Chapter Four | Gus #2
"How much knowledge does cooking require?
" she asked, clearly changing the subject as she ran her hand over another pumpkin.
"Sorry, that was a weird question. I mean, you knew everything about those apples this morning, and now you're teaching me about pumpkins.
It seems like so much more than just following recipes. "
"Cooking is really about understanding Mother Nature and the bounty she produces.
The gifts of the seasons." I picked up a small pie pumpkin, showing her the difference in texture from the larger carving variety.
"Every ingredient has a season when it's at its peak.
Tomatoes in summer, root vegetables in winter, asparagus in spring.
If you understand the natural cycles, you can create better food. "
"I never thought about it that way." She looked around the field, a wistful look crossing her face.
After our cart was full, we headed back toward the barn. The sun was starting to sink lower and by the time we loaded everything into my truck, dusk was settling over the mountains.
"Thank you," Sam said as we drove back toward the inn. "For today. I'm glad I had the opportunity to visit these beautiful places—even if I was sort of forced into going."
"Rory and Cass have good instincts about people."
"Still. You could have said no, made me feel like a burden. But you didn't."
"You're not a burden, Sam."
The words came out rougher than I'd intended, loaded with more meaning than I should have allowed. She looked at me, but I couldn't read her in the fading light.
Back at the inn, we brought the pumpkins into the kitchen.
"So," Sam said, surveying our haul. "What's the plan for these?"
"Thought we could carve a few for the inn's entrance. Unless you have better ideas for them?"
"Actually, a carving competition sounds perfect." That competitive gleam returned. "Best jack-o'-lantern wins."
"Wins what?"
"Bragging rights. Isn't that enough?"
I grinned. "You're on."
We spread newspapers across the counter and got to work.
I flipped on the overhead lights—the kitchen's big windows had quickly gone dark.
Sam chose a medium-sized pumpkin with a round shape while I selected one with a flat face, ideal for intricate carving.
She started sketching an elaborate design on the surface—what looked like autumn leaves and vines.
"Ambitious," I observed, starting on my own simpler design.
"Go big or go home, right?" She stuck her tongue out slightly in concentration, and I had to look away before I did something stupid like tell her how cute that was.
After a few minutes, I could hear the soft click of nails on tile. Bramble trotted in from somewhere in the inn, made a beeline for Sam and collapsed at her feet with a contented sigh.
"Traitor," I told the dog. "You've known me for two months."
"He has excellent taste." She glanced down at Bramble, then back at me with a smile that made my chest tight.
"Apparently so does everyone in this inn."
"Was that almost a compliment?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
We worked in comfortable silence, the kind that didn't need filling.
I'd carved hundreds of pumpkins over the years—my grandmother taught me when I was a kid.
Dad was always working late at the plant, so Grandma handled most of the holiday stuff.
She made everything feel special, even just carving pumpkins at the kitchen table.
I scraped out pumpkin guts and tossed them toward the compost bucket. A seed flew wide, hitting Sam square on the cheek.
She gasped, eyes going wide with mock outrage. Then her hand dove into her pumpkin and came up with a fistful of seeds and stringy pulp.
"Oh no you don't—" I started, but she'd already flicked them at me.
"Maybe," she said, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"You're going to regret that."
What followed was the most juvenile thing I'd done in years. We were both laughing, dodging and retaliating, seeds flying everywhere. Bramble barked excitedly, trying to eat everything that hit the floor.
"Truce!" Sam finally gasped, breathless. "Truce before Rory bans us both from the kitchen."
"Probably wise." I surveyed the mess. "Though we're definitely cleaning this up."
"Deal."
We grabbed paper towels and worked together to clean up the scattered seeds and sticky pulp. Sam kept finding seeds in unexpected places—wedged behind the compost bucket, stuck to the side of the counter—and would hold them up triumphantly before tossing them in the trash.
"Found another one," she announced, plucking a seed from Bramble's fur. The dog wagged his tail, completely unbothered.
Once we'd restored some semblance of order, we returned to carving. Sam worked on her intricate leaf pattern while I finished my classic grinning face. We kept getting in each other's way—elbows bumping, reaching for the same tool, and my pulse kicked up every damn time.
"That's really impressive," I said when she'd nearly finished. The design was surprisingly skilled—delicate curves and detailed veining on each leaf.
"Thanks. I used to love this as a kid." She set down her knife, tilting her head to examine her work. "Before everything became about being perfect."
"Maybe you just need practice at being imperfect." I gestured to her pumpkin. "Like that leaf—it's a little lopsided. Makes it better, actually. More real."
"Are you trying to give me life advice through pumpkin carving?"
"Is it working?"
"Maybe." She paused, pulling the hair tie from her wrist to secure her ponytail more firmly. "Speaking of habits, I should probably check in on tomorrow's schedule. The wedding party arrives in the afternoon, and I need to confirm a few vendor deliveries."
Right. Tomorrow. Reality returning.
"Makes sense. You hungry? I can throw together some dinner."
She hesitated, and I watched the internal debate play across her face. The Sam from this morning would have immediately retreated to her room. But the woman who'd just spent the afternoon jumping into leaf piles seemed torn.
"I should probably eat in my room," she said finally, not quite meeting my gaze. "I have a lot to review, and if I sit down to a meal with you, I'll get distracted."
The admission hung between us—acknowledgment that whatever was building here was distracting us both.
"Right. Focused." I wiped my hands on a towel. "What are you in the mood for?"
"Honestly? Anything you make is going to be amazing. Surprise me."
After she headed upstairs, I stood in the kitchen surrounded by carved pumpkins and scattered seeds, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in my chest. She was being smart. Professional. We both needed to remember why we were here.
I pulled out ingredients for a simple but elegant meal—pan-seared salmon with roasted Brussels sprouts and quinoa pilaf. As I cooked, I tried not to think about how much I'd enjoyed the afternoon, or how right it had felt having her in my kitchen, laughing over pumpkins.
Twenty minutes later, I arranged everything on a tray with the same care I'd taken the night before. A small vase with rosemary sprigs. A handwritten card describing the meal.
I carried the food upstairs and knocked on her door.
"Come in," she called.
She'd changed into yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, that messy ponytail still in place. Her laptop sat open on the desk, surrounded by color-coded binders, but she wasn't working. She was staring out the window at the darkened garden.
"Delivery, Ms. Maxwell," I said, setting the tray on the small table with a flourish.
"Thank you." She turned to me with a small smile, but something in her expression made my chest tighten. "For all of it."
"Just doing my job."
"No, you're not." She stood, crossing to where I stood by the door. "You didn't have to be kind. You didn't have to take me to the orchard or the pumpkin patch or make me laugh. You could have just cooked the food and tolerated my presence."
We were standing too close again—close enough that I could see the pulse jumping at her throat.
"I know." She took a small step back. "Tomorrow the chaos starts. The wedding party, the TV crew, all of it. We need to stay professional."
"Right. Professional."
Neither of us moved.
"Goodnight, Gus."
"Goodnight."
I left before I could do something stupid like close that small distance between us. As I headed back downstairs, I tried not to think about how she'd looked standing there in her sweatshirt, or the way her voice had gone quiet when she'd thanked me.
By the time I finished cleaning and made my way to the small guest room on the first floor where I'd be staying through the weekend, it was past ten.
I'd brought my things over from my apartment earlier in the week—easier than driving back and forth when I'd be working dawn to midnight for the next few days.
Through the window, I could see the garden where we'd set up for the wedding, the gazebo barely visible in the moonlight.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, running my hands through my hair.
Sam Maxwell was nothing like the women I'd dated in California—the ones attracted to the successful chef with the hot restaurant, who'd vanished the second I declared bankruptcy. I'd sworn off dating after that, figured there was no point when you couldn't trust anyone's motives.
But Sam had hired me based on Rory's recommendation and the food I'd been cooking here. She didn't care about the chef I used to be. She'd actively disliked me at first, had no problem calling me on my bullshit. She was difficult and controlling and drove me crazy.
Except now I couldn't stop thinking about the weight of her in my arms when we'd landed in those leaves. The way her eyes had gone dark when I'd touched her face earlier. How close I'd come to kissing her.
"You're an idiot, Ramsey," I muttered.
She was leaving in a matter of days. Back to Denver, back to her business, back to a life that had no room for a broke chef in Montana. Neither of us was in a place for anything real.
But none of that stopped me from wanting her.
I fell back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Three more days. The wedding party arrived tomorrow, the ceremony was Saturday, and by Sunday she'd be gone. Back to Denver, back to her life.
Three days to keep my head on straight.
The thought should have been a relief.
It wasn't.