Chapter 12
“Why. Won’t. You. Rise?” I growled through gritted teeth, poking at the spoiled croissant dough with exhausted frustration.
Then, to add insult to injury, my stomach rumbled, but I had to ignore it.
I was too busy prepping, and stressing. I had been at this for hours, and my normally steady hands were trembling, nerves and hunger making everything worse.
I wiped a smear of flour across my forehead and blinked back tears of aggravation.
“Okay, dough. We’ve got one more shot at this and you can’t fail me now,” I said, wagging a finger at the ingredients lined up before me.
The kitchen door swung open to reveal Charles dusting snow from his shoulders.
The sight of those dimples and broad shoulders sent an immediate jolt through my body that I wasn’t prepared for.
Like getting smacked in the head with a staggeringly handsome snowball.
Which then made me acutely aware of myself to an uncomfortable degree.
“Oh.” Charles stopped short at the threshold to the kitchen. He pulled off his beanie cap and shook the frost from his hair. Flakes of snow fell to his blue flannel shirt and melted. “Hi.”
“Um, hi.”
We both stood there, awkward and silent like a couple of racoons caught in the porch lights while rummaging through the trash cans.
And the only thing I could think was I must look horrendous right now.
I was sweating, covered in egg and flour, trying my best to plaster on a neutral expression.
How did one approach this encounter in a professional manner, after I’d done my best to avoid him thus far?
“I’ve clearly interrupted something.” He glanced around at the catastrophe that had consumed the kitchen. “Or we’ve been robbed by the Cookie Monster.”
I don’t know if it was what he said that set me off, or the adorable grin that grew over his lips when he said it, but suddenly a switch flipped inside me.
“Seriously?” I scoffed at his irritatingly charming attempt at defusing the tension. Like that grin had gotten him out of plenty of trouble, and I was just another bump on the golden road that was his perfect life.
“Excuse me?” he said.
I mean, where the hell did he get off, pretending that finding each other here wasn’t massively humiliating? Especially for me.
The anger bubbled up inside me, boiling over. I’d run right up on the tipping point, and it was all coming out now.
“Of course you’re here right now.” I wadded up the wet dough from the flour-covered island. It was useless now. “Because that’s all I need.”
“Rough night?” he asked, clearing his throat and rolling up his sleeves to reveal well-toned forearms.
“That’s all you have to say to me?” My hands still wrist-deep in dough, I considered throwing it at him. “Unbelievable.”
Charles sighed. “I suppose we’re due a conversation.”
“You think?” I laughed sarcastically.
He helped himself to the wine rack, pulling out a bottle of red and easily finding a bottle opener in a drawer. “To be fair, I did try to have the conversation earlier tonight, but you vanished. I was just as surprised as you were the other day. More so, maybe.”
“Doubt that.”
Next, he found two wine glasses and poured, placing one next to me. I left it sitting there beside my little ant hill of flour while he sipped his.
“I’m not sure why you’re angry with me,” he said, eyeing me flirtatiously over the rim of his glass, like we were back at The Foggy Goggle.
“Because I am,” was my very mature response.
I was in no mood for his charms. Even if I couldn’t stop picturing his head on the pillow beside mine. Our foreheads pressed together while his heart beat against my chest.
Damn it. Why had I picked that exact moment to become the spontaneous type?
Because I thought for sure I would never see this tiny mountain town or this gorgeous man ever again.
“Well, then how can I make amends?” Charles leaned against the opposite side of the island from me, with those eyes like a lock-picker’s kit. He’d never met a door they couldn’t open. And now I sort of hated them.
“Leave Maplewood Creek and don’t come back ’til I’m gone?” I offered hopefully.
“Let’s put a pin in that idea.”
“Then how about leaving my kitchen?”
Charles arched an eyebrow. “It’s your kitchen now, huh?”
I sighed, wiping a flour-covered hand across my forehead again. “Take a look around. Do I seem a little in the shit at the moment?”
I was thoroughly exasperated. At my absolute wits’ end.
Appraising me, he straightened up, concern sobering his expression. “What’s the problem?”
“Amelia said you both love chocolate croissants, so I promised to have some ready for tomorrow. Only my dough isn’t cooperating. I’ve been at this for hours and everything’s gone wrong. I can’t figure it out.”
“What are they supposed to look like?” He inspected the wad of abused dough.
“Puffy. If you poke it with your finger, it should bounce back. I’ve made these dozens of times, but something’s gone horribly wrong.”
“You’ve got an altitude problem,” he said.
“Are you trying to be funny?”
Charles held his hands up in surrender. “Happens all the time up here. A, uh, former employee who worked here a long time ago taught me that baking is tricky at this altitude. Less oxygen, lower air pressure. It messes with the dough.”
I scoffed. “I’m from Colorado. It’s never happened to me before. I make these all the time in Denver.”
“We’re at almost 11,000 feet above sea level,” he said. “That’s double that of Denver.”
“Shit. You’re right,” I said, deflating.
I’d spent two hours killing myself over these damn croissants and it’d never occurred to me I might have to tweak the recipe. I thought exhaustion had made me delirious. I slumped against the counter.
“We can fix it,” he said.
My eyes lifted to his. Something about the soft sincerity in his voice grabbed me. Like he had reached out his hand to pull me from rising waters, I could breathe again, the frustration and exhaustion dissipating with his calm encouragement.
“Yeah?” I said, enjoying his use of the word “we” far too much.
His smile was immediate. “Like you said, they’re my favorite.”
Smothering a grin, I swept the bad dough into the garbage.
“Okay,” I breathed, trying to tamp down the giddiness that was rolling through me. “If you don’t mind, I really could use the help.”
“Yes, chef.” He went to the sink and washed his hands, shooting me a wink over his shoulder.
“You need less yeast and more liquid,” he said. “The altitude dries things out, makes them behave differently.”
“I should’ve thought of that. I’m seriously kicking myself.” I gathered another batch of ingredients to make a final attempt at this dough, then set up the stand mixer. “Croissants are a few steps more advanced than mac and cheese. Who did you say taught you how to bake?”
He had a faraway look in his eyes while he dried his hands. “A friend from a long time ago. When I was a kid. Anyway. Where do you need me?”
There was an ease to our conversation. Even the way we moved around one another in the kitchen seemed effortless.
I placed the recipe in the center of the island, and we took turns adding the ingredients to the mixing bowl in order, ensuring that we cut back on the yeast and added a little more milk.
In the mixer, the dough pulled away from the sides of the bowl just as it should.
“I think this one’s a winner,” I told him. “Thank you. I was really at the end of my rope there for a minute.”
“Lucky I came along.” He bumped my shoulder playfully. “What’s next?”
“The fun part.”
From the fridge I took several sticks of high-fat Irish butter and lined them up together between a couple of sheets of parchment paper. Then I took out a large rolling pin.
“That’s not for me, is it?” He pretended to shrink away when I raised it over the island where my butter waited.
“Not unless you piss me off,” I laughed.
I started beating the butter until it began to form a flat, even sheet.
“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” he said, watching the slight joy I took in the noisy violence. Truthfully, I needed the catharsis.
We had to wait a while for the dough to rise and cool in the fridge, so I took the glass of wine he’d left waiting and rewarded myself with a large gulp.
“So . . .” he said, sliding up next to me to lean back against the island. His forearm brushed mine and sent little shivers across my skin. “How are you getting on so far?”
I gave him a sideways glance. “Other than a mild pastry meltdown?”
“Other than that.”
“Yeah, great,” I said. “Couldn’t be better.”
Charles shook his head. “You’ve got kind of a sarcastic streak, don’t you?”
“No,” I said with sarcastic exaggeration.
He bit back a laugh. “Uh-huh. What else should I know about you?”
“What do you mean, what else? Like, can I juggle flaming swords and balance a poodle on my nose?”
“For starters,” he said. “Sure.”
I sighed and lifted myself to sit on the edge of the counter.
“Well, I have a scar from the time I caught a stray hockey puck to the shin at the rec center in fifth grade. I can’t stand it when people call it ‘ ex presso.’ And I have a strict rule against sleeping with my employers.
” I flashed an accusing smirk at Charles. “Your turn.”
I wanted to ask him why his return had the whole town talking. My imagination conjured up all sorts of scenarios that could earn a handsome man like this a “reputation.” Then I remembered Amelia’s reaction to my prodding, and decided it was better to keep my curiosity to myself.
His brow furrowed as he nodded to himself, thinking. “Hmm. Let’s see. I also have a scar and I’m not going to tell you where. I love saying ‘expresso.’ And in my defense, I have an otherwise spotless record with regards to inter-office liaisons.”
“You think you’re being funny right now, but you’re not.”
“Alright,” he said, straightening. “Let me have it.”
“How could you not have said something sooner?” I accused, my voice rising with a renewed vigor.
“Say what? We’re hardly the only family on this mountain employing a private chef. How was I supposed to know?”
“Still, you could’ve warned me. Like, hey, I’m one of those fancy well-to-dos and wouldn’t it be crazy if you were serving my meals tomorrow?”
He bowed his head, thinking on that. “I probably wouldn’t have used the phrase ‘fancy well-to-dos’ but, alright, I see your point. Mistakes were made.”
“Yeah,” I scoffed. “You can say that again.”
Truthfully, I wasn’t even that mad at him.
It was the situation that had me frustrated.
And maybe my own impulsiveness a little.
A split-second decision had stirred up all this trouble, when the real goal was making some money so I could get to London.
I’d lost sight of that in the moment. Never again.
“I get this is really bothering you,” he said gently. “I’m sorry for that. Sincerely. Tell me what I can do to fix it.”
“Leave the country?” I suggested with a bitter smile.
“That’s a thought. On the other hand, I could really pull a dick move and offer to buy you out of your contract. Save you the continued awkwardness.”
I snorted a laugh, glancing up and double taking at his earnest eyes. “You’re kidding.”
He shrugged.
“Just like that. You’d write me a check.”
“I mean, it sounds a little uncouth when you say it that way. But I do feel terrible it’s made you uncomfortable.”
For just a second, the thought was a tempting one.
Take the money and run. I’d be set for ACE and wouldn’t have to spend the rest of the season worried our secret would get me sent packing early if his mother found out.
Yet sitting here, waiting on our dough and having a moment to talk as real people, my resentment evaporated.
And I remembered why I’d dragged him back to my room that night in the first place.
“Tell you what,” I said. “Just promise me you’ll keep our secret, and we’ll call it square.”
His eyes lit up. “Yeah?”
I held up my pinky finger. “Swear?”
He hooked his pinky with mine. “Cross my heart.”
At least that was one less thing I had to worry about. Now, if only I could reason with these croissants.
“What do you think about coffee?” Charles said suddenly.
“I think I’m good with the wine.”
“No, I mean with me. In town.”
“A date? That’s a little presumptuous, don’t you think? This is already a rather fragile truce.”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
“You’re insane.”
“Try not to hold it against me,” he said, smirking.
“Your mother would fire me on the spot. Not to mention it’s just wholly inappropriate. I’m your employee.”
“No,” he said, holding up a finger. “As you said, you’re my mother’s employee. I’m more like an interested third party.”
I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “Everything I said in the hotel room is still true. I’m working, and you’re distracting.”
“What if we played for it?” he said. “I’m sure I could scrounge up a deck of cards.”
“Yeah, and look how that turned out last time.”
He licked his lips, dragging his eyes over me. “Oh, I remember.”
Heat flushed across my face and my breath caught in my throat a moment before I turned and grabbed his arm, shoving him toward the door.
“Well, thanks for your help. I think I’m all set here for now. Off you go.”
He stood, dazed, at the threshold of the kitchen. “You’re kicking me out of my own house?”
“Nope. Just the kitchen. Good night.”
The door slammed in his face while I went to the island and gulped down the last of his wine, and mine. Every nerve in my body was buzzing. My fingertips tingled. And I desperately wished I’d never laid eyes on Charles Hawthorne.