Ethan:

I’d been in New York for exactly a month, and somehow, it already felt like home.

It was loud, exhausting, and full of promise. I’d spent the last weeks finalizing construction details for Lume, my restaurant. My dream. The one I’d been building piece by piece since I was a kid sitting in my grandma’s kitchen, watching her roll pastry dough while humming to Frank Sinatra.

It was finally happening.

In less than a week, the doors to Lume would open, and for the first time in my life, I’d be doing something that was mine, not my family’s, not their legacy, and certainly not their expectations, at my own pace and my own time.

Still, I couldn’t shake the tiny voice in my head that sounded suspiciously like my grandmother.

“You don’t need to prove anything, Ethan. You already carry the Lennox name. Why do you want to work yourself to the bone in a kitchen?”

Because I’m not like the rest of them, Grandma. That’s why.

The Lennox family built an empire on five star resorts and luxury hotels, the kind of places where rich people pay thousands to sleep in a suite with gold faucets and imported marble floors. My father was supposed to inherit it all. But after he and my mom died in that accident, everything shifted. My Aunt Victoria swooped in with her perfectly coiffed hair, crocodile tears, and fake sympathy, and slowly began to make herself at home in my father’s place. They were supposed to be siblings after all, but I wasn’t buying that.

Her husband, Uncle Albert, became the acting head of operations.

Her son, Nathan, my cousin, became a walking advertisement for entitlement.

And me?

I became the family’s polite disappointment. The one who could’ve been great if he’d just stayed in his lane.

Truth is, I didn’t give a damn about running hotels. I wanted to cook. I wanted to create things that brought people joy, not slap my name on some overpriced champagne tower.

So, after years of enduring charity galas, board meetings, and my aunt’s backhanded compliments, I left for Paris. I studied culinary arts at Le Cordon Bleu, then moved to Saint Tropez, working under Chef Armand, a man who believed salt could fix everything, including heartbreak.

Now, I was here in New York, standing in front of Lume, watching the sign glow against the setting sun.

“Not bad, huh?” I said to myself, brushing a streak of flour off my sleeve. I’d been test running the kitchen since five a.m., making sure every corner functioned exactly as I envisioned it. The smell of rosemary and butter still clung to my shirt.

The place wasn’t huge, just thirty tables, an open kitchen, and a glass wall that looked out onto the street. It was warm and intimate. Not flashy like a Lennox resort, but it had soul. And I loved that.

I’d just finished locking up when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

My Grandma Margaret.

Of course.

I smiled, swiping to answer her call. “Hey, my queen.”

“Ethan, my boy! How’s New York treating you? Or should I say Chef Lennox?”

“Don’t start,” I chuckled. “It’s going well. The restaurant’s almost ready.”

“That’s great. Now come home before I change the locks on your inheritance.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You’ve been saying that since I left for Paris, Grandma.”

“And I’ll keep saying it. I barely saw you for years, and now you’re halfway across the world again. Your aunt keeps telling me you’ll run that restaurant into the ground.”

There it was. Victoria. The eternal thorn in my existence.

“Yeah, well,” I said dryly, “don’t listen to what Aunt Victoria says all the time, Grandma. She also said she invented tiramisu.”

“She did not!” Grandma gasped, scandalized.

“She did, Grandma. At a dinner party in 09.”

A pause, then her soft laugh. “You always remember everything. Just like your father. You’d have made him proud, you know that?”

That one hit like a punch to the chest.

I smiled faintly. “Thanks, Grandma. I’ll call you again before the soft opening, okay?”

“You better. And eat properly! I can’t have my grandson fainting over a pot roast because he’s too stubborn to take a break.”

“Love you, Grandma.”

“Love you more, Ethan.”

I tucked my phone away, staring up at the fading light. For a few seconds, I just stood there, breathing in satisfaction. Somehow, I felt lighter.

Until my mind drifted back to her.

The woman I’d accidentally drenched earlier today with my car.

The same woman who turned out to be my Olivia Hawthorne.

I hadn’t told anyone this, but she was my first love. I hadn’t seen her in years, not since I left Little Elm. Back then, she used to wear her brown hair tied up in a messy ponytail, always stained with paint or chalk from whatever wild idea she was working on. She used to laugh at everything, even my terrible cooking experiments.

And now?

Now she had fiery red hair and eyes that carried something deeper. She’d grown into herself, confident but guarded, like life had made her learn the hard way to build walls.

When I saw her again, standing on that curb this morning, it felt like getting sucker punched by nostalgia and attraction at the same time. I’d offered her a ride without thinking, but when she smiled and said, “Thanks, Ethan,” something in me clicked, that old familiar warmth I’d buried years ago.

I’d told her I was glad to see her again, and I meant it.

I hadn’t stopped thinking about her since.

Later that evening, around eight, I decided to make cookies, a habit I picked up from Grandma whenever I couldn’t stop overthinking. She’d always say, “When life feels too heavy, feed someone. It reminds you you’re still good.”

So, I did just that.

Fresh chocolate chip cookies, warm, soft, and smelling like home. I tossed them into a box, tied it with a ribbon I found in one of the kitchen drawers, and decided to give it to my new neighbor. A friendly gesture.

What could go wrong?

The apartment building was overly quiet, except for the faint noise of cars and trucks honking outside. Mine was 3B. The new neighbor, according to the note taped by the mailbox, was in 3C.

I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

One, two...

The door swung open, and the last person I expected to see stood in front of me.

“Olivia?” I blinked, completely caught off guard.

Her eyes widened just as much. “Ethan?”

We stared at each other for a second, both in shock, until she laughed out loud.

That same laugh that used to make my chest feel too small.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, still laughing a little, brushing a strand of red hair from her face.

“I live here,” I said, grinning. “What are you doing here?”

“I just moved in yesterday,” she said, still smiling, her voice soft but playful. “Wow, what a small world.”

“I’ll say,” I chuckled, holding up the cookie box. “I came to give these to my new neighbor. Turns out it’s you.”

Her lips curved into a shy smile. “You baked these?”

“I’m a chef, remember? It’s what I do best.”

She looked down at the box, biting her lip. “I would’ve asked you to come in, but my place is a mess right now. Still unpacking, and it looks like a tornado hit it.”

“That’s fine,” I said with a teasing grin. “As long as you didn’t burn the kitchen already.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ha ha. I’ll take the cookies though. I’ve had a long day.”

I handed them over, our fingers brushing for just a second, long enough for something unspoken to pass between us. She looked up at me, that same flicker of softness in her eyes that used to drive me crazy.

“So,” I said, stuffing my hands into my pockets, “I guess today’s my lucky day.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because I got to see you twice.”

Her laugh slipped out again. “Smooth, Ethan Lennox.”

“I always have been,” I said, smiling.

There was a beat of silence, the good kind. The kind that stretched without feeling awkward. She smelled like vanilla and something faintly floral, and for a split second, I wanted to tell her how happy I was that she was here, in the same city, and in the same building.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I took a step back. “Alright, I’ll let you get back to organizing. I’ll stop by another time, maybe bring something stronger than cookies.”

Her smile lingered. “I’ll hold you to that.”

As I turned to leave, I caught one last glance at her. She was standing there in her oversized shirt and now messy red hair, holding the cookie box like it was something precious.

When I got back to my apartment, I leaned against the door, exhaling a long breath.

Olivia Hawthorne was back in my life again.

And this time, I had no intention of letting her disappear again.