolate?"

"YouTube, mostly." He smiled sheepishly. "And I may have bribed your assistant with promises of mentioning her name as an up-and-coming candy artist."

Sophie grinned from the doorway, unrepentant. "Hey, a girl's got to think about her future.”

"I'll leave you two to talk," Granny Mae said, shepherding Sophie toward the door. "Kandi, dear? Don’t forget what I said."

After they left, silence fell in The Chocolate Hart. Outside, snow continued to fall, turning Kings Valley into a winter wonderland. Inside, the air was warm and sweet, and heavy with things unsaid.

"Your technique needs work," I said finally, picking up "Regret."

"I know." Roman moved closer, watching me examine the treat. "But I figured it was time I learned your language. Really learned it, not just critiqued it."

"Why now?"

"Because watching you work these past two weeks—seeing your passion, your skill, your heart in everything you create... it made me realize something." He picked up "Restore" from the box. "I didn't just walk away from you ten years ago. I walked away from this. From the magic of creating something real, something that matters."

I set down the chocolate, meeting his gaze. "You built a career that matters. Your reviews can make or break a chef's dreams."

"But I don't create anything," he said softly. "I just judge what others make. You... you make magic every day. You take simple ingredients and turn them into moments, memories, messages that people carry with them."

"It's just chocolate," I whispered, but we both knew that wasn't true.

"No, it's more than that. It's art. It's heart. It's..." He gestured around at my shop, my creations, my life. "It's everything I should have seen ten years ago. Everything I walked away from because I thought success only looked one way."

I picked up "Rebuild," running my finger over the golden letter. "And now?"

"Now I know better." He stepped closer, making me tremble. "Now I understand that sometimes the biggest success is finding your way home. Finding what matters."

"And what matters?" My voice was barely a whisper.

He reached for the last chocolate—"Reconnect"—and broke it in half, offering me a piece. "This. Here. You."

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