Page 9 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas
That made her laugh, a real laugh this time. “Did you read that somewhere?”
“Probably. I read a lot.” I glanced around the store, noting the way the light was changing as afternoon moved toward evening. “When do you take possession of the space?”
“Two weeks. I have to get through the health department inspection, apply for the business license, figure out equipment and staffing and about a thousand other things I have no idea how to do.”
“You’ll figure it out. And you don’t have to figure it all out alone. Hollow Haven is good at supporting new businesses, especially ones that fill a real need.” I paused, then added, “My grandmother would have been so proud of you for doing this.”
Talia’s eyes got bright with unshed tears. “You think so?”
“I know so. She always believed that the bravest thing anyone could do was choose to create something beautiful after experiencing destruction.” I stood up and moved to the cookbook section, selecting a slim volume I’d been saving for the right person. “Take this. Tamar Adler. She writes about cooking the way poets write about love. Simple techniques, but explained with the kind of attention that makes you remember why you fell in love with food in the first place.”
Talia accepted the book like it was precious, running her thumb over the spine. “Thank you. For the tea, for listening, for...” She gestured around the store. “For making this feel like a safe place to admit I’m terrified.”
“Fear is just another word for caring deeply about the outcome,” I said. “It means this matters to you. That’s a good thing.”
She looked at me for a long moment, and I felt something pass between us. Not just understanding, but recognition. Like we were both seeing possibilities we hadn’t allowed ourselves to consider.
“Will you be here tomorrow?” she asked. “Same time?”
“I’ll be here,” I promised. “With more tea and whatever books seem right for the day. And if you want to talk through your business plan or bounce ideas around, I’m happy to listen.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know. I want to.”
After she left, I stood in the quiet store and let myself think about what had just happened. Not just the conversation about her bistro, though that had been more vulnerable and honestthan I’d expected. But the way she’d trusted me with her fear, the way she’d let me see both her ambition and her doubt.
The way I’d felt myself responding to her, not just as someone who needed help, but as someone I genuinely wanted to support. Someone whose success felt important to me in a way that went beyond professional courtesy or neighborly kindness.
I cleaned up the tea service and straightened the books she’d browsed, but part of my mind was already planning for tomorrow. Which books might help her think through the challenges of starting a business? What stories about entrepreneurship and creative risk-taking might remind her that fear and courage weren’t opposites?
As I locked up the store for the evening, I found myself thinking about a line from one of Rainer Maria Rilke’s letters about how love consisted in this, that two solitudes protected and bordered and greeted each other.
Maybe that was what I was hoping for with Talia. Not to fix her or heal her or solve the complex equation of her recovery. But to offer my own solitude as a companion to hers, to create a space where she could remember what it felt like to be understood without being judged. To be ambitious without being questioned. To be afraid without being ashamed.
The mountain air was crisp with the promise of autumn, but underneath it all, carried on the breeze like a whisper, was the faintest trace of vanilla and honey.
I smiled as I walked home, already looking forward to tomorrow morning and whatever questions she might bring with her. Already thinking about how good it would feel to watch her build something beautiful in the place we both called home.
Chapter 4
Talia
The Saturday farmers market smelled like woodsmoke and apple cider, the town square transformed into a maze of vendor stalls selling late-season produce, homemade preserves, and handcrafted goods that screamed “authentic mountain town experience.” I’d come looking for local ingredients to test for the bistro menu, trying to understand what was actually available in Hollow Haven versus what I’d need to special order from distributors.
My reusable shopping bags were already heavy with butternut squash, late carrots still dusted with soil, and a jar of local honey that the vendor had promised would change my life. I was examining the apple selection, mentally cataloging which varieties would work best for the tarte tatin I was testing for the bistro menu, when someone cleared their throat beside me.
“Talia? Hey. I didn’t expect to see you here today.”
I turned to find Jace Maddox standing there in civilian clothes, jeans and a flannel shirt that made him look less like a parkranger and more like he belonged in an outdoor equipment catalog. He held a coffee cup in one hand and a paper bag that smelled distinctly of fresh bread.
“Jace. Hi.” I gestured to my overflowing bags. “Just doing some shopping. Seeing what’s available locally.”
“Looks like you found some good stuff.” He nodded toward the butternut squash visible in one of my bags.
“The quality is better than I expected for late October.” I selected six Honeycrisps, their firm flesh perfect for what I had in mind. “I’m used to restaurant suppliers with limited seasonal variation, so actually shopping at a farmers market is kind of refreshing.”
“Restaurant suppliers?” He said it like he’d just connected several dots. “I’d heard you were a chef in Chicago. Someone mentioned it at the community center last week, but I wasn’t sure if it was accurate or just small-town gossip embellishment.”
