Chapter 5
I jolted awake with the sunrise. Already I’d slept later than usual, and now I glanced over my shoulder to find a naked man nestled snugly under the covers beside me, sleepy bed hair falling over his forehead.
Somehow, he was even more handsome this way.
His eyes were closed, lips lightly parted, chest rising and falling with gentle breaths.
But I couldn’t linger over the image. No matter how much I wanted to snuggle up under the sheets with him.
Grabbing my T-shirt off the floor, I scrambled out of bed and hunted for my phone. The screen lit up with a dozen texts and missed calls that had come in last night once I finally got cell reception again.
Megan: Don’t worry, I’m on it.
Megan: Glad you’re safe.
Megan: Update. Hawthornes are also delayed en route due to the storm.
Megan: They won’t arrive at the chalet until afternoon, pending road conditions. Family will want lunch waiting.
Megan: You can use the gate code to enter the property. Text me in the morning to let me know you’re alive.
Megan had sent over a code for the gate and a note that the property manager would meet me there. I was so relieved that I sunk to the floor at the foot of the bed and curled into a ball for a quick stress cry before I hauled myself up and into the shower.
Charles didn’t stir while I brushed my teeth and got dressed. I packed up my clothes and texted Megan to say that I’d got her messages and would be on my way as soon as I confirmed the roads were open.
“Hey,” Charles mumbled suddenly, sheets rustling as he sat up against the headboard. “Going somewhere?”
“Heading downstairs to ask if the roads are open yet. Stay as long as you need.”
He scratched at his scalp and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Suppose I can head on back to my room.”
Charles squinted against the glare of the sun reflecting off the freshly fallen snow. He turned his head, groaning.
“Sorry to take off. Turns out I’m not fired, so I’ve still got a chance to get my shit together before I screw this up.”
I’d always said you learn a lot about a person by how they handle a hangover.
There were the hair-of-the-dog types, who woke up nursing a Bloody Mary.
Or the well-prepared ones, with Advil and water ready at the bedside.
Personally, I prided myself on the mind-over-matter approach.
If I didn’t mind the headache and slightly queasy stomach, it didn’t matter.
I simply never had the luxury to wallow in bed.
“I’m happy for you.” Charles dragged himself out of bed, pulling on his bottoms commando-style. “Suppose that means you’ll be sticking around for a while.”
“Yeah, but assuming you are too, let’s not make it awkward,” I said, shamelessly memorizing the planes of his bare chest as the hazy images of last night tumbled around in my head.
“I’m going to be working a ton and this .
. .” I gestured between us. “Isn’t really part of the plan. So, let’s not make it a thing.”
“A thing?” He watched me from the edge of the bed as I gathered my stuff and shrugged on my jacket. “Surely you must clock out at some point.”
“Not sure I ever learned how.” I paused to give him a reassuring smile. “This was fun. You’re wonderful. But you’ve got a face I could get used to, and I don’t see how I’d have time for that. It’s a distraction I can’t afford.”
He nodded, thinking on that. “You find me distracting.”
“Big time.”
“I could work on that,” he offered. “Being less distracting. You’d be amazed how growing up in my family has trained me to blend into the background.”
“I find that incredibly hard to believe,” I told him frankly. “You kind of stick out in a crowd.”
“I do?” he said, wincing.
“You’re lousy with charisma. Filthy, really.”
And tall. Devastatingly attractive. With an irresistible aura that grabbed me from across the room.
All the qualities that would turn one date into constantly glancing at my phone for the next text.
The next call. Leaving early and going in late.
I could already envision the domino effect that would lead to professional disaster. He was trouble, no doubt about it.
“Can I at least get your number?” he asked.
Luggage in hand, I approached him at the bed and pressed my lips to his briefly before pulling away.
“We’ll always have the blizzard,” I told him, and marched myself out of the room before I forgot why anything else mattered.
Downstairs, a Black woman about my age stood behind the reception desk. Her nametag said Delilah and she had long blond hair fixed up in a dozen thick braids that zigzagged around her head.
“Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “You’re still a bit early for breakfast. If you’re hungry, I can give you a recommendation in town.”
“Do you know, by any chance, if the road up the mountain is clear yet?”
She nodded with a smile. “Plows went out last night after the snow tapered off. It should be open, but you’ll still want to take care with the ice. Gets pretty slippery going up.”
“Great. Thanks. I’ll go ahead and check out now then, if that’s alright.”
“Of course.” She prepared an invoice for me and I slid her my credit card. “How was everything?”
“Terrific.” I blushed to myself, grabbing a mint from the dish on the table. “You’ve got a wonderful place here. Tell Pops I said thanks again. He’s a real lifesaver.”
“Will do. Hope you can come back and see us again soon,” she said, and handed me a paper map of the town. “Just in case. Cell reception is pretty hit and miss around here.”
I gratefully pocketed the map. “No kidding.”
Leaving The Snowdrift, I decided to skip breakfast and head straight to the chalet.
With lunch to prepare for the Hawthornes’ arrival and no idea what the state of the kitchen or provisions might be, I had to give myself all the time I could get.
One benefit of being the chef: it’s never too hard to scrounge for a snack.
Slowly, I hauled myself up the icy mountain.
It was truly a spectacular view, climbing through the pine trees with the snow-covered valley below, the clear blue sky growing impossibly larger outside my windshield.
I took it as a sign that I was out of the woods, so to speak.
A new day. A little hiccup out of the way, and back on track.
The Hawthornes’ chalet was known as The Viceroy, according to the additional information Megan had sent.
All the estates on the mountain had similarly pretentious names, apparently.
The Viceroy was on North Mountain, aka the highest peak in Maplewood Creek.
It was about a forty-minute drive from The Snowdrift up to the top, then another fifteen minutes to navigate the neighborhood they were in. Gated and gorgeous, of course.
Each home I passed on the way up had a wall of windows that invited in the natural scenery.
At a stop sign, I marveled at a beautiful home of stone and wood with a drastic roof angle that pitched in three places.
It was angular and modern, yet somehow it still fit in with the rural atmosphere around it.
My GPS alerted me that I would have to make the next turn.
There, two large pillars rose up from the ground on either side.
In the center was a large wrought-iron gate with a plaque that read “Vantage Summit.”
Mounted to a pole was a small silver box with a keypad attached.
Punching in the code that Megan had sent, I waited until the large gates swung open so I could drive inside the development.
It was, for the most part, exactly like any gated community back in Denver, but the deeper into the development I traveled, the larger and more imposing the homes got.
When the GPS finally alerted me to 95023 Summit Pass Road, I saw the small rural postal box ahead.
Beyond that was a gravel road. I drove for five minutes before the trees thinned.
“Holy shit,” I breathed, my mouth falling open at the sight of the house before me.
To call The Viceroy stunning would be a gross understatement.
The entire front of the chalet was filled with at least sixty windows of every shape and size.
Six massive fieldstone pillars rose up from the ground to support three full floors of rooms. It appeared that the upper two levels had balconies jutting out in the front to use, perhaps, in warmer weather, unless you were really daring and sat out in the chilly winter air.
The surrounding trees were mature, but they looked like they were strategically placed at intervals around the house, each one seemingly planted to frame the home perfectly.
As I drove up, I turned into the circular driveway and around to the back of the property, where Megan had left instructions to find a pair of cottages for staff.
Waiting for me was a woman in her forties.
She wore jeans and a sweater, which I took to mean that the Hawthornes at least weren’t overly picky about uniforms.
“Hi,” I said, jumping out of my car. I met her on the cleared stone pathway to the first cottage and stuck out my hand to shake hers. “I’m Eleanor Evans. I’m the new chef. I mean, chalet girl.”
She smiled tightly. “You’re early. That’s good. I’m Ali, the Hawthornes’ house manager. Megan informed me you were also delayed by the storm last night.”
“So sorry about that again,” I offered, contrite.
“Not at all. I only just made it up the mountain this morning as well. I’m afraid everything is a bit behind schedule now, so we’ll have to skip the full tour and take you right to the kitchen.”
No time to get my bearings. Just right into the fire.
“Sounds great,” I said, because today chipper was my middle name.
“You may deposit your belongings inside, then please follow me.”
The cottage apartments mimicked the style of the main house, although much smaller and less ornate. I quickly dug my luggage out of the trunk and shoved everything inside the front door, without sparing even a moment to glance inside.
“This way,” Ali called.
She was tall and slender, her presence made more severe by her perfect posture. Her light brown hair was pulled neatly into a French twist that I admired from behind while I scurried to keep up with her fast pace as she strode toward the main house along the stone path.
“Ordinarily, you’d enter the house through the staff entrance from your cottage, but I’ll take you around to the front door so you can get a sense of the property.”
My boots crunched across the snow as I followed her toward the front door, which was at least twelve feet tall and made of a solid piece of oak. It wasn’t overly polished or finished, but looked like it had been hewn from a tree and put straight onto the house with hinges.
“The Hawthornes aren’t due until this afternoon,” Ali said, leading us inside. “I’m here to help you get settled in. You’re aware they’ll require lunch when they arrive?”
“Yes,” I said, following her through the grand foyer.
“Good. I hope you enjoy your work here.”
“I’m looking forward to getting started,” I answered, wondering how many times she had to say this exact phrase to new staff after the Hawthornes ran the others off.
Much like the exterior of the chalet, the interior was rustic yet luxurious.
The walls in the entryway were a soft, buttery white, with one accent wall created entirely of fieldstone.
Inset into the stone wall was a large, square window with the most breathtaking view of the Front Range of the Rockies that I had ever seen.
From the ceiling hung a two-tiered, circular chandelier with horns jutting out from the top to hold the light bulbs.
We went through a door beside the massive double staircase off the entrance. It wasn’t hidden, per se, but it wasn’t obvious either.
“This is the easiest access point to the staff area.”
“Have you worked for the Hawthorne family long?” I asked, careful to keep pace and not fall behind as Ali marched along.
“It’s been nearly a decade now. I manage all of their properties, so I come and go depending on what they need or which house has to be tended to next.”
She walked me through a series of austere hallways that were solely for staff use, like the hidden tunnels of Disney World. Through here, we had access to the entire chalet for housekeeping and other duties, while remaining out of the way of guests and the family.
“What brings you to us?” Ali asked. “I understand it’s your first time in this type of position?”
“It is, though I’ve been in catering for years and have worked in several restaurants,” I said. “This is a new opportunity for me. I’m very excited to be here.”
“It’s not usually too busy at this property.”
“Does the family have many homes?”
“A fair few, though Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne only venture to a couple during the winter months. I believe this is Mr. Hawthorne’s favorite, but Mrs. Hawthorne isn’t particularly fond of it. She was a champion skier back in the day, but she hasn’t strapped in for years. Ah, here we are.”
Ali pushed through a pair of swinging double doors.
The centerpiece of the kitchen was a large island, with a stunning marble countertop that would be perfect to roll out my croissant dough.
The walls were a rich bluish-black under the pendant lights that hung above the island.
My heart skipped at the gorgeous silver and black La Cornue stove and the twin walk-in fridge and freezer.
“Unfortunately, the provisioners couldn’t stock the kitchen last night,” Ali informed me. “So, you’ll have to make do with what you can find in the pantry and freezer. After lunch, you can shop for dinner at the market in town.”
My stomach hit the floor. Blood rushed out of my face while my fingers began to tingle. “You mean, th-there’s no fresh produce at all?”
“I’m afraid not. Will you be able to manage?”
“Of course,” I said, sounding maniacally cheerful. “No problem at all. I’ll make it work. Any allergies or preferences I should be aware of?”
“No allergies. I’m sure whatever you make will be suitable.”
That sounded like a trap.
Ali gave another tight smile. “Please find me if you have any questions. Otherwise, I’ll leave you to it.”
Alone, I sat on the edge of a counter to take several deep breaths. A full-blown panic attack threatened to erupt while I looked around at the big empty kitchen that had just become my battleground. This was real. I was here for the next three months. For better or worse.
All I had to do now was plan and prepare a perfect welcome lunch.