The sun dipped low as Elena Moreno's car creaked to a stop on the gravel path.
Her GPS had stopped working twenty minutes ago, but she'd kept driving. Something about the winding roads, the hills dusted in late-summer gold, and the way wildflowers tangled themselves around wooden fences whispered, Stay.
Rosehill didn't even look real.
It looked like a daydream.
She stepped out, the scent of warm bread, lilac, and something almost intoxicating wrapping around her like a shawl.
The old cottage she'd rented online stood in front of her, a stone-and-ivy beauty with chipped shutters and a wild herb garden that spilled onto the path.
Inside, it was cozy: low beams, mismatched furniture, and the kind of silence that settled deep into your chest.
Elena stood in the middle of the room, her suitcase forgotten at the door, and finally breathed.
No articles to write.
No deadlines.
No Marcus.
Her stomach growled, snapping her out of the moment.
She hadn't eaten since noon.
The welcome note on the counter mentioned a local spot called Bellamy's Table.
The handwriting was elegant—swooping cursive in dark ink.
"If you're hungry for something special, head to Bellamy's after dark.
Tell Marco you're new."
The instructions were vague, almost flirtatious.
She liked that.
Elena ran her fingers through her curls, swiped on a little lipstick, and headed out into the cooling dusk.
Bellamy's Table wasn't marked by a sign—just an open gate leading to a low building that pulsed with the warm glow of candles and laughter.
As she stepped inside, the smell hit her first: roasted garlic, caramelized onions, and a faint note of citrus.
People leaned close over wine glasses. Conversations were soft, intimate. Every table flickered with mood and heat.
A man approached her—tall, dark, and wrapped in a black apron. His sleeves were rolled, his forearms dusted with flour.
His smile was slow, knowing.
"You must be Elena."
His voice was smooth, the kind that melts butter.
"Word travels fast here."
She blinked.
"You're Marco?"
"In the flesh."
He motioned her to follow.
"You came hungry, didn't you?"
Her stomach twisted with anticipation—and something else.
Excitement?
Curiosity?
He led her to a corner table, set with a single candle and a small wooden box.
"No menu,"
he said.
"Just trust."
She opened the box.
Inside was a single card:
"Tonight's special: Seduction, slow-cooked."
Marco leaned close, whispering in her ear.
"Dinner in three courses.
Dessert… if you stay long enough."
Elena swallowed, pulse quickening.
Welcome to Rosehill.