Chapter 1: The Night That Changed Everything

The Governor’s son, famous for steering clear of women, ended up—after a night of way too much whiskey—hooking up with a servant.

Rumor had it, Everett Sinclair was as untouchable as a marble statue—aloof, always keeping his distance from the girls at every gala. Never so much as giving a sideways glance. Seriously, not even a blink. Yet, here we were: the whole estate was now abuzz, hunting for the mysterious woman who’d managed to get under his skin. The air in the mansion crackled with gossip, whispers curling around every corner like smoke from a Fourth of July bonfire.

I clutched my shirt tight, desperately trying to hide the marks on my skin. My hands shook so badly I could barely keep the fabric together. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I could practically hear the blood roaring in my ears. Every footstep in the hallway made me flinch, convinced someone would barge in and point the finger at me. God, don’t let anyone see. Not now.

Shaking, I prayed no one would realize it was me.

Because...

I’m a guy!

Let me back up. When I was fourteen, my dad sent me to work in the kitchen at the Governor’s mansion in Maple Heights.

Back then, I was all bones and elbows, barely tall enough to see over the counter, but determined to make something of myself. Dad said it was a good opportunity—better than sweating away on the family farm. I remember clutching my duffel bag on the bus ride, watching the rows of maple trees blur past and promising myself I wouldn’t let him down.

Because I was especially good at making pulled pork, I won over Chef Henderson, who took me under his wing as his apprentice.

Chef Henderson was a big man with a booming laugh. He could quiet a room with a single look. But if you did well, he’d sneak you a butterscotch. He’d slap me on the back and say, “Jamie, you’ve got magic in those hands. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Chef Henderson even said that when I left the mansion one day, he’d introduce me to his daughter.

He’d show me her picture—always tucked in his wallet—like a proud dad at a high school football game. “She’s a looker, and she can make cornbread that’ll knock your socks off,” he’d say, nudging me with a wink.

But I already had someone in my heart; I couldn’t see anyone else, so I gently turned down Chef Henderson’s kindness.

The person I liked was Maribel, who sold fresh cheese at the Maple Heights farmers’ market. She was pretty and quick with her hands. So many folks came to ask for her hand that her family’s porch steps looked like they’d seen a hundred suitors.

Maribel had this wild, curly hair she never bothered to tie back, and her laugh could carry clear across the square. Every Saturday, she’d set up her stall before sunrise, hands dusted with flour, calling out deals to the early risers and always sneaking me a wedge of cheddar when I passed by. Her family’s house was the one with the blue porch swing and flower pots crowding the steps.

But when Maribel was five, she’d already said she wanted to be my wife, so she turned everyone else down.

I’d planned to propose, but unexpectedly, my father sent me to the mansion as an apprentice.

The day I left home, Maribel served me a bowl of homemade mac and cheese, gently saying, “Eat up. If that’s not enough, there’s more. Fill your belly before you go.”

She sat across from me, chin in her hands, watching to make sure I took every bite. The kitchen smelled like baked bread and melted cheese, and the sunlight caught the dust motes dancing in the air. She’d even sprinkled a little extra paprika on top—just the way I liked it.

I had to blink back tears, I was so moved.

I promised her that when I left the mansion, I’d make pulled pork sandwiches for her every day!

All these years, I’ve kept that promise in my heart.

Making pulled pork every day costs a lot, so I worked hard to save money, just waiting to go home and marry my girl!

Every payday, I’d tuck away a few bills in an old cigar box under my bunk, counting them by flashlight at night and dreaming of the day I’d walk back down Willow Lane, arms full of groceries, ready to start our life together.

But then fate decided to mess with me, big time, in my sixth year at the mansion.

That night, during the Governor’s Christmas gala, the kitchen was slammed. By the time things calmed down, it was already past midnight.

The whole place smelled of cinnamon and roasting meat, the kind of scent that seeps into your clothes and stays with you for days. My feet ached, and my hands were raw from scrubbing pans. I was so hungry my stomach felt glued to my spine. I thought, if I don’t eat soon, I’ll pass out. Seeing leftover pulled pork on the table, I figured since it’d be tossed anyway, I might as well fill my belly.

As I was heating the pork, someone suddenly barged in.

The kitchen door banged open, the hinges squealing. My heart skipped a beat. I thought it was Mr. Wilkins, the head steward, so without turning around, I called out, “Mr. Wilkins, have you eaten? There’s enough pulled pork left—let’s split it?”

The pulled pork I made was tender, smoky, and rich. Just a gentle bite and it would melt in your mouth.

Mr. Wilkins loved it too.

But what answered me was heavy, ragged breathing.

Confused, I turned—and instantly froze.

The newcomer wore a tailored navy suit with a gold tie pin, his features sharp, his presence magnetic, completely out of place in the messy kitchen.

Wasn’t this the Governor’s son, Everett Sinclair?

Right now, his eyes were bloodshot, his breathing ragged, and he looked like he was about to snap.

He looked like a man on the edge, sweat beading on his brow, his tie askew. The air between us felt charged, like the air right before a tornado touches down.

Terrified, I dropped to my knees and pleaded:

“Sir, please, I was just hungry and wanted to make a snack. Please let it slide this time!”

My voice cracked, and I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for a lecture—or worse. I’d seen what happened to folks who crossed the wrong person in this house.

The Governor’s son, known for his cool head, grabbed me and pressed me against the counter—not rough, but desperate and confused, like he was barely holding himself together.

Up close, I noticed beads of sweat on his forehead and his eyes full of restraint and struggle.

The strong smell of whiskey made me wrinkle my nose.

“Y-You’re drunk, sir?” I asked nervously.

He lowered his gaze, staring at me hard.

“Is… it you?”

What’s me?

I looked at him, baffled, thinking he must be really drunk, probably confusing me with someone else.

The slow cooker bubbled, the aroma of pulled pork wafting through the air.

I swallowed.

He swallowed too.

I said, “Sir, you look hungry too. Why don’t I check if the pork’s ready?”

But as I watched him, he suddenly leaned in and pressed his lips to mine.

What the—ahhh!

I froze, forgetting to resist for a second.

What is he doing?!

Is he going to—right here in the mansion kitchen?

With a man?

The Governor’s son, who’s supposed to avoid women?

He likes… men!

I shoved at him desperately, trying to keep my dignity.

“No, sir, look, I’m just a cook. If you like men, someone else can pick out a good one for you another day.”

“You can’t be this desperate…”

I was about to cry!

“Shut up!”

Obviously, fighting back was useless. He used force, and with a rip, my shirt was torn open.

That jerk, once he’d had his way, just slumped against the wall and passed out.

I held my waist, legs shaking as I left.