Chapter 2 - The Weight of Hawthorne RidgeBy ten o'clock, the mountain estate had transformed from a mausoleum into something resembling a living space, much to Nathan’s quiet, growing alarm.
He was seated at his mahogany desk in the study, trying to focus on a fifty-page preliminary merger agreement for a European logistics firm, but his senses kept drifting down the hall. The hum of a vacuum cleaner—a sound he hadn't heard in years because he preferred silence—interrupted his concentration. More than that, the scent of fresh rosemary and baking bread seemed to have permeated the very timbers of the house.
A sharp knock broke his focus.
Before he could answer, the heavy double doors swung open. Marcus Vance, senior partner at Mercer’s primary legal counsel, strode into the room, followed closely by two junior associates carrying thick leather briefcases. Marcus looked as though he had slept in a Brooks Brothers suit and regretted every second of it.
"Nathan, we have a problem with the London regulatory filings," Marcus began without preamble, dropping himself into the leather armchair opposite the desk. "If we don't lock down the Swiss subsidiary by Friday, the acquisition costs are going to jump by at least four percent. The board is getting antsy."
Nathan didn't look up from his papers. "Then authorize the restructuring through the Dublin office. It bypasses the British filing window."
"We tried that," the first associate chimed in nervously, adjusting his glasses. "The Dublin director is balking at the liability clause. He wants a personal guarantee from you."
Nathan rubbed the bridge of his nose. A dull ache had settled behind his left eye—a companion he had lived with for years. He reached instinctively for the silver wristwatch resting beside his pen tray, his thumb brushing over the cracked glass near the number four.
Before he could speak, the study door opened wider.
Evie stood in the doorway. She wore her yellow apron, her hands dusted with flour, holding a large silver tray piled high with buttermilk biscuits, warm blackberry preserves, and three heavy mugs of steaming coffee.
Marcus Vance stopped mid-sentence, his mouth slightly open. Corporate lawyers from Manhattan did not expect to see a woman with flour on her cheek carrying rustic baked goods into a war room.
"Excuse me," Evie said, her voice cutting effortlessly through the dense legal atmosphere. "You look like a pack of hound dogs that haven't eaten since Tennessee. Grab a biscuit before your brains dry up completely."
Marcus stared at her, blinking. "I’m sorry, who—"
"I'm the cook," Evie said cheerfully, setting the heavy silver tray right on top of the confidential merger documents scattered across Nathan’s desk. She deftly pushed a stack of Swiss subsidiary filings aside to make room for a butter dish. "And if you gentlemen spend another ten minutes arguing about liability clauses on empty stomachs, you're going to sue each other just for something to do."
Nathan stared at his desk, horrified and inexplicably, dangerously close to amused.
"Evelyn," Nathan warned, his voice low. "These are senior executives. We are conducting business."
"Business will keep," she said, leaning casually against the edge of his mahogany desk, completely unfazed by the millions of dollars represented by the papers beneath her elbows. "Biscuits get hard as river rocks if they sit. Eat up, boys. You look like you need some lard in your bones."
Marcus looked from the steaming biscuits to Nathan, his expression a mixture of profound shock and suppressed humor. For five years, Marcus had tiptoed around Nathan Mercer like a priest entering a tomb. He had never seen anyone—let alone a domestic employee—drop comfort food on confidential documents and tell the legal team to chew.
Slowly, almost against his will, Marcus reached out, picked up a warm biscuit, and split it open, slathering it with blackberry preserves.
"Good grief," Marcus muttered after his first bite. "Nathan, where did you find her?"
"Ruth retired," Nathan said stiffly.
"Ruth baked like a saint, but this... this is a religious experience," the second associate mumbled, cautiously reaching for a second biscuit.
Evie gave Nathan a brief, knowing look, wiped her hands on her apron, and turned toward the door. "Coffee's fresh in the pot if you survive the sugar crash. Don't track mud on the rug, Mr. Vance."
The doors clicked shut behind her.
Silence settled over the study for three long seconds. Then Marcus laughed—a real, booming laugh that rattled the windowpanes.
May you like
"Nathan," Marcus grinned, shaking his head. "If you paid her half what you're paying us, your company would run a lot smoother."
Nathan looked down at the tray sitting squarely on top of the Swiss subsidiary contract. For the first time in seven years, the cold weight in his chest felt slightly, perceptibly lighter.
