Chapter Two | Gus #2
She sat down and carefully unfolded the napkin across her lap—a fluid, elegant movement that spoke of someone accustomed to fine dining. I watched as she dipped her spoon into the soup and brought it to her lips, holding my breath without realizing it.
Part of me wanted her to hate it. To prove she had no taste, no appreciation for real food. It would make dismissing her opinions so much easier.
For a moment, nothing. Then—
Her eyes closed the moment she tasted it, and a soft moan escaped her. The sound hit me with unexpected force, settling somewhere low in my abdomen and sending a rush of heat through my body, and I shifted my stance.
"Oh my God," she breathed, opening her eyes to look at me with genuine surprise. "This is incredible."
The praise shouldn't have affected me so strongly.
I'd received compliments from Michelin-starred critics, had write-ups in major food publications, been praised by James Beard nominees.
But her reluctant admiration, the way her guarded expression cracked just a little, felt more satisfying than any review.
Maybe because I knew she hadn't wanted to like it.
She'd seemed to come here ready to dislike everything about me, and the food had won her over despite herself.
"It's just soup," I said, shrugging to hide my pleasure at her reaction.
She took another spoonful, then tasted the duck. Her eyes closed again, and I found myself studying the way her features softened when she let her guard down. "No, it's not just soup. The balance of flavors, the texture... this is art, Gus."
I leaned against the wall, watching her eat with a satisfaction I didn't want to feel.
Every chef loves to see someone truly enjoying their food, but this felt different somehow.
More personal. Like I was being seen, not just my cooking.
This was supposed to be a peace offering, not. .. whatever this was.
After a few minutes punctuated only by her occasional sounds of appreciation, she set down her spoon and looked up at me.
"I may have been a bit... intense earlier," she admitted, surprising me.
"And I may not handle change in my kitchen particularly well," I countered, offering my own olive branch.
An unexpected smile curved her lips, transforming her face in a way that made my chest tighten. "A hazard for both of us, I suppose. Control freaks in our respective domains."
"Something like that," I agreed, returning her smile cautiously.
For a brief moment, I could see us working together rather than against each other, combining her eye for presentation with my culinary vision. The thought was oddly appealing. What could we create if we stopped fighting and started collaborating?
The moment shattered when her phone buzzed loudly from the desk. Instantly, her expression shifted back to business mode, the vulnerability disappearing behind her guarded expression like a door slamming shut.
"I should let you get back to your work," I said, sensing the brief truce ending. "Breakfast starts at six, but I can have something sent up if you prefer."
"I'll be down early," she replied, already glancing at her phone. "We should review the menu plans then, if that works for you."
"It's your show." I nodded, heading for the door. "Enjoy the tart by the way. The pears came from a farm just outside town."
She glanced at the small honey-roasted pear tart waiting on the tray. "Is that dessert?"
"Yeah," I said, suddenly a bit self-conscious. "Just a simple pear tart."
"You really do source everything locally, don't you?" she asked, her voice holding genuine curiosity.
"When you've worked with the best ingredients shipped from all over the world, you realize the best things are often growing in your own backyard," I said, surprised by my own candor. "Goodnight, Ms. Maxwell."
"Sam," she corrected, echoing my earlier request for informality. "If we're going to be working closely together this week, we might as well use first names."
"Goodnight then, Sam," I said, the syllable feeling oddly intimate on my tongue.
"Goodnight, Gus. And... thank you for dinner."
Back in my kitchen, I busied myself with cleanup, trying to focus on the tasks at hand rather than the memory of Sam with her hair down, or the soft moan she'd made tasting my soup.
It had been too long since I'd had a woman in my bed—that was all this was.
Simple physical attraction mixed with the peculiar intensity that came from clashing with someone who matched your own stubbornness.
The last complication I needed was a control freak with a mouth that looked surprisingly kissable when not issuing demands.
I didn't need to understand her. I just needed to survive the next week without strangling her or doing something even more stupid.
Tomorrow we'd go over the menus. Tomorrow she'd probably be back to her lists and demands and criticisms. Tomorrow I'd remember why working with her was impossible.
As I shut down the kitchen for the night and headed out to my truck, I knew I was in trouble.
It was one thing to be annoyed by a woman.
It was another thing entirely to be attracted to her.
And the way my body had reacted to that small moan she'd made—that was a complication I definitely didn't need.
I'd come to Wintervale to heal, not to fall into bed with someone who'd leave in a week. Even if I couldn't stop picturing what other sounds she might make with the right encouragement. Even if my dreams that night were filled with long brown hair and soft moans that had nothing to do with soup.