Chapter 8 Frosty and Fragile
FROSTY AND FRAGILE
HOLDEN
I roamed around the first floor, peeking into every space of the lodge. Employees had left things in various stages of readiness for opening day, like they were here working on things and then, poof! suddenly vanished into thin air.
Tools lay about here and there. Half of a strip of wallpaper hung down in the men’s bathroom, the glue drying in a bucket on the floor. Ceiling tiles were missing from a room reserved for meetings and events. I knew better than to try my hand with any of those.
I started a list in my phone of the things I saw that needed to be done before opening day.
But here and there I moved things around to my liking, switching one artwork on a wall for another, shifting a seating arrangement five feet to the left—things that wouldn’t exactly get me in too much trouble.
I had to do something to get my mind off Lilah.
Like I could sense her presence, her pheromones wrapped around me and wouldn’t let go.
My body remained on high alert for any sound or sign of her if ever she left the kitchen.
This must be what being stranded on a deserted island with a beautiful woman I couldn’t touch would be like—my own personal Hell.
A cozy space greeted me when I opened a door just down the hall from the main lobby.
I had forgotten we’d added a library room into the plans last minute.
The designers insisted on a quiet space for people who needed to chill, tucked away from the busy-ness of the lodge.
Perfect for families with small children, or for neurodivergent people who became overwhelmed by skiing, or avid readers.
Or as a romantic space given the dark wood shelves lined with books of all sorts, an oversized leather couch, and chairs with plush throws and pillows, plus the beauty of a natural rock fireplace.
A stack of firewood sat ready on the hearth, as did matches on the mantel.
Above it, an oil painting by a famous local artist of this very mountain, of course in a seasonal wintry scene.
I hadn’t decided what to name my mountain yet, but when I did, I’d add a brass plate with the name engraved on it right at the center of the frame.
Miraculously, this was one space that seemed finished. And cozy enough for two… What would be the odds I could get Lilah to join me in front of the fireplace tonight?
“Yeah, right.” I grunted. The woman made clear her disdain for me, running away from the laundry room when I tried apologizing for the past. Again. Always running away.
I continued to examine the space closely, picking up a book or two, while my stomach growled loud enough to startle me. It became harder to ignore the fact that I had eaten little all day. I could attempt another vending machine raid, but dammit, I owned this place.
My hangry-ness forced me out into the hall, traversing to the kitchen when delicious scents drifted through the air.
Pumpkin? Apple? Definitely a buttery crust. Whatever it was, I followed it with the nose of a bloodhound.
Like a spy, I carefully peeked at Lilah through the kitchen window in the swinging door, and then I heard humming. Distinctly familiar humming. She was cooking to the tune of “All I Want For Christmas is You.”
If I hadn’t been starving, I might’ve questioned reality. Was the magic of the holiday finding her again?
I dared to knock on the metal doorframe, opening it only an inch. I’d already been nearly murdered by a bat today—I wasn’t taking unnecessary risks of another spatula flying toward my face.
“Lilah, it’s me, respectfully requesting something to eat,” I called. “Very respectfully.”
The humming cut off instantly. After a long, defeated sigh, she reached for a stool, carried it across the floor, and thunked it next to the prep counter.
“Come on in. Sit here. And don’t touch anything,” she ordered and patted the seat.
“Yes, Chef.” I saluted and slid onto the stool, acting the saint, like the world’s hungriest, least-threatening intruder.
She moved through the kitchen with fierce determination and focused precision, pulling ingredients—thick bread, four different kinds of cheeses, butter, herbs, tomatoes, peppers, salt. She chopped and mixed and whipped something together while I watched, mesmerized by her into a trance.
I had never experienced anything like this—foreplay at its finest. She tasted a spoonful of her soup, wrapping her plump lips around a spoon and frowned, adjusting spices by instinct. My mouth watered for a taste, not only of the food, but if ever given a chance—of her.
She caught me staring and cocked a brow.
“Pardon me. I’m starving.” I gave a sheepish grin. “It’s a medical condition at this point.”
Her shoulders loosened half an inch.
“Can I help chop something?” I asked, growing restless on the stool.
“No.”
“Stir something?”
“No.”
“Sit here and master my smoldering stare at you?”
Her lips twerked. I’d take it.
My smile smoldered more. “Only playing to my strengths.”
“Try standing in the hallway and peeking through the window. You seem practiced at that.”
“Nope. You finally let me in. I’ll stay right here.”
“Be a good boy and behave yourself then,” she warned me with a pointed finger. As her employer, was it wrong of me to admit I liked her bossing me around? My cock twitched, getting a rise over it.
I practically sat on my hands and bit my bottom lip. If only she knew how tempting it was to reach for her and bring her into my arms, to lean down and taste her lips. Was it being alone with her in the storm or my hangry lightheadedness causing my libido to multiply?
A few minutes later of her every move fueling my fantasies, she slid a plate in front of me containing a grilled four-cheese panini with béchamel dipping sauce and a bowl of roasted tomato-pepper soup that smelled heavenly. Suddenly, this didn’t seem like hell anymore.
I grinned, reaching for my spoon. “So I paid millions for this lodge, and on Christmas Eve I get the soup-and-sandwich special?”
She snatched the tray away so fast I nearly fell off the stool.
“Whoa—no—hey, Chef, come on—I was only kidding. Kidding!” I backtracked quickly, regretting that I had stuck my foot in my mouth for a joke.
She leveled me with a look. “My mother made this every Christmas Eve. Simple food, yes, but before the feast on Christmas the next day she didn’t want to have to work too hard the night before. It’s sacred. Don’t disrespect it.”
“I’m just a starving idiot.” I held up my hands. “Please. If I don’t taste you—I mean, the food—soon I’ll pass out on your floor.”
Her eyes widened. She hesitated, then returned the plate. “Eat then… you starving fool.” She finished with a crooked grin.
Hm, was I making progress?
I dipped the panini into the béchamel, took a huge bite of almost half of it, savoring the flavors of the cheeses blending on my tongue, and groaned. “Oh my God. Marry me.” That blurted right out of my full mouth.
Laughter burst out of her, and the light lilt teased my hearing. I suddenly needed more of everything—her laugh, the food, her smile at last.
“For the record, I wasn’t not going to feed you, bossman,” she admitted.
Stab me in the gut right now. Here I was playing out sexy fantasies of planting her on the stainless steel counter, getting my face between her thighs, and dirtying up her kitchen once again when she played the boss card.
My mind raced to justify any sexual encounter being I knew her long before Snow Quest ever entered my dreams, long before she agreed to work here.
“Thanks, I guess. Good to know I won’t starve to death before plows arrive to dig us out.” I winked, then prepared my lips with a lick and took another satisfying bite of the most delicious sandwich I’d ever tasted. I moaned through chewing.
The lights flickered off for a few seconds and then on, Snowzilla reminding us she was still out there, ruining the moment.
“I had better be prepared.” She grabbed tea lights from a drawer nearby. She lit them, placing them between us. “We’re lucky we have power at all with this storm.”
My pulse tripped over itself at how the candlelight lit her face. Her skin glowed, and her blue eyes sparkled.
I quirked an eyebrow. “If the lights go out while we eat, this dinner suddenly gets extremely atmospheric. Dare I say—romantic.”
“Don’t even manifest—”
The lights died completely.
She gasped. “I swear. From your mouth to Mother Nature.”
“I promise you, I don’t have that kind of magic.” I chortled and yanked my phone out and opened the generator app. “It’ll be back on in a minute.”
Except it wasn’t.
“Hold on,” I muttered, heart jumping, thumbs clicking more buttons. “Come on, come on…”
She hovered closer to see the screen—enough that her hair tickled my shoulder. More scents tantalized me, must be her shampoo of a berries and vanilla mixture. They warred with the fragrant meal before us.
I started sweating, half worried and half hoping for my survival fantasy to come true. I’d enjoy her hot, naked body with mine for one night to keep each other warm, but only one night because we’d probably freeze to death before anyone could reach us after the storm.
“Oh no, my pies. I forgot they were in the oven.” In the dim light, she scurried around, retrieved them out, and set them on cooling racks. She inserted toothpicks into the center to test them. “Whew, I think they were done just before the power went out.”
Mm. Pumpkin pie. This woman spoke my stomach’s love language.
At last, the generator kicked on, and the kitchen lights flared back to life.
“Thank God.” She exhaled shakily.
I was about to make a joke about her needing more faith in my technological skills when I saw the readout on my phone, and double checked every generator.
“Okay. So, good news—the main floor has full power,” I announced.
She waited.
“But the suites upstairs don’t. There are three generators, two are operating at only half power for some reason. Which means—”
“A chilly night in bed?” She closed her eyes.
I set the phone down, thinking fast. “We can camp on the main level tonight. There’s a library with a fireplace and a comfy couch. No freezing to death upstairs.”
She shot me a look. “We are not sharing a couch.”
“I never suggested we share,” I quickly corrected. “You’d probably punch me in your sleep, Frosty. We’ll set up cots like two extremely respectable adults on opposite sides of the room.”
“Frosty?” She tried not to smile. Failed. Barely.
I could’ve basked here with her for hours in this fragile moment.
She opened up to me slightly. Should I take a chance that this was the window I needed to address the past?
Would she finally discuss what exactly had happened?
Or, like the runaway bride she was that day, would she sprint right out into the storm just to avoid the truth?