Chapter 4 - SECRETS IN THE FLOUR SACKNathan walked slowly to the kitchen island, picked up the scattered portfolio, and tossed it onto a side table without even looking at it.
"You realize," Nathan said, his voice softer now, stripped of its corporate armor, "that man represents thirty percent of my holdings."
"Then your holdings have terrible taste in company," Evie replied, picking up a dish towel and wiping down the counter. "A man who can't take a joke is a man who's hiding something. Or worse, a man who's already dead inside."
Nathan leaned against the counter, watching her rhythmic movements. "You're a very unusual cook, Evelyn Walker."
"Call me Evie. Everyone does, except bill collectors and people trying to sell me insurance." She paused, glancing sideways at him. "And you're a very unusual billionaire, Mr. Mercer. Most men with your kind of money buy yachts or island retreats when they're grieving. You just bought silence."
Nathan stiffened. The air in the room grew suddenly cold. "You don't know anything about my grief."
"I know it smells like stale coffee and old leather," Evie said calmly, turning to face him. Her hazel eyes were piercing, lacking any trace of intimidation. "Ruth told me about Claire. She told me how you sit in that study every afternoon watching the fog roll in over Hawthorne Ridge, winding a watch that stopped seven years ago."
Nathan’s jaw tightened. A cold fury flared in his chest, mixed with the sharp sting of exposure. "Ruth had no right—"
"Ruth cares about you," Evie interrupted sharply. "And so do I, whether you want me to or not. That’s part of the job description. I cook, I clean, and I occasionally puncture giant egos with kitchen utensils."
Nathan stared at her, speechless. For years, people had walked on eggshells around him. They coddled his trauma, tiptoed past his closed doors, and fed his isolation out of misplaced respect. Evie was charging right through his walls with a wooden spoon and a mixing bowl.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Evie," Nathan warned quietly. "I am not a kind man when I am crossed."
"Good thing I’m not easily scared, then," she shot back, turning back to the sink. "Now, are you going to eat the rest of those biscuits, or are you going to stand there looking like a thundercloud until they get cold?"
Nathan looked at the plate, then back at her. For the first time in seven years, the heavy fog in his mind parted, just a fraction.
"I'll eat them," he muttered, pulling out the chair.
Later that afternoon, while Nathan sat in his study staring out the window, the fog rolled in over the Blue Ridge mountains as it always did. He reached out his hand, his fingers brushing against the cracked glass of Claire's wristwatch on the mahogany desk.
Habit made him pick it up. He held it to his ear, listening for the familiar, comforting tick that wasn't there.
Then, from somewhere down the hall, faint and clear, came the sound of Evie humming an old mountain hymn.
May you like
Nathan didn't wind the watch. Instead, he set it down on the desk, closed the leather lid of the box, and looked out at the thick white mist pressing against the glass.
For the first time, the fog didn't look like a shroud. It looked like the morning.
