Whisked Away

The scent of buttered toast and spilled orange juice filled the air as Amara Blake darted around her tiny kitchen. A pair of sneakers hung from her fingertips, and her six-year-old son, Noah, was busy turning his cereal into a science experiment. He was giggling, spooning one cornflake at a time into the air like he was launching satellites.

“Noah,” she said, balancing the shoes and grabbing a paper towel to mop up a splash of milk, “we are already late. Please eat like a human, not a rocket scientist.”

“But Mom,” Noah whined, “this is research.”

She shot him a look that said not today, and he finally took a bite, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief. He had her eyes—and his father’s cheekbones. Not that the man had stuck around long enough to parent those features.

After slipping on her work flats, Amara snagged the last of Noah’s lunch into his backpack. Mornings were always like this: rushed, chaotic, and somehow fueled by love and caffeine. She juggled her shifts at Rosie’s Diner and her weekend job with Clearview Catering, trying to pay rent, save for emergencies, and maybe one day, give Noah something beyond “just enough.”

“Ready?” she asked.

Noah gave her a mock salute. “Captain ready, ma’am!”

They left the apartment just as the rain began to mist. It was another gray morning in Bellwood Falls, a sleepy little town that looked like something out of a postcard—if that postcard included potholes and peeling paint. But Amara had grown up here. She’d come back after college and a broken engagement, hoping to restart her life. And now? It was stable. Not perfect, not even close—but stable.

She dropped Noah at school, kissed his cheek, and raced across town for her morning shift at the diner. The bell above the door jingled as she entered, apron already in hand.

“Cutting it close again, Blake,” Rosie called from the kitchen. She was a no-nonsense woman in her sixties who ran the place with the precision of a military commander and the heart of a grandmother.

“Story of my life,” Amara replied with a grin.

By midmorning, she was balancing trays, refilling coffee, and flipping pancakes on autopilot. The bell above the door chimed again, and the murmur of voices stilled for a heartbeat.

Amara turned, and the air shifted.

The man who entered didn’t belong in Bellwood Falls. His coat was tailored. His shoes cost more than her rent. He had messy dark hair, a five o’clock shadow that looked professionally sculpted, and eyes that scanned the room like he was trying to solve a riddle. His jawline was sharp enough to slice tomatoes, and he walked like a man used to being followed.

“Is that…?” whispered a customer.

“It is. Luca Moretti.”

Amara blinked. The Luca Moretti? The Michelin-starred chef with restaurants in New York, Paris, and Tokyo? What was he doing in a sleepy town like Bellwood Falls?

Rosie came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mr. Moretti,” she greeted. “Didn’t expect you ‘til tomorrow.”

“I like to surprise people,” he said with a crooked smile. His voice was low and smooth, like espresso over ice. “Wanted to see the town before the meeting. You must be Rosie.”

“In the flesh. And this here’s Amara, my best waitress.”

Amara nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

Luca’s eyes lingered on her. Not in a sleazy way. He seemed…curious. “Pleasure.”

She turned away, suddenly aware of the flour on her wrist and the ketchup stain on her apron. No way she was making a good impression like this.

Luca sat at the counter, ordered coffee, and sipped it slowly, watching the room. People whispered behind menus. Rosie played it cool, but even she kept sneaking glances.

After he left, Rosie nudged Amara. “Guess who’s openi

ng a new restaurant in town?”

“No.”

Yup. Bought that old train station building. Wants to turn it into some kind of gourmet flagship. He’s holding interviews this week. And he’s looking for local staff.”

Amara blinked. “Why would a billionaire chef open a place here?”

“Probably for the tax break,” Rosie said with a snort. “But it’s real. Word is, his team’s already scouting caterers for his launch event.”

Something tightened in Amara’s chest. She wasn’t in the business of dreaming big anymore. But catering a Luca Moretti event? That would put Clearview—and maybe even her own career—on the map.

She tried to shake the thought. It wasn’t her world.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.