Page 11 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas
After he left, I finished my shopping in a distracted haze, my mind churning through the logistics of adding cooking lessons to my already overwhelming schedule. I’d wanted to phase them in after opening, maybe in the second quarter. But a trial run before then made sense. The rational part of my brain said absolutely not, I didn’t have time for anything beyond the essential business planning that would make or break the bistro.
But another part of me, the part that remembered the joy of teaching and the satisfaction of watching someone master a new skill, was already mentally planning a first lesson. Basic knife techniques, maybe. Something foundational that would give him confidence and me a chance to assess whether this teaching arrangement could actually work.
By the time I loaded my groceries into my car, I’d almost convinced myself that saying yes made practical sense. Access to foraged ingredients, practice teaching before offering formal classes, building connections with someone who understood the local landscape in ways that could benefit my business.
The fact that I’d enjoyed talking with Jace, that his enthusiasm reminded me why I’d fallen in love with cooking in the first place, had nothing to do with my decision.
Nothing at all.
I pulled out my phone and typed a quick text before I could second-guess myself.
Okay. Let’s try one lesson and see how it goes. Saturday afternoon work for you?
His response came almost immediately.
Perfect. Can’t wait to learn from a pro. Want me to bring some foraged ingredients for practice?
Yes. And Jace? Come ready to work. I don’t do half-measures in the kitchen.
Wouldn’t expect anything less. See you Saturday.
I sat in my car for a moment, staring at the exchange and wondering what I’d just committed to. One cooking lesson wasn’t a big deal. I could spare a few hours on a Saturday afternoon, especially if it meant securing a reliable foraging connection for the bistro.
This was a practical business arrangement, I told myself firmly. Professional collaboration that benefited both parties. The fact that I was looking forward to it had everything to do with ingredient sourcing and nothing to do with the way Jace’s smile made me remember what enthusiasm felt like.
I drove home with my farmers market purchases and tried not to think about how Saturday suddenly felt very far away.
Chapter 5
Cassian
The Ford Explorer handled the mountain curves better than I’d expected when I’d rented it in Denver, but then again, I’d specifically chosen utility over luxury for this trip. The Aston Martin would have screamed “entitled rich boy,” and I’d had enough of that identity to last a lifetime.
Three months since I’d leaked the environmental impact studies that killed my family’s development project. Three months since my father had cut me off completely, disinherited me for choosing watershed protection over family loyalty. Three months of living in a studio apartment in Denver, taking freelance business consulting work, and trying to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with a Princeton MBA and a talent for strategic analysis when I’d just burned every bridge that led back to the life I’d been raised for.
The thought settled familiar and heavy as I crested Bear Ridge, and suddenly Hollow Haven spread below me in the valley. My chest tightened unexpectedly at the sight. The creek runningclear and undiverted through downtown. The small buildings intact instead of demolished for luxury condos. The mountain ridges still forested instead of scarred with access roads.
This was why I’d done it. This view, this place, these people who had no idea their villain had been their savior.
I’d spent six weeks here during the development planning phase, ostensibly surveying sites and meeting with local officials. In reality, I’d been documenting every reason the project needed to die. Photographing pristine watersheds. Recording conversations with biologists about endangered species. Copying confidential reports that showed my family’s engineers knew exactly how much damage they’d cause and had decided the profit margin was worth it. Finding the damning report that Wes had needed to finally shut the whole thing down was something I’d never regret. Not even with the fallout that had followed.
The betrayal had felt clean and necessary at the time. Now, driving back into a town that despised my name, it just felt lonely.
I parked on Main Street and sat for a moment, studying the changes since my last visit. New paint on the hardware store. Seasonal decorations that suggested community coordination. Fresh flowers in the planters along the sidewalk. Small signs of a town that had learned to invest in itself instead of waiting for outside developers to reshape it.
Through the windshield, I watched normal people going about their Saturday morning routines. A woman pushing a stroller stopped to chat with an older man walking a golden retriever. Teenagers clustered outside what looked like a coffee shop, laughing at something on someone’s phone. The kind of casual community connection that happened naturally in places where people actually knew each other.
I’d never had that. Not in the boarding schools or the Manhattan penthouse or the country club where membership cost more than most people made in a year. I’d had networking opportunities and strategic alliances, but never the easy comfort of belonging somewhere just because you showed up consistently and treated people with basic decency.
My phone buzzed with a text from the attorney handling my trust fund dispute. Another offer from my father’s lawyers to settle quietly if I’d sign an NDA about the development project. As if I’d spent three months rebuilding my entire life just to be bought back into silence.
I deleted the message and climbed out of the Explorer, noting the way conversation paused when people recognized me. Not the open hostility I’d expected, but definite wariness. Sideways glances and the subtle shift in body language that meant I’d been noticed and categorized as a potential threat.
Fair enough. The last time I’d been here, I’d been wearing thousand-dollar suits and touring properties my family planned to acquire through eminent domain if necessary. I’d played the role of entitled heir so convincingly that nobody had suspected I was actually building the case against everything I pretended to support.
The air smelled like woodsmoke and dying leaves, clean and crisp in a way that Denver’s Front Range sprawl never quite managed. I started walking with no particular destination, just wanting to feel the town around me, to see what three months of recovery had accomplished.
That’s when the scent hit me.
