Page 1 of Bittersweet Valentine

Chapter One

Kandi

The steady scrape of my metal bench scraper against marble was the only sound in The Chocolate Hart's kitchen at five a.m. Back and forth, I worked the dark chocolate into perfect temper. The rhythm was meditative, muscle memory built from years of practice. Spread the chocolate, gather it back. Spread, gather. Check the temperature. Repeat.

My chocolates had to be perfect for the Valentine's Day competition. More than perfect—they had to be extraordinary. Innovative. Memorable. Everything that would

prove I'd become more than just the girl who left Kings Valley with big dreams ten years ago.

A wisp of steam rose from my coffee cup, carrying the scent of vanilla and hazelnut through my quiet workroom. Outside, snow dusted Main Street in pre-dawn silence. Inside, warmth radiated from the tempering machines humming along the wall, and the air was rich with the aroma of melted chocolate. Through the front windows, I could see the lights of Sugarplums Bakery glowing across the street, where Granny Mae—as everyone in town called her, related or not—would already be starting her morning baking.

I lifted my scraper, watching the chocolate cascade in a glossy ribbon. The temperature read 88.7 degrees—exactly right for dark chocolate. Gathering it into a bowl, I began filling heart-shaped molds with practiced precision. Each shell had to be thin but even, delicate but strong enough to hold the spiced ganache I'd prepare next.

The process was something I'd done thousands of times, but it never got old. Each batch represented a new opportunity for perfection. I'd learned that in Brussels, working under Master chocolatier Jean-Marc, who'd drill us for hours on proper technique. "Chocolate does not forgive mistakes," he'd say in his thick accent. "But treat her with respect, and she will give you magic."

Magic. I smiled, remembering how I'd scoffed at that word when I first started training. But over the years, I'd seen it happen. The way a perfectly tempered chocolate gleams like polished marble. The way ganache transforms from broken, grainy mess to silk-smooth perfection in a matter of seconds. The look on someone's face when they taste something you've created and find it transcendent.

I caught my reflection in the polished glass of the display case—honey-blonde hair pulled back in a neat bun, dark circles under my green eyes that even concealer couldn't quite hide. My chef's coat, crisp and white against the burgundy walls of my shop, bore the golden logo I'd spent weeks designing: a heart drawn in flowing chocolate script. At twenty-eight, I looked every bit the professional chocolatier I'd worked so hard to become, even if some mornings, like today, I still felt like that uncertain teenager who'd left Kings Valley a decade ago.

The Chocolate Hart was my pride and joy, transformed from a dusty storefront into something that could rival any European chocolate boutique. The original hardwood floors gleamed beneath vintage-style display cases; their brass fittings polished to a warm glow. Crystal chandeliers—found at an estate sale in Burlington—cast soft light over the marble countertops where I worked. The open-concept kitchen allowed customers to watch chocolate-making in action, while the seating area featured intimate café tables perfect for sampling drinking chocolate and handmade truffles.

Every detail had been carefully chosen, from the hand-painted gold lettering on the front windows to the antique chocolate molds displayed on the exposed brick walls. Even my business cards, tucked into their little holder by the register, reflected the elegant brand I'd built:Kandace Hart, Artisan Chocolatierin flowing script, though nobody but my grandmother still called me Kandace.

The bell above my shop door chimed unexpectedly. I looked up, startled, nearly dropping my bowl of hardened chocolate. Meredith Plum stood in the doorway, snow dusting her dark blonde hair and the shoulders of her wool coat.

"You're here early," she said, unwinding her red scarf. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and her brown eyes sparkled with that warmth that made her such a natural fit at Sugarplums. "Even for you."

"Competition prep," I replied, carefully setting down my bowl. "What brings you by? Sugarplums doesn't open for hours."

"Granny sent me to pick up yesterday's order." She hesitated, fidgeting with her scarf. "But really, I wanted to make sure you'd heard the news before anyone else told you."

Something in her expression made my heart skip. "What news?"

"They announced the competition judge last night at the town council meeting." She bit her lip, and I knew what was coming even before she said it. "It's Roman Archer."

The metal scraper slipped from my fingers, clattering against the marble counter. Roman. The name hit me like a physical blow, and suddenly I was eighteen again, standing in the summer twilight behind Sugarplums that last perfect night before everything changed.

We'd been celebrating my acceptance into the Chocolate Academy in Brussels. Roman had surprised me with a picnic, complete with chocolate-covered strawberries he'd bought from the candy shop in Burlington. His dark hair fell across his forehead as he looked down at me, those blue eyes I'd loved so much full of an ambition I couldn't compete with. The smell of fresh-baked bread from the café's kitchen mixed with the sweetness of summer flowers and the subtle spice of his cologne—the same scent I'd sometimes catch a whiff of in passing years later, each time a bittersweet reminder of what we'd lost.

"I got the internship," he'd said, his fingers intertwined with mine. "The Boston Globe wants me to start right away."

My heart had soared at first—his dream job, writing about food. Then reality hit. Brussels was an ocean away from Boston. But surely we could figure something out? People did long distance all the time.

"That's wonderful," I'd said, squeezing his hand. "We can make it work, right? I'll be back for holidays, and you can visit Europe. Think of all the chocolate shops you could review…"

The way his voice had cracked when he cut me off still haunted me. "Kandi, we need to be realistic. You'll be in Belgium; I'll be building my career in Boston. We're both chasing big dreams. Maybe...maybe we need to chase them separately."

The way my heart had cracked when I realized he wasn't asking me to come with him, wasn't even willing to try. He'd chosen his path, and it didn't include me.

"Kandi?" Meredith's voice pulled me back to the present. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said automatically, though my hands shook slightly as I retrieved the scraper. "Roman's a respected critic now. The Boston Globe, Saveur Magazine, even that food show on Netflix. His review can make or break a business. It makes sense they'd want someone with his reputation judging the tenth anniversary of the competition."

The Valentine's Day Chocolate Competition had grown from a small-town event into something prestigious within Vermont's culinary scene. This year would feature three rounds: technical skills, where we'd demonstrate mastery of chocolate-making techniques; innovation, where creativity and unique flavor combinations would be judged; and finally, the signature piece—a showstopping chocolate creation that would be displayed in town hall during the Valentine's Day festival.

"It's not just that." Meredith moved closer, her expression gentle. "He's coming home, Kandi. For good, from what I hear. Something about wanting to focus on New England's food scene."

The news hit me harder than the announcement of him judging. "Coming home? After all this time?"

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