Chapter 1 - THE CURSE OF THE COLD KITCHEN"Because the drafts ruin the dough," Nathan said, stepping further into the kitchen. He looked around, noting the sudden transformation of his sterile, spotless, professional-grade cooking space. It looked lived-in for the first time in a decade. "And because this house does not keep its windows open to the mountain air."
"Then the house is missing out," Evie replied without missing a beat. She wiped her hands on her yellow apron, leaving two distinct white streaks across the red stitching. "Bread needs to breathe, Mr. Mercer. Just like people. If you lock everything up tight, it doesn't rise. It just sours."
Nathan narrowed his eyes. No one spoke to him like that. His board of directors tiptoed around him; his lawyers spoke in hushed, reverent tones; even his closest acquaintances treated him like a fragile piece of fine china that might shatter under the weight of a direct sentence.
"Ruth said you were eccentric," Nathan said coldly. "She failed to mention insolent."
Evie leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth—not a polite, deferential smile, but one of genuine amusement. "Ruth also told me you haven't eaten a hot breakfast since the previous decade. She said you drink coffee that tastes like battery acid and stare at the fog until your eyes turn the same color. I guess we're both full of character flaws."
Nathan opened his mouth to deliver a reprimand that would remind her of the vast chasm between her station and his, but the rich, buttery aroma of the biscuits baking in the oven cut him off. His stomach let out a low, traitorous rumble.
Evie heard it. Her smile widened. "Sit down at the table, Mr. Mercer. The queen is serving."
"I don't eat breakfast," he muttered, turning to leave.
"You do now."
Something in her tone—firm, unapologetic, and utterly devoid of fear—rooted him to the floor. Nathan hesitated, looked at the empty doorway, and then, to his own astonishment, pulled out a heavy oak chair and sat down.
Evie placed a heavy ceramic plate before him. On it sat two golden biscuits, steaming and split open, drenched in a rich, peppery sausage gravy. Beside them was a small bowl of fresh blackberry preserves.
Nathan stared at the plate. It looked exactly like the food Claire used to make in their tiny apartment in downtown Asheville, back when they shared a single fork and dreamed of building an empire.
"Go on," Evie said, pouring him a fresh cup of coffee—without the cinnamon and orange peel, just strong and dark, the way he liked it. "It won't bite you. Unlike me."
Nathan picked up his fork. He took a small bite.
The flavors hit him with the force of a physical blow. The biscuit was impossibly flaky, the gravy savory and warm, and the memory of Claire laughing across a cramped kitchen table rushed back so violently that his vision blurred. He set the fork down abruptly, his chest tightening.
Evie watched him quietly. She didn't offer pity. She didn't ask what was wrong.
"My wife made biscuits like this," Nathan whispered, his voice cracking slightly.
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"I know," Evie said softly. "Ruth told me everything. And I'm sorry for your loss. Truly. But Claire was a smart woman, Mr. Mercer. Do you honestly think she’d want you sitting up in that study, turning yourself into a ghost before your time?"
Nathan looked up, a sharp retort burning on his tongue, but before he could speak, the front doors banged open, and the sound of frantic footsteps echoed down the grand hallway.
