7. Contraband Ice Cream
Chapter 7
Contraband Ice Cream
Tessa
O n the trek back to the resort, Evan and I devised a plan that he insisted we call Operation Bon Appétit. The goal was to get me into the kitchen and far enough into dinner preparation that Archer couldn’t refuse my services.
While I enjoyed another afternoon snowboarding lesson, Evan decorated my bathroom in a dolphin theme—the fact he had material to achieve this was something we’d explore later. Now was the true test: whether the upgrade he’d made to my room would distract Archer and Liam enough so that I could enact my part of the plan.
I pretended to be engrossed in my book while secretly watching the lobby over its edges like a spy. The crackling fireplace provided excellent ambiance for both reading and covert operations, though I hadn’t processed a single word on the page in the last twenty minutes.
My coffee had gone cold, but I didn’t dare get up for a fresh cup in case I missed Evan’s signal. We’d agreed on something “unmistakable,” though what that meant to someone who thought dolphin-themed bathrooms were a good idea was anybody’s guess.
A couple walked past, discussing their ski lesson, and I ducked further behind my book. The last thing I needed was for Archer or Liam to spot me and wonder why I was lurking in the lobby.
Movement caught my eye, and I looked up to see Evan doing... was that the Macarena? In the middle of the lobby? While wearing a tie as a headband?
That would be our signal then.
I waited until he moonwalked (badly) toward the management offices before making my move. Clutching my book to my chest and grabbing my abandoned coffee, I walked toward the kitchen with as much casual energy as I could muster, which probably looked about as natural as a penguin at a line-dancing competition.
Jenny was waiting by the kitchen’s side entrance as planned. She held the door open with a conspiratorial wink. “Coast is clear, Chef.”
My stomach did a little flip at being called ‘Chef.’ It had been so long since I’d been in a professional kitchen and not just a gourmet one in someone’s house.
The kitchen was exactly what you’d expect from a place whose idea of fine dining was microwaved pasta with ranch dressing (yes, that had been on last night’s menu, and no, I still wasn’t over it). But beneath the neglect and questionable organization, I could see what had once been a magnificent workspace.
I pulled the evening’s menu from my back pocket—courtesy of Jenny’s reconnaissance—and spread it on the stainless-steel prep table. The offerings would have been tragic for the three amigos to prepare, but good thing they had me.
The horror I’d felt when Evan had shared that Archer had emailed a revised menu for dinner service was unlike anything I’d experienced before. And that was saying a lot considering my ex-fiancé ended our engagement.
With access to the walk-in and dry storage, I could elevate the planned dishes from “dear God, why?” to “Sweet baby Jesus, come to mama” in the two hours before dinner service.
Phase two of Operation Bon Appétit was in full swing.
My fingers itched to get started. The familiar excitement of pre-service prep tingled through my body like I’d injected espresso. This was what I’d been missing—the rush of creating something extraordinary under pressure, the dance of timing and technique, the pure joy of making food people wanted to eat.
I tied on the clean apron Jenny had left for me on the counter and got to work. The jarred marinara sauce could be salvaged with fresh herbs and seasoning since there weren’t enough tomatoes to make it from scratch. The “chef’s special” (a truly haunting combination of canned tuna, boxed noodles, and cheese) would mysteriously disappear from the menu, replaced by a pan-seared trout with lemon butter sauce using the fresh fish I’d spotted in the walk-in.
Time melted away as I got started. I was in my element, and it had been a long time since I felt so… alive.
Well, until the kitchen door swung open, and I didn’t even need to look up to know it was Archer. I could feel the man as he stalked into the kitchen.
Phase three of Operation Bon Appétit had arrived, and right on time for my test plates.
I kept working as Archer’s presence filled the kitchen like an approaching thunderstorm. The man had a way of making even a spacious commercial kitchen feel cramped.
“Ms. Callahan.” His voice was eerily calm. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
I carefully plated the pasta in a beautiful, spiraled mound. “Making dinner. Though I suppose technically, it’s a rescue mission for whatever that menu was supposed to be.”
“You can’t be in here.”
“Actually, I can.” I ladled my improved marinara over the pasta. “I have permission from Evan, who, as a one-third owner of this establishment, has the authority to make executive decisions about one-third of the meals served here.”
Archer’s silence was deafening.
I risked a glance at him. His jaw was ticking, the muscle jumping beneath his stubbled skin in a way that made him look like a very angry, very handsome statue carved by an artist who’d had a thing for brooding men in fitted button-downs. The kind of statue that belonged in a museum with a little plaque reading “Man About to Lose His Mind (Because Someone Dared to Help Him), circa right this second.” Not that I was focusing on how good he looked when he was annoyed. That would be ridiculous. And unprofessional. And completely accurate.
“Since Evan had no say in breakfast or lunch, dinner falls squarely within his jurisdiction. I did the math.” I hadn’t, but it sounded good as I arranged a chicken cutlet on the plate. “It’s basic fractions, really. Would you like me to draw you a pie chart?”
“I’m a lawyer,” he ground out, his tone carrying all the warmth of a January blizzard.
“Really?” I grated fresh parmesan over the dish in a delicate snow of sharp, nutty cheese, followed by a sprinkle of fragrant basil. The herbs released their sweet aroma as they settled onto the warm pasta, and I allowed myself a small, satisfied smile. “I never would have guessed from your sunny disposition and relaxed demeanor. Do you practice exclusively in rain-cloud law, or is that more of a hobby?”
His eyes narrowed dangerously, and I swore I saw the exact moment his professional training kicked in, probably calculating how many regulations I was violating by daring to improve his menu. “Do you have any idea of the liability issues?”
“What exactly are you going to do? Sue me for making edible food? I’d love to see that case. ‘Your Honor, the defendant made our guests want to eat at our restaurant.’ The horror.” I slid the finished plate across the prep table toward him.
The chicken cutlet was golden brown, the pasta perfectly cooked, and the marinara sauce looked like something you’d want to eat.
“How do I know you haven’t poisoned this?” He eyed the plate like it might sprout legs and attack him. It was certain to attack his taste buds in the best way possible.
I laughed abruptly. “Did the big bad lawyer make a joke? Alert the media.”
“I’m serious.” The way his voice dropped an octave made me wonder if he practiced that tone in front of a mirror, possibly naked while pretending to command someone to get on their knees.
Nope. Shutting that train of thought down right now.
I grabbed two forks. “Well, for one, murder would really put a damper on my vacation. Plus, I have way too much professional pride to waste good food on revenge. If I wanted to kill you, I’d use that ranch-covered curly pasta disaster from lunch today. The cause of death would be listed as ‘crimes against Italian cuisine.’”
The corner of his mouth twitched. It was subtle, but I caught it.
I pushed the plate closer and handed him a fork, accidentally on purpose letting my fingers brush against his as I passed it over. The warmth of that brief contact sent a little zing through my arm. “Try it. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Death, apparently.” His eyes had softened a fraction as they tracked from my face to the steaming plate between us. Progress, however microscopic.
“Think of the guests, Archer. The poor, hungry guests.” I gestured dramatically toward the dining room with my own fork. “They came here expecting a relaxing mountain getaway, not a test of their intestinal fortitude. I’m a humanitarian, if you think about it.”
The aroma of garlic and fresh herbs wafted between us, and I watched with satisfaction as his nostrils flared ever so slightly. Even Mr. By-The-Book couldn’t resist that smell.
He took the fork with a resigned sigh that suggested I’d worn him down through sheer persistence. I held my breath as he took a bite, watching his face for any reaction. For a moment, he was perfectly still. Then his eyes closed briefly, and I swear I heard the faintest sound of appreciation.
“Well?” I tried not to sound too smug and failed miserably. It was so satisfying to watch him enjoy something I’d made.
He set the fork down carefully. “It’s... adequate.” The pause before “adequate” told me everything I needed to know, especially coupled with the way his shoulders had slightly relaxed. Coming from him, that was practically a standing ovation.
“Adequate?” I was unable to contain my indignation as I gestured at the plate with my fork. “That chicken cutlet is better than adequate, and you know it. That sauce could make angels weep. I once had an Italian grandmother from Brooklyn propose marriage to her grandson on my behalf after tasting a similar recipe, and I’m pretty sure she meant it.”
“Ms. Callahan?—”
“If you’re going to kick me out after tasting that food, at least have the decency to call me Tessa.” I crossed my arms, channeling every ounce of confidence I had. “We’re about to engage in culinary warfare together. We should be on a first-name basis.”
“Tessa.” He stared at me for a moment, his brown eyes trying to delve into my soul, and I fought the urge to fidget. The way he said my name, like he was testing how it felt on his tongue, did funny things to my insides.
“Sir.” I didn’t know why I said it, but his eyes widened slightly.
“Let’s see how you do with the dinner service, and then we’ll talk.” There was something different in his voice now, a slight softening around the edges that hadn’t been there before, and I counted it as a small victory in the ongoing battle of Archer versus Joy.
Dinner service was done, and I had never worked so hard in my life. But what a rush it had been.
I’d mostly cooked on my own, but Archer, Evan, and Liam plated the simple appetizers and main dishes, and made salads. They weren’t perfect, but with some training and example plates to refer to, they quickly got up to speed.
They would need to hire kitchen staff to assist me if this was going to happen. The big question was, would it?
I wiped down the last counter, admiring how the stainless steel gleamed under the industrial lighting. My feet ached, my back was a little stiff, and I’d never been happier.
I’d shooed the guys out twenty minutes ago to eat their own dinner and, more importantly, to decide my fate. The thought made my stomach flutter with nervous anticipation. I hadn’t expected to want this so badly, but after tonight... Well, let’s just say my original vacation plans of wallowing in self-pity seemed a lot less appealing.
The kitchen door swung open, and Archer walked in carrying their empty plates. My heart did a little skip-jump that I immediately told to calm down. He walked toward the dish pit, and I pretended to be very interested in reorganizing the already perfectly arranged sauté pans.
Even if he told me they’d decided to pass, I knew now that a restaurant was where I belonged. While I preferred my own, getting started in an already established kitchen would get me back into the groove of what I had been trained to do.
After a few minutes, Archer came back into the food prep area, his footsteps echoing against the tile floor. Without a word or glance in my direction, he walked straight to the walk-in freezer like a man on a mission.
I narrowed my eyes as I removed my apron and started to wash my hands. What was he up to?
When he emerged, he was carrying... a can of coffee? My eyebrows shot up. I hadn’t spotted any beverages in there. Then again, with how this day was going, finding hidden coffee was probably the least surprising twist yet.
“Can you keep a secret?” He reached for two spoons from the nearby bin of clean utensils before moving to the prep station in the middle of the kitchen.
I blinked. “I once kept quiet about my cousin’s third secret wedding for six months, so I’d say I’m pretty good at it.”
A faint smile ghosted his lips as he opened the can and revealed what he’d gotten from the freezer. He pulled out a container of premium ice cream. “I can’t keep it in the cabin. They’d find it and eat it all.”
“You’re hiding contraband ice cream in the kitchen?” A laugh bubbled out of me.
“It’s not contraband if I paid for it.” His eyes held a glimmer of amusement, and for a second, I caught a glimpse of what he was really like behind his suit; less buttoned-up and more willing to break small rules for the sake of dessert.
“Uh-huh.” I hopped up onto the metal prep station, letting my legs dangle. The cool surface seeped through my pants, a welcome relief after hours on my feet. “And does this purchase show up in the resort’s accounting records?”
He handed me a spoon. “That’s classified information.”
“Oh my God, you’re embezzling ice cream.” The mental image of Archer sneaking around with frozen dairy products like a dessert secret agent was hilarious. It was probably the most endearing thing I’d witnessed all day, which was saying something considering I’d watched him fumble through plating earlier.
“Do you want some or not?” He held the container out of reach, wielding it like a bargaining chip.
I made grabby hands at it. “Yes, please. I won’t tell anyone about your dairy-based crimes.”
He opened the container, revealing creamy vanilla bean ice cream. The sweet scent made my mouth water.
“Is this how you soften the blow of bad news? Because I have to tell you, it’s working.” I took the ice cream from him and dug my spoon in. The container had no label, and with how smoothly the ice cream glided onto my spoon, I could tell he’d gone to a specialty shop for it.
I handed the container back and put the spoon in my mouth, savoring the silky-smooth texture as it melted on my tongue. The vanilla was the real deal, with tiny black specks dotting the cream, none of that artificial extract nonsense. The kind of ice cream that belonged in a crystal dish at a fancy dinner party, not eaten straight from the container in a commercial kitchen late at night. Although, that somehow made it taste even better.
He watched me, and I wanted to squirm under his scrutiny. “I eat ice cream when I’m stressed, so it’s mostly nightly these days.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe he shared that. “They left the final decision up to me.”
I took another spoonful of ice cream. If he was going to tell me no, I was going to eat as much of it as possible before he squirreled it away. “So why are you sharing your secret stress stash with me?”
“Maybe I wanted to see if you could be trusted with classified information.” The way he said it was perfectly measured, and I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or joking.
I pointed my spoon at him, watching a drop of melted vanilla slide down the handle. “Are you lawyer-ing me right now? With ice cream?”
“Would I do that?” His innocent expression wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all me. He knew exactly what he was doing.
“Yes, absolutely you would. But the joke’s on you because this ice cream is too good for me to care about your ulterior motives.”
He leaned against the counter next to me, and I suddenly became very aware of how alone we were in the kitchen… and how the simple act of sharing ice cream was strangely intimate.
“If we were to offer you the position, how long could you stay?”
I swallowed another spoonful of ice cream, buying time to organize my thoughts. “Well, considering I’m currently staying with my parents, and I quit my personal chef job…” I waggled my hand in a so-so gesture. “I’m pretty flexible. Time-wise. Not physically flexible. Though I am that too.”
He didn’t even react to my word vomit. “And hours?”
“I’d prefer dinner service for now, but I’ll help create breakfast and lunch menus that are simple enough for your current staff to execute without causing an international culinary incident. No more ranch-covered pasta crimes against humanity.”
He went quiet, and the silence made me worry that it wasn’t what he’d wanted me to say. So, of course, in true Tessa fashion, I managed to fumble my spoon while trying to get my next bite. It clattered against the metal counter and onto the floor.
I went to slide off the counter, but Archer’s hand shot out, landing on my knee to stop me. The warmth of his palm seeped through my pants, sending little sparks of awareness up my thigh. I froze, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing.
Our eyes met, and something shifted in the air between us. Without breaking eye contact, he dipped his spoon in the ice cream and brought it to my lips.
Despite my body going haywire, I managed to open my mouth, letting him feed me. The cold sweetness hit my tongue, a stark contrast to the heat blooming under my skin where his hand was on my knee. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had fed me anything… probably not since I was three and my mom was trying to coax me into eating peas. This was definitely, absolutely, completely different from that.
I took the spoon from him, our fingers touching briefly, and scooped up some ice cream. His eyes darkened as I offered him the bite, and I watched, mesmerized, as his lips closed around the spoon.
A small drop of ice cream clung to the corner of his mouth, and before my brain could remind me of all the reasons this was a terrible idea, I reached up to wipe it away with my thumb.
His hand caught my wrist before I could pull back, his grip gentle but firm. My breath caught as he wrapped his lips around it and slowly sucked it clean.
Sweet baby arugula, that was hot. Like, melt-your-favorite-silicone-spatula hot. The kind of heat that makes you forget about everything else, including the fact that I was perched on a counter, sharing ice cream with a man who might be my future boss, which was probably breaking at least twelve different health codes and who knows how many workplace guidelines.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to stop or if I was begging him to continue. So I did neither, waiting for him to make a move.
He released my thumb from his mouth but kept hold of my wrist as he stepped between my dangling legs, which I gladly opened wider for him. His other hand slid from my knee up to my hip, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
“I’m going to kiss you now.” His face was inches from mine, and his declaration held an unspoken question. Do you want me to?
His breath against my lips and the smell of the vanilla ice cream was a heady combination. I wasn’t an employee yet, right? “I don’t want you to stop.”
That was all it took. His mouth claimed mine with an intensity that made my toes curl. I wrapped my legs around him without thinking about it, pulling him closer as his tongue swept into my mouth. His hand wrapped around the base of my bun, tilting my head to deepen the kiss.
He kissed with authority, precision, and a hint of barely controlled chaos that made my brain short-circuit. It was the kind of kiss that made me understand why people wrote songs about moments like this, and why romance novels dedicated whole chapters to a single lip lock.
His tongue traced mine with deliberate strokes that had me making embarrassing little sounds into his mouth, but I was way past caring about dignity. Not when he was nipping at my bottom lip and making my fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.
A throat cleared roughly, and we jumped apart.
Of course, the universe decided yet again I couldn’t have an ounce of happiness.