Family Recipes and Half Truths

The next morning, Ava woke to the smell of butter and bad intentions. That could only mean one thing—her brother Rory was in her kitchen.

“You know there are laws against breaking and entering,” she said, tying her robe tighter.

“Not when you still got my house key,” he replied, flipping beignets like a man making an argument. “Besides, I had to check on my favorite sister.”

“I’m your only sister.”

“Technicality.” He turned, holding up a powdered-sugar-coated beignet. “You went to dinner with the gardener, didn’t you?”

Ava poured herself coffee. “I went to dinner with a man who understands soil.”

“That’s the same thing!” Rory’s eyebrows did a dance of alarm. “Ava, this ain’t about dirt—it’s about motives. Men who talk in metaphors about gardens are either poets, prophets, or plotting.”

“Maybe he’s all three,” she said, stealing a beignet. “And you’re jealous because he can keep a plant alive.”

Rory narrowed his eyes. “What did he say?”

Ava smiled into her coffee. “Enough to make me forget how to drink this without blushing.” 

Before Rory could demand details, Genevieve walked in like she’d been summoned by gossip. “Morning, sinners. I smelled family tension and fried dough.”

“Perfect timing,” Ava muttered.

Genevieve plopped down at the table. “So, who’s blushing over coffee?”

“Ava went out with her gardener,” Rory said.

Genevieve gasped dramatically. “The man who trims her bushes?”

“Lord,” Ava groaned. “You make everything sound like sin.”

“That’s because it usually is,” Genevieve said, grinning. 

Across town, Marcus du Prée sat at his desk at MAX Holdings, staring at a screen full of zeros and realizing none of them mattered. His assistant, Cameron, hovered by the door.

“Sir, the Landry-St. James restaurant proposal—should I forward it to Finance?”

Marcus hesitated. Landry-St. James. The name hit differently now. “No,” he said. “I’ll review it personally.”

Cameron blinked. “Personally, sir?”

“Do I stutter?”

Cameron shook his head and backed out as if Marcus had suddenly turned unpredictable—which, to be fair, he had.

As soon as the door closed, Marcus opened the proposal Theo had emailed. It was a mess of fonts, enthusiasm, and far too many exclamation points. But beneath the chaos, Marcus saw it—the soul of something real. A courtyard with live jazz, an after-hours gumbo bar, a space that celebrated family and flavor and home.

His father would’ve called it “impossible.” Marcus called it alive.

That afternoon, Ava drove to St. James Creole to drop off paperwork for Rory, pretending she wasn’t hoping for a text from Marcus.

Ruth was behind the counter, rearranging jars of preserves. “So,” she said without looking up, “how was dinner?”

Ava smiled. “Lovely.”

“Lovely’s a word people use when they don’t want to say dangerous.”

“Maybe it was both.”

Ruth smirked. “Good. You deserve both.”

Before Ava could respond, Theo burst in waving his phone. “Ma! Uncle! You’re not gonna believe this—MAX Holdings emailed back!”

Rory nearly dropped his spatula. “They what?”

Theo read dramatically: “Mr. du Prée would like to schedule a meeting to discuss your proposal in person.”

Ava froze. “Marcus du Prée?”

Theo nodded, beaming. “Yeah, the big boss himself! Isn’t that wild? I mean, I met his gardener, right? Cool guy. Bet he put in a good word.”

Ava set down her purse slowly. “Theo… about that gardener—”

But Rory was already hugging his nephew, shouting, “This is it! We’re expanding, baby!”

Genevieve burst through the back door carrying a tray of pralines. “What’s expanding? Waistlines? Bank accounts? Both?”

“The restaurant!” Rory shouted. “MAX Holdings wants a meeting!”

Genevieve gasped. “Well, hallelujah and high cholesterol! Ava, you hear that?”

Ava’s smile was tight. “Loud and clear.”

That evening, Marcus called her. His voice carried that mix of composure and charm that made her pulse feel twenty again.

“I hope I’m not calling too late,” he said.

“Depends on the reason.”

“I reviewed a business proposal today,” he said. “From a certain St. James family.”

Ava closed her eyes. “Of course you did.”

“I didn’t realize the connection until I saw your brother’s name. And your nephew’s.”

“I didn’t realize the connection until just now,” she said dryly. “You’re that du Prée.”

“Guilty.”    

A long pause followed—half awkward, half electric.

“Well,” Ava said finally, “that explains the roses.”

He chuckled. “I didn’t send the first one as an executive gesture.”

“Good,” she said. “Because my family’s about to turn you into a walking investment.”

“I can handle that,” he said. “Can you?”

Ava smiled despite herself. “We’ll see.”

When she hung up, her reflection in the window caught her attention. Same woman, same house—but something was shifting. She felt it in her bones, like spring had decided to arrive early just to test her resolve.

She whispered to the rose on her table, “You sure know how to pick complicated men.”

And somewhere in Pasadena, Marcus whispered into his bourbon, “You sure know how to make them worth it.”