Bradley Welker could hear the hum of the air conditioner as it kicked on down the hall. The rest of the offices were quiet as most of his staff, including his assistant, took Sunday off. He often worked through the weekend—responding to emails, catching up on paperwork, taking the occasional off-the-record meeting with one of his soldiers who had a personal matter to discuss.

Today, he was meeting with Lieutenant Alicia Booker, an intelligence officer who’d found out, a few days ago, that her ex-husband was suing for custody of their seven-year-old son. She hadn’t told him herself yet, but he made it a point to know what was going on with his soldiers…particularly the women.

If there was one thing he’d learned in his twenty-five-year career with the military, it was that information was power.

Leaning back in his chair, he studied her file. He was fairly certain the purpose of this meeting was to get his approval to defer her acceptance into Ranger School so she could remain on base until the dispute was resolved. He’d been surprised when he’d found out that she’d applied to the program—a grueling eight-week infantry leadership course that admitted a small number of soldiers each year to the elite special operations branch of the Army.

He’d been even more surprised when he’d found out that, once she completed the course, she planned to transfer to infantry. Apparently, she didn’t want to be an intelligence officer anymore. She wanted to fight. And with the increasing number of infantry leadership roles opening up for women, there was a good chance that within a year or two, she could be cleared to lead men into combat.

It was laughable really, the idea of a woman leading a unit on the ground. It was bad enough that so many of them were already tucked away in offices, calling the shots. In the past year, thousands of direct-action combat jobs had been opened up to women. Even the SEALs and the Green Berets had been ordered to open their ranks to the weaker sex.

As if a woman could actually complete those courses without the instructors dumbing them down. He had no doubt that the people running those programs had been given orders to fill quotas, let things slide. He knew a thing or two about following orders. The Army had drilled that message in loud and clear from the day he’d stepped off the bus. He wouldn’t have risen so far in the ranks if he hadn’t learned how to toe a line he didn’t believe in from time to time.

But this…this was taking it too far.

He didn’t know what the hell was going on with their leadership at the Pentagon, but if no one else was going to do anything about it, he would take matters into his own hands. Someone had to remind women where they belonged—in support roles, caregiver roles, domestic roles. As long as they stayed in their place, the world could continue to function the way it was supposed to.

He closed the file, tossed it back on the desk. It was unfortunate that Alicia Booker had decided to step out of line. But he’d enjoy putting her in her place first, making sure she knew exactly where she belonged.

The same way he had with Izzy Rivera.

Just thinking about the way the fiery Latina had struggled had him growing hard. For seven years, he’d tracked her career, biding his time. For seven years, he’d lived with the humiliation of being saved by a woman. How many nights had he lain awake, wishing the spray of shrapnel from the rocket-propelled grenade had killed him rather than wounding him?

Instead, he’d had to suffer through dozens of interviews, field countless questions from reporters, and shrug off an endless string of jabs from his male colleagues about the female cook who’d saved his life. He’d played the part that was expected of him in public—showering her with praise, giving her all the credit she’d deserved. He’d even flown to Washington D.C. for the awards ceremony and posed for pictures beside her when she’d received her Bronze Star.

But she had paid her price in the end. And she would keep their little secret. He’d made sure of it.

She had no proof. No real evidence. If she ever tried to open her mouth, it would be her word against his.

And no one would believe her anyway.

In public, his record was squeaky clean. He’d been one of the biggest supporters of women in the military—promoting them, praising them, treating them with respect. He knew how to make the people above him happy by checking the right boxes. What happened behind closed doors was another matter entirely. The way he saw it, he was doing the military a service. Nobody wanted women on the front lines. Not really.

He was simply putting things back in order.

Footsteps echoed on the tiles and he glanced up at the clock. Right on time. Alicia stepped into his office, offered a crisp salute.

He smiled, taking a moment to admire the view—mocha skin, full lips, ice blue eyes. She was a little exotic, just the way he liked them, with enough curves to show through her uniform. “At ease, Lieutenant.”

She relaxed. “Thank you for seeing me, sir.”

“Of course,” he said, gesturing for her to have a seat on the sofa as he stood, walked to the door, and closed it with a subtle flick of the latch.

---

Della Dozier wasn’t above being a little sneaky, particularly when it came to matchmaking. When Will had called earlier that morning to enlist her help with one of the veterans, she’d been happy to offer whatever assistance she could provide. Of course, her nephew hadn’t asked her to meddle in anyone’s love life. He’d only asked her to spend the afternoon at the inn, cooking a crab feast and doing her best to lure Izzy Rivera into the kitchen. But the request had gotten her wheels spinning in a different direction.

She’d noticed how Ryan had reacted to Izzy on the first night. He’d hardly been able to take his eyes off her. She liked to think she had a sixth sense about these things. And when she’d heard that Izzy had spent the day on Jake’s boat with Ryan and Taylor, it had only confirmed her suspicions.

As far as she was concerned, Ryan was long overdue for his own happily ever after. He’d spent far too much of his life obsessing about work and not nearly enough time having fun. She was looking forward to spending some time with Izzy today, to get to know her a little better. But first, she needed to get her into the kitchen, and get everyone else out.

Glancing around the room, she decided to start with the two men at the bar. “How would you like to fire up the grill for me, Kade?”

“I’d be happy to,” he said, sliding off the stool where he’d been sitting for the past two hours, making small talk with her while she cooked.

“Jeff, why don’t you give him a hand?” Della suggested. “There’s a bag of sweet corn in the fridge that could go on the grill as soon as the coals are hot.”

“Sure thing,” Jeff said, grabbing the corn and following Kade outside.

No sooner had Jeff and Kade stepped out than Zach, Wesley, and Matt walked in, sweaty and sunburned from spending the past few hours kayaking. “It smells amazing in here,” Matt said, heading for the spread of food on the counter.

That was the problem with big kitchens, Della thought. Too many people could come in and make themselves comfortable. She was used to working in a kitchen that was about a quarter of this size, where every square inch of counter space was accounted for and people entered at their own risk. Zach reached for a slice of cheese, popping it in his mouth, as the other two headed for the bar stools which had just been vacated.

“How would the three of you like to move some tables together and set up a place for us to eat outside?” Della asked. “We’re less than an hour away, so you could go ahead and spread some newspaper over them, too.”

“No problem,” Zach said, snagging two more pieces of cheese for the road. “Where can we find the newspaper?”

“I think there’s a stack in the den,” Della said, sending them on their way.

Giving her coleslaw a stir, she looked across the room at where Paul and Hailey were sitting side by side on the sofa, their heads bent together over Paul’s laptop. “Don’t you two want to get outside and stretch your legs before we eat? You’ve been staring at that computer screen all day.”

“We’re almost finished,” Paul said, without glancing up. He made a few adjustments on the track pad with his fingers, then turned the screen toward Hailey.

“No.” Hailey shook her head. “I still like the other one better.”

“The first one or the second one?”

“The second one.”

“Okay, wait. What if I…”

Tuning them out, Della tucked the coleslaw into the fridge and kept her ear trained for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She didn’t know what Izzy could possibly be doing up there, but she’d been holed up in her room ever since she’d returned a few hours ago. She slipped a few buttermilk-battered drumsticks into a pan of sizzling oil—there were few people who could resist the smell of her fried chicken—and hoped they would do the trick.

“So,” she said, dusting the flour off her hands as she turned to face Paul and Hailey, “who wants to cut some fresh flowers for the tables?”

“I can do that,” Megan said as she wheeled in from the hallway with a tattered copy of James Michener’s Chesapeake, which she’d found on one of the bookshelves in the den that morning and had been absorbed in for most of the day. She pushed her wheelchair over to Della, accepting the clippers and a few small glass jars to use as vases. “Anything specific?”

“Maybe just some daisies from the beds by the front porch,” Della said, smiling at her.

Megan wheeled away and Della could tell that Paul and Hailey weren’t going to budge anytime soon. She figured she’d done her best. If she tried any harder to get rid of them, they’d probably pick up on it and start to suspect something. The only way she was going to pull this off was if everything seemed as natural as possible when Izzy came downstairs.

Glancing at the clock on the oven, she calculated that she had about fifteen minutes until Ryan and Becca would get here with the crabs. She took in the scene in the yard, making sure everyone else was distracted, then sent Will a quick text.

It was now or never…

---

The D.C. food scene was exploding, Izzy thought as she finalized the list she’d spent the past few hours compiling, hit the ‘send’ button, and closed her computer. Gone were the stuffy, unimaginative menus that had catered to politicians, lobbyists, and back room attorneys for decades. Celebrity chefs from all over the world were moving into the city, opening restaurants, experimenting with new methods, competing with each other. Michelin’s prestigious Red Guide reviewers had even visited the city for the first time last year, thrown a few stars around.

It would take a while before D.C. caught up to places like New York and San Francisco, which had long ago established themselves as culinary trendsetters, but the initial sparks were there. And the energy behind those sparks was a new wave of breakout chefs who were targeting young, hip, environmentally conscious consumers willing to pay a premium for the best locally sourced food.

The timing for Ryan and his father to get into this market could not be better. But they needed to act fast, and make a name for themselves now, before they became a blur in a sea of suppliers who would all be courting these chefs with their own stories and promises to provide the finest product. It was really only a matter of winning over a few of them. Because they all talked to each other. They all followed each other’s social media accounts. And if the best of the best were sourcing with a specific supplier, everyone else was going to get on board.

It was a good thing she understood chefs, what they cared about, what made them tick. It was simple, really. Behind every chef was a deep-rooted need to comfort. It didn’t matter how technically accurate they were or how artistically they presented a dish; that desire to comfort others, to heal them and nourish them was the most important ingredient.

The most successful chefs were the ones who had learned to transfer that emotion into their cooking. And if the ingredients they started with had been cultivated with the same love, the same passion and intensity that they brought with them into the kitchen every day, it would be a powerful combination.

The way she saw it, all they needed to do was get a few well known chefs out here, let them experience what she’d experienced firsthand today, and Ryan and his father would be receiving more orders than they had oysters to fill.

Pushing back from the desk, she stood and followed the mouthwatering scent of fried chicken into the hallway. She spotted Will at the foot of the stairs, reading a text on his cell phone.

He slipped the device into his pocket the moment he saw her. “I was just about to come up and get you.”

“Oh, yeah?” she asked, making her way down the steps.

“I wanted to make sure you didn’t sleep through the crab feast.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” she said, offering him a smile for the first time since she’d arrived at his house a week ago. “Have you seen Paul around?”

Will gave her a questioning look, then nodded. “He’s in the living room.”

“Thanks,” she said, brushing past him and walking into the hallway that connected the foyer to the kitchen. She saw Della behind the stove, lifting pieces of crispy chicken out of a pan of bubbling oil and transferring them onto a plate. She could smell the sharp, yeasty scent of biscuits rising in the oven, the vinegar from a batch of coleslaw, and the subtle, citrusy aroma of key lime pie.

She stepped into the living room, spotted Paul and Hailey on the couch, and walked toward them. When they glanced up and saw her, surprise registered on both their faces.

“I sent you an email,” she said to Paul.

“When?”

“Just now,” Izzy said.

Paul opened his email and scanned through the message. He was probably wondering why she was talking to him when she’d barely said two words to him all week. “What is this?”

“It’s a list of chefs,” she explained, “to target.”

He looked back up at her. “For the oysters?”

She nodded. “I’ve broken them into three groups. The first are the celebrity chefs. You’ll probably recognize some of the names. If we can get even one person in that group to give us a chance, it’ll be enough for everyone else to start taking us seriously.” She pointed to the next set of names on the screen. “The second group is made up of mostly farm-to-table chefs. They’re the ones who’ll want to hear about the Selkie Pearls, because they care about the stories behind the people who are growing their food. I’ve studied each of their websites and found something we could use to appeal to each of them personally. I’ve made notes and linked to their sites so you can see what I mean.”

She paused, waiting for him to scroll down. “The third tier is the largest, and represents most of the well-established restaurants and oyster bars in the area. Every chef on that list is working for a business with a solid reputation and a loyal customer base. I’d recommend pitching the Pearl Coves to them, because they’re running fast-paced operations with heavy turnover, and their staff won’t have time to explain what a selkie is. These restaurants will be our main source of income, simply because of the sheer quantity they’ll be able to move. But getting into the ones owned by the chefs in the first two groups should be our highest priority. Those are the ones that will set us apart, that will make it clear that we’re not messing around. The more top tier chefs we can get in with, the less we’ll have to market ourselves to the rest. Ultimately, they should be coming to us, not the other way around.”

Paul and Hailey both stared at her with their mouths open.

Izzy heard the sound of a pan clatter behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder. Alone in the kitchen, Della was muscling a heavy, cast-iron pan onto the largest eye of the stove. Izzy watched her fire up the heat, and noticed that she had almost every eye going now. It seemed like an awful lot of food for a crab feast.

Weren’t crab feasts supposed to be about the crabs?

“Some of these chefs are famous,” Paul said, scrolling through the list of names on the screen. “They have TV shows.”

“I know,” Izzy said.

He looked up at her again. “They’re not going to give me the time of day.”

“They will if you have something they want.”

“But…”

“Look,” Izzy said, sitting down next to him. “Take Nolan Reyes, for instance.” She pointed to one of the first names on the screen. “He owns six different restaurants in D.C., and each of those restaurants has a different chef in the kitchen. All you need to do is find a connection with one of them.”

“But…how?”

“I would start by following each of them on social media. Get to know their personalities and figure out what you might have in common so you can strike up a conversation when you just happen”—she made air quotes—“to run into one of them.”

“But…where am I going to run into one of them?”

She smiled and pushed back to her feet. “You’ll figure it out.”

The timer on the oven binged and Izzy looked over at the kitchen. Della was still behind the stove, with both hands occupied. The smaller pan was starting to smoke, and she thought she caught a hint of something burning. She walked over to the oven, pointed to the timer. “Do you want me to turn this off?”

“Yes, thank you,” Della said, a little breathlessly. “I-I’m sorry. I’m not used to working in a kitchen this size. Could you just grab those biscuits out of the oven?”

Izzy hesitated. She hadn’t set foot in a kitchen apart from zapping something in the microwave since leaving the military. But the woman did look a little frazzled.

“Here,” Della said, pushing a pair of hot pads toward her. “Use these.”

Izzy took the hot pads and looked at the oven. The light was on, and she could see from the golden-crusted tops that the biscuits needed to come out or they’d overcook. She took a deep breath. It was only a tray of biscuits. All she had to do was pull them out and set them on the counter.

The door squeaked as she opened it. A blast of warm air hit her in the face. It smelled of butter, cheddar cheese, and Old Bay seasoning. She breathed it in, letting the comforting aromas soothe her heightened nerves. She slid the tray out, set it on the counter, and stepped back.

There, she thought. That wasn’t so bad.

She started to back out of the kitchen.

“Have you seen my slotted spoon anywhere?” Della asked, frantically pushing things around the cluttered counters. When she couldn’t find it right away, she started opening drawers, rattling through them. “There’s got to be another one around here somewhere.”

“Um… I think it’s…” Izzy took two tentative steps back into the kitchen, picked up the spoon from where it was hidden beneath a layer of paper towels, and handed it to Della. “Here.”

Della beamed, grabbed her hand, and dragged her over to the stove. She dipped the spoon in a large pot of boiling water and fished out a butter bean. “Will you taste this? Tell me what you think?”

Izzy held out her hand and Della dropped the large, cream-colored bean into it.

She wasn’t cooking, Izzy thought as a curl of steam rose from her palm. She was just tasting. And no matter what it tasted like, she would tell her it was perfect. But when she popped the bean in her mouth, and bit into it, it wasn’t perfect. It was bland. And she couldn’t lie. Not to another chef.

“It needs something, doesn’t it?” Della asked.

Izzy nodded.

“Salt?”

No. Salt wouldn’t be enough. “Do you have any bouillon cubes?”

“Yes!” Della’s face lit up. “That’s it!” Her cheeks were flushed and her gray-blond hair was starting to curl wildly from the steam coming off the stove. “I usually cook the beans in chicken broth, but I ran out last night and I forgot to pick up a box at the store this morning.”

Izzy looked around the enormous kitchen. “Do you know where the spices are?”

Della pointed to one of the cabinets to the left of the stove.

Izzy walked over and rooted around the collection of spices until she found a jar of bullion cubes. She pulled one out, unwrapped the foil, and handed it to Della.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Della said, making room for her in front of the stove. “Would you mind throwing it in, giving it a stir?”

Izzy paused, not wanting to get any closer.

Della slid the next batch of chicken into the frying pan. “I know it seems like a lot of food, but not everyone has the patience for picking crabs. You’ve eaten them before, haven’t you?”

“I have,” Izzy said, still holding the bouillon cube.

“Have you ever steamed them yourself?”

“No.”

“Well, if you think you can stomach it, I could use the help,” Della said. “Which reminds me…” She stepped back, wiping her hands on her apron. “I left my big steamer pot in the car. Can you keep an eye on the chicken for me? I’ll just be a minute.”

Izzy opened her mouth to say no, but Della was already on her way out the door. And before she knew what was happening, she was alone in the kitchen, with four pans bubbling on the stove.

She stood frozen, her feet rooted to the floorboards. She heard voices out in the yard. Zach, Wesley, and Matt were moving tables together. Jeff and Kade were manning the grill, laughing at something someone had said. Behind her, in the living room, Paul and Hailey were deep in conversation, but their words sounded muffled, far off.

Fighting to curb the panic attack that lay like a familiar gray fog at the edge of her mind, always ready to creep in at the slightest hint of weakness, she took a step forward. Then another. The oil popped and sizzled, splattering out of the pan holding the chicken. She reached over it and dropped the bouillon cube into the boiling water.

It sank, dissolving into the butter beans. She picked up the spoon, gave the broth a gentle stir. You can do this, she thought. You just have to stand here and make sure nothing burns. Della will be back any minute.

But the seconds ticked by. Then the minutes. Until the breading on the drumsticks began to crisp, turning a rich golden brown. She swallowed, lifting the spoon again, slowly turning each piece over.

“Something smells good in here.”

The voice—deep and masculine and hauntingly familiar—had the spoon slipping from her fingers, clattering to the floor. And just like that, she was back in North Carolina.

Izzy snapped to attention, honoring Colonel Welker’s rank. He smiled and waved away the formality, as he often did when no one else was around. The rest of her staff had left hours ago, but she had stayed late to test out a recipe for an upcoming military cooking competition, which she was determined to win. It wasn’t uncommon for Colonel Welker to wander into her kitchen after hours, so she relaxed, at ease in his presence.

“It’s a Oaxacan chili sauce,” she said, turning back to the stove. “My grandmother’s recipe.”

He walked up behind her, and she thought nothing of it when he leaned in, peering over her shoulder at the exotic mixture of spices and dried chilies, ground nuts and dark chocolate. Despite the fact that he outranked her, and that officers weren’t encouraged to mingle with enlisted soldiers, they’d been friendly ever since the attack in Afghanistan. She liked to think that it had bonded them. That, in a war zone, when you were fighting for your life, rank didn’t matter as much.

She added cinnamon and a pinch of aniseed, turned the heat up on the burner, just a touch, and was about to reach for the bar of chocolate when his hand snaked out, caught her wrist.

The action was so unexpected, so out of character, it took her a moment to react. Her gaze shot up to his. He wasn’t smiling anymore. His eyes were cold. And there was a look in them she’d never seen before.

She started to step away, but he grabbed her other arm and twisted it behind her back.

“What are you—? Stop,” she said. “What are you doing?”

His grip tightened. He yanked her back against him. “Teaching you a lesson.”

She froze, paralyzed. Panic pooled in the pit of her stomach. No. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. “Stop,” she said again.

He leaned down, his lips grazing her ear. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

Fear whipped through her, pumping through the shock. “Get off me,” she said, then louder. “Get off me.”

He laughed, a hollow sound echoing through the empty kitchen, reverberating through the deserted dining hall. There was no one around—no one to hear her scream.

She struggled, pushing against him, using every instinct and surge of adrenaline inside her to fight. She managed to get one hand free, jam an elbow back, into his ribs, before he fisted a hand in her hair and threw her down on the counter. She cried out when her forehead smacked against the stainless steel. Pain seared through her temple. The inside of her mouth tasted metallic.

But none of that was as horrifying as the sound of him unfastening his belt.

“Did you think you’d get away with it?” His words were hard and bitter. “Did you think I’d let you emasculate me?” She heard the hiss of a zipper, the pop of a button. “You’re no hero. You’re nothing but a whore.”

His hand was pressed into the back of her neck, holding her down. She tried to kick, to shove against him, but he’d pinned her to the counter with his hips. And then his hands were on her clothes, yanking them off her.

She saw the knife, a blur of silver, but it was too far away.

If only she could reach it. If only she could…

“Izzy? Izzy, can you hear me?”

The voice—a man’s voice, low and urgent—raced toward her, like a rope, unfurling down a well.

But the other man was still holding her down. And all she could hear was his voice, and his words—the last words he’d said before he’d forced himself inside her—“A woman’s place is in the kitchen.”

The pain was blinding. But the knife was still there. She could just make out the blade, glinting in the fluorescent lights.

“Izzy? Are you okay?” A hand curved around her elbow, pulling her back, away from the heat of the stove. “Can you hear me?”

She hadn’t been able to reach it then.

But she could reach it now.

She grabbed it, wrapping her fingers around the handle like a dagger, and whirled.