Chapter 8 - The Hidden Back Room Of King Street And The Smell Of Freshly Ground Coffee
Nora didn't take me back to my black SUVs or the high-rise hotel where I usually kept a penthouse suite overlooking the harbor.
Instead, she drove us down a narrow, cobblestone side street just off King Street, tucked behind a row of historic brick buildings draped in wisteria.
She pulled the silver sedan to a stop in front of a narrow storefront with dark green trim and brown paper taped up over the large front windows.
Printed in bold white letters across the paper were the words: NORA’S KITCHEN — OPENING SOON.
“Is this it?” I asked, leaning over the center console to look out the windshield at the modest building.
“This is it,” Nora whispered, turning off the engine and finally letting out a long, shuddering breath that seemed to carry away the last remnants of her family’s suffocating expectations.
She opened her door and stepped out onto the pavement.
I followed her around the car, watching as she fished a heavy brass key out of her purse, slid it into the lock of the front door, and turned it with a satisfying click.
The door swung inward, revealing a space that was currently smelling of fresh drywall, sawdust, and raw pine lumber, but you could already see the bones of what it would become.
A long walnut counter ran down the left side of the room.
Behind it sat a massive, gleaming commercial espresso machine that probably cost more than a decent used car.
Along the back wall, through a set of open double doors, was the kitchen—stainless steel prep tables, industrial mixers, and cooling racks stacked neatly against the tile walls.
“It’s small,” Nora said, her voice dropping into a vulnerable, quiet register as she stepped inside and ran her hand along the edge of the unfinished counter.
“It’s not Magnolia House. It doesn't have crystal chandeliers or twenty-foot ceilings.”
“Good,” I said, stepping in behind her and closing the heavy wooden door against the noise of the street.
“Crystal chandeliers are a nightmare to clean, and high ceilings make it impossible to keep the heat regulated during a South Carolina summer.”
Nora turned around, leaning back against the walnut counter and looking up at me with a small, hesitant smile.
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“I don’t say things I don't mean, Nora.”
I took two steps closer, closing the distance between us until I could smell the faint scent of jasmine perfume mixed with the clean, sharp smell of sawdust and fresh paint.
She didn't back away.
Her dark eyes stayed locked on mine, wide and steady, filled with that same quiet bravery she had shown when standing in front of her mother and Miles Harper.
“What happens now, Evan?” she asked softly.
“Now,” I said, reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of dark hair away from her cheek, my fingers grazing the soft skin of her jawline.
“Now you teach me how to make a proper croissant.”
Nora’s lips parted in surprise, a sudden breath catching in her throat.
“You don't strike me as a pastry kind of man.”
“I’m a man who appreciates things that are built right from the ground up,” I told her, my voice dropping down into that low, gravelly register that made her pulse spike.
“No shortcuts. No fake facades. Just real ingredients.”
Her gaze dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to my eyes.
“And if I tell you that the fake boyfriend contract is officially over?”
May you like
I let my thumb trace the edge of her lower lip, feeling the slight tremor that ran through her body.
“Then I’ll just have to offer you a new contract.”
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