Chapter Three | Sam
Chapter Three
Sam
Iwoke at five-thirty Wednesday morning, my internal alarm refusing to let me sleep past dawn even when my body begged for rest. The honey-roasted pear tart from last night sat half-eaten on my nightstand—I'd devoured it after Gus left, each bite a revelation that made me question every dessert I'd ever praised at other events.
By six-forty-five, I was dressed in dark jeans, ankle boots, and a cream cashmere sweater—my version of casual that still maintained professional polish. I'd left my hair down after blow-drying it, telling myself it had nothing to do with the way Gus's eyes had tracked over me last night.
My phone buzzed with a text from Emma: How's Montana? Have you charmed the difficult chef yet?
I typed back: Working on it. He's complicated.
Her response was immediate: Complicated how? Hot complicated or annoying complicated?
Both. Mostly annoying. Focus, Em.
I grabbed my tablet and headed downstairs, rehearsing my approach. Professional. Collaborative. Simple.
The kitchen was already alive when I arrived at seven. Fresh coffee mingled with the scent of frying potatoes and browning butter. My stomach growled.
Gus stood at the stove, his back to me, working three pans at once. He'd pulled his dark hair back with a rubber band, revealing the strong line of his neck. His chef's coat stretched across his shoulders as he reached for the salt.
I looked away quickly.
"Good morning," I called, keeping my voice light.
He didn't turn, didn't pause. "Morning. Give me ten minutes. I'm in the middle of service."
I blinked at the dismissal. "I can wait. I'll just make some coffee."
"Pot's fresh. Mugs in the cabinet above."
His tone wasn't rude exactly, but it lacked last night's tentative warmth. Fine. I could work with that.
I poured myself coffee and leaned against the counter. There was a hypnotic quality to how he moved, knowing exactly where everything was without looking, the confident flip of his wrist turning pancakes.
Childish laughter echoed from the dining room, followed by a woman's patient voice asking someone to please sit down.
"The family with four kids?" I asked.
"Twin boys who think syrup is a food group, a toddler who only eats orange foods, and an infant who screams if you look at her wrong." Despite his words, fondness warmed his voice. "They're checking out after breakfast. Headed to Glacier."
"Brave parents."
"Or insane." He glanced over his shoulder, wariness crossing his features before he turned back to the stove. "Thought you'd be down earlier. I wanted to go over menus before service."
I opened my mouth to agree, then stopped. The thought landed uncomfortably—I'd told him I'd be down early, then hadn't shown. Hadn't even thought to text. "I had an early call with Raven. She wanted to review tomorrow's schedule."
"The bride comes first," he said, not quite hiding the edge in his voice.
Was he annoyed? Looking at his tight jaw, I realized maybe my emergency wasn't his emergency. In my world, bride panic trumped everything, but maybe that wasn't fair to the people trying to help me.
"But I'm here now, so whenever you have a moment—"
"Can't talk and cook at the same time, Sam. Not when I'm trying to keep four kids and their parents fed and happy."
The way he said my name—with that slight rasp—made my pulse jump.
I watched him plate the breakfast with surprising artistry for kid food. Scrambled eggs formed into small hills, hashbrowns arranged in neat piles, pancakes drizzled with syrup in careful spirals. He even cut one pancake into a smiley face, adding blueberries for eyes.
"That's adorable," I said without thinking.
He shot me a look that might have been surprise. "Kids should enjoy their food. Presentation matters at every level."
Before I could respond, instinct kicked in. This was gold—a grumpy chef making smiley face pancakes. Raven would love it. The human side of the venue, attention to detail.
I pulled out my phone and opened the camera.
"What are you doing?" His voice cut sharp through the kitchen.
"Just getting footage of you working. Raven and Blaze will want to see the chef catering their wedding. This is perfect—"
"Shut that off." He set down his spatula hard enough that it clattered. "Now."
"Gus, this is television content. Prime time. Millions of viewers—"
"I never agreed to be on TV." He turned to face me fully, jaw tight. "I agreed to cook food. That's it. Not to perform for cameras, not to become some character in their reality show circus."
"This isn't about—"
"I don't care what it's about." He jabbed a finger toward my phone. "I came here to get away from that world, from people commodifying every moment for attention. I won't have my kitchen turned into a stage."
Laughter drifted from the dining room, a sharp contrast to the tension between us.
"Fine," I said through gritted teeth, lowering my phone. "If you won't let me film you, I'll photograph the food. The presentation, the plating—that's fair game."
I moved toward the counter where he'd arranged the breakfast plates. The morning light through the window was perfect, catching the steam rising from the eggs.
"What the hell are you doing to my station?" His voice rose as I reached for one of the pans.
"I'm getting photos for the bride—"
"Don't touch my prep!" He grabbed my wrist before I could move the pan, his grip firm but gentle. "Everything is exactly where I need it."
"I need these photos for my business!"
"And I need to finish cooking before this food gets cold!"
We stood too close, his hand still wrapped around my wrist, both breathing hard. His eyes blazed with more than anger—frustration, maybe, or something deeper I was at a loss to name.
"Let go," I said quietly.
He released me immediately, but neither of us stepped back.
"You don't understand," I tried again, softening my tone. "This wedding is everything for my career. These photos, this content—it's how I prove I can deliver at this level."
"What you need is to stop treating everything like it exists solely for brand recognition." He turned back to the stove, but his movements were jerky now, his usual grace disrupted. "Some things are meant to be experienced, not documented on social media."
"Says the man hiding in the middle of nowhere," I shot back before I could stop myself.
His shoulders tensed. "At least I'm not selling my soul for likes and followers."
"At least I'm not so afraid of failure that I've given up trying."
The words hung between us, sharp as his knives. I saw them land—the way his jaw clenched, the muscle jumping beneath his stubbled cheek.
I'd gone too far. I knew it instantly, but pride kept me from apologizing.
He reached for his container of chopped herbs—fresh parsley, cilantro, and chives—but his hand shook slightly. As he moved to add them to the eggs, I shifted position to get a better angle with my phone.
My elbow caught the container. It teetered. I grabbed for it, but my hand only knocked it further, sending it crashing to the floor. Green herbs exploded across the counter and scattered over the tile.
"Goddammit!" Gus exploded. "Are you trying to sabotage me?"
"It was an accident!"
"An accident that wouldn't have happened if you weren't treating my kitchen like your personal photo studio!"
"If you weren't so paranoid about being photographed—"
"ENOUGH!"
Rory's voice cracked like a whip. She stood in the doorway, face flushed, eyes blazing with anger I wouldn't have thought the gentle innkeeper capable of. Behind her, Cass appeared, expression grim.
"The family in the dining room can hear every word," Rory continued, her voice icy now. "The twins think you're having a 'really big fight,' and the baby is crying."
Shame washed over me. I glanced at Gus and saw my own mortification reflected in his face.
"I'm so sorry," I said to Rory. "That was unprofessional."
"We both were," Gus added, bending to pick up the spilled herbs.
Rory looked between us, her expression unreadable. "Gus, didn't you mention yesterday you needed to pick up apples and pumpkins from the local farms?"
He straightened slowly, wariness crossing his features. "Yeah, for the wedding menu."
"Perfect." Rory's smile could have cut glass. "Sam, the wedding party doesn't arrive until tomorrow. You clearly need to relax before you give yourself a stroke. Gus will take you to Hartley's Apple Orchard and Cullen's Pumpkin Patch this afternoon."
"I don't have time for—" I started.
"You have nothing but time," Rory interrupted, her tone leaving no room for debate. "Everything's ready for tomorrow. Your timelines are color-coded, your vendors are confirmed, and you're wound tighter than a spring. Go experience what makes Wintervale special. That's an order."
"Rory," Gus began.
"The family checks out at nine," Cass cut in smoothly, moving beside his girlfriend. "We'll handle preparing the suites for tomorrow. You'll have the whole afternoon free after you pick up supplies. Beautiful day—might as well make use of it."
The two of them stood united, a battle I couldn't win. Beside me, Gus seemed to reach the same conclusion.
"Fine," he muttered. "We'll leave at ten."
"Wonderful!" Rory beamed like she'd just solved world hunger. "The apple orchard and pumpkin patch are must-sees while you're in town, Sam. Trust me."
She gave Gus a look that clearly said fix this, then swept out with Cass following.
Neither of us spoke.
I bent to help clean up the remaining herbs, our hands nearly touching as we reached for the same sprig of parsley. He pulled back first.
"I am sorry," I said quietly. "About the herbs, and what I said. That was out of line."
"Yeah, well." He dumped the salvaged herbs in the trash. "I wasn't exactly diplomatic either."
We worked without speaking, cleaning up my mess. When we finished, he turned to the stove to finish plating.
"Ten o'clock," he said without looking at me. "Wear something warm. It'll be cold in the mountains."
"I'll be ready."