Chapter One | Sam #2
A man stood with his back to me at the center island, completely absorbed in whatever he was chopping.
His shoulders were broad under his white chef's coat, his dark hair slightly too long and curling at the nape of his neck.
The steady rhythm of his knife hitting the cutting board filled the kitchen.
"Excuse me," I called.
He didn't react, continuing his chopping as if I weren't there.
"Excuse me," I tried again, louder this time.
Still nothing. Not even a pause in his movements. Was he deliberately ignoring me? My patience, already worn thin by Raven's demands, snapped entirely. I stepped forward and tapped his shoulder, definitely harder than I intended.
He whirled around, knife still in hand, green eyes widening with surprise. "What the hell?"
I jumped back, heart racing. "I—I was trying to get your attention."
He reached up and yanked out a pair of earbuds I hadn't been able to see from behind, his expression shifting from surprise to irritation as he took me in. "And you are?"
"Samantha Maxwell from Maxwell Events. I'm the coordinator for the Monroe-Carrington wedding." I straightened my spine and extended my hand, quickly shifting into the professional demeanor that had earned me celebrity clients. "We need to discuss the menu requirements."
He glanced at my hand but didn't take it, instead setting down his knife and wiping his palms on a towel tucked into his apron. "August Ramsey. Gus. Head chef."
"I need to discuss the menu for the wedding," I continued, lowering my ignored hand and instead lifting my chin.
"We'll need to review Raven's dietary restrictions again - no gluten, dairy, soy, nuts, or nightshades - and Blaze just requested a football helmet groom's cake.
Most importantly, this is a televised event, so everything needs to be Instagram-worthy.
We'll need specific plating angles, prop styling around the dishes, and everything designed for the perfect overhead shot. "
"A football helmet cake?" He noted it down with a slight shake of his head.
"Let me guess - with his team colors and jersey number?
" When I nodded, he sighed. "Consider it added to the list. And I already have Ms. Monroe's restrictions documented.
" He set his notepad aside and fixed me with a stern look.
"But you want to prioritize camera angles over proper serving temperature?
Food has a moment of perfection. Waiting for the perfect shot means guests eat it cold. "
His dismissive tone lit a match to my already fraying patience. "This is a media event, Mr. Ramsey. The social content is as important as the meal itself. Millions of people will see these photos and videos."
"I present food beautifully," he countered, crossing his arms over his chest, biceps flexing beneath the sleeves of his chef's coat.
"But I won't sacrifice taste for a photoshoot.
The plate will be camera-ready for exactly sixty seconds before it's served.
After that, the priority is the guest's experience, not their Instagram. "
"The bride and groom are paying for the perfect visual package," I insisted. "Their followers expect it."
"And their guests expect to eat hot food that tastes like it should," he shot back. "I won't compromise on that."
"I'm asking you to do your job with the understanding that this isn't just any wedding."
His eyes narrowed. "And I'm telling you that I won't compromise the integrity of my food for the sake of someone's follower count."
"The integrity of your food?" I repeated, incredulous. "We're talking about wedding catering, not a Michelin-starred restaurant."
The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I'd struck a nerve. His jaw tightened, and something flashed behind his eyes—pain, maybe?—before hardening into renewed irritation.
"If that's your attitude toward food, Ms. Maxwell, then we have nothing further to discuss tonight." His voice was dangerously quiet. "I'll review your notes again tomorrow when we both have clearer heads."
"We don't have the luxury of time," I insisted. "The wedding party arrives on Thursday, and—"
"And my food will be ready, delicious, and yes, even pretty enough for your precious cameras. But not if I stand here arguing with you instead of preparing."
I felt my cheeks flush with anger. "You are without a doubt the most arrogant, stubborn—"
"Careful," he warned, a maddening smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "You're about to insult the man responsible for feeding you for the next week."
That did it. I turned on my heel, muttering "arrogant ass" just loud enough to be sure he heard it.
As I stalked out, I caught his low reply: "Uptight city women..."
Back in my room, I immediately called Emma, pacing the floor as I recounted the kitchen confrontation.
"He's impossible!" I fumed. "Completely unreasonable! Acts like he's God's gift to culinary arts when he's working at a bed and breakfast in the middle of nowhere!"
"Maybe he's just protective of his domain," Emma suggested, always the voice of reason. "You know how chefs can be about their kitchens."
"This is different," I insisted, though I wasn't entirely sure why. Something about August Ramsey had gotten under my skin in a way few people ever had. "He acts like I'm trying to sacrifice his artistic integrity when I'm just asking for proper presentation for an important event."
"Well, you still have a few days to work it out," Emma reminded me. "And the inn came highly recommended. I'm sure he knows what he's doing."
I sank onto the edge of the bed, suddenly aware that my hands were shaking. "I can't afford any complications, Em. This wedding could make or break us."
"You've handled difficult vendors before. You'll charm him eventually—you always do."
After hanging up, I tried to focus on reviewing my checklists, but my mind kept drifting back to the kitchen. To Gus's intense green eyes. To the way his forearms flexed as he chopped. To the way his body seemed to own every inch of that kitchen.
"Stop it," I scolded myself. "He's a problem to solve, not a man to admire."
I was angry at myself for noticing his physical attributes when I should have been focused on his unreasonable attitude. Four more days of working with him loomed ahead, and my success depended on getting him to cooperate.
My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since a quick lunch at a rest stop.
The thought of facing Gus again in the dining room was unbearable, but I needed to eat.
I considered ordering takeout from somewhere in town but realized I had no idea what options existed in Wintervale and didn't want to risk offending my hosts.
"Dinner in isolation it is," I muttered, reluctantly picking up the vintage telephone on the nightstand.
Rory answered, cheerful as ever. "What can I do for you, Sam?"
"I was wondering if I could have dinner sent up to my room? I have a lot of work to catch up on."
"Of course! Gus prepared a butternut squash soup and fresh bread for tonight. I'll bring it right up."
I thanked her and hung up, trying not to think about the fact that I'd be eating food prepared by the man I'd just argued with. At least this way, I could keep working and avoid seeing him again tonight.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to resume battle. This wedding would be perfect, whether August Ramsey cooperated or not. I hadn't built my business from nothing by letting stubborn men stand in my way.
As I waited for my dinner to arrive, I forced myself to focus on spreadsheets instead of infuriating chefs. I needed a clear head if I was going to turn this inn into a social media sensation, regardless of whose toes I stepped on in the process.