Chapter 13
I woke the next morning to my phone’s alarm, blushing at the unbidden images of Charles in my dreams, wearing nothing but smudges of dough on his face and that infuriating grin that dared me to ignore him.
He’d be easier to dismiss if he were a typical entitled asshole, but so far, I’d seen only kindness and humor.
Where the hell did he get off being so damn approachable anyway?
It went entirely against type. Not okay.
If there was one benefit to our little cooking class last night, it did relieve some of the anxiety I’d harbored over our first awkward conversation as chef and client.
Honestly, in some ways, it couldn’t have gone better.
But that only reinforced how much harder I’d have to work to maintain the boundary.
Especially if Charles was determined to trample all over it.
Getting dressed, I pulled my black hair into a messy bun and slid on a stretchy black headband, because I hated getting hair in my face while I was working.
My typical kitchen attire was my white daytime chef’s coat with a simple white T-shirt underneath and a pair of jeans and sneakers.
Nothing that begged male attention. Which was perfect for hiding from Charles’s advances.
Much as we’d both like to pretend there was no conflict of interest here, he was off limits. And there was just no point entertaining any ideas otherwise. Like it or not, he would only be a fond blizzard memory. And a cautionary tale.
Despite only a couple of hours’ sleep, I was in the kitchen to prep before seven.
Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne got in from traveling early this morning, so breakfast had been changed to brunch.
I first sent the waitstaff out with fruit, bacon, and the basket of chocolate croissants, while I poached some fresh crab legs for a variation on eggs Benedict.
“These are incredible,” Ali said, standing over the island to enjoy my pains au chocolat. “How on earth did you have time to make them?”
While she still carried herself like an upright rake, Ali’s demeanor had softened considerably, so long as I kept her plied with food.
“I had a little help,” I admitted, though she wasn’t really listening.
While the crab cooked, I concentrated on my hollandaise.
It was deceptively simple to make, and even easier to ruin.
In a bowl, I cracked seven eggs, then processed them with an immersion blender for a couple of minutes.
Next, I poured in melted butter while continuing to blend, allowing both to perfectly emulsify.
The key was constant movement and not too much butter.
A little this way or that, and the sauce would separate, ruining it.
Then I added a pinch of salt, cayenne, and a squeeze of fresh lemon.
When my crab and poached eggs were ready, I assembled everything on a warm, toasted English muffin, doused with hollandaise, and topped with fresh microgreens and a few fried capers.
And just for good measure, I prepared Mr. Hawthorne some low-fat, low-sodium oatmeal with macerated berries and cinnamon as an option. Even if he chose not to eat it, I wanted him and his wife to know I was making the effort.
“Quickly,” I told the waitstaff when they came to collect the dishes. “Don’t let them get cold.”
So far, feedback from the family had been sparse but largely positive.
I was encouraged that it meant I hadn’t managed to screw anything up yet.
Not that I doubted myself, but food makes people finicky.
Too hot. Too cold. Too spicy. Too bland.
There were a million ways to fall just short, and far fewer to succeed. And I had to succeed.
So, following brunch, when Ali told me Mrs. Hawthorne wanted to discuss the major events that were coming up, I was hopeful I might get some sense of her satisfaction with me thus far.
“I have a friend in Denver,” I told her as we sat in the office with the big, imposing desk and immaculate view of the mountains. “Megan Wheelan. She’s the owner of the firm you used to hire me. I’d like to work with her to staff the events.”
Mrs. Hawthorne looked over her reading glasses and leveled me with her chilling stare.
“I suppose that’s acceptable. Ms. Wheelan knows our requirements and already has our NDA on file.
We need to have them here in time for Ali to train them.
If we don’t have space in the cottages, we can ask Mr. Wagner to provide rooms at The Snowdrift. ”
Nodding, I jotted a reminder in my notebook to contact Bea and Delilah at the inn. Ali had warned me that Mrs. Hawthorne looked approvingly at always having something to write on in these meetings.
“This is particularly important,” she stressed. “An announcement is coming soon from my husband about my son’s future role in the company. These next few events must be perfect.”
I swallowed, a nervous bubble lodging itself in my throat. “Understood, Mrs. Hawthorne. I will do my best.”
“Not just your best,” she insisted. “Perfection. There mustn’t be any distractions.”
It seemed I hadn’t yet broken through Mrs. Hawthorne’s tough exterior. Or else if I had, it only concealed a much tougher center.
“Of course,” I answered.
“And Ms. Evans,” she added. “The hollandaise was slightly split this morning. Let’s try harder next time, yes?”
My stomach dropped. I must’ve been pale enough to see through as all the blood drained from my face.
“I’m so sorry. Yes, of course.”
“That’ll be all,” she said, dismissing me.
I fumbled to stand and shuffled out of the room, dumbstruck.
She hated my hollandaise. No one had ever criticized my hollandaise before. I didn’t understand what could’ve gone wrong. Did the sauce break in transit to the dining room? Did I not add enough lemon? Too much? My head spun.
I’d had tough bosses before. It usually took a lot to throw me off my game. But this time, her words went through me like buckshot. I had to redeem myself to Mrs. Hawthorne. So, what could I make that would regain her respect?
After brunch, I made a shopping list for dinner and headed back down the mountain in the Land Rover for more provisions.
I had an idea about a vegetable-forward pasta dish, but I’d let the produce speak to me.
Otherwise, maybe a lean protein like elk or venison.
Perhaps a ravioli with butternut squash.
I decided I’d stroll the shops in the center of town and see what else was available beyond the marketplace.
Something special. Something I couldn’t screw up.
Maplewood Creek’s snowy town square sparkled under the early afternoon sun as I drove through.
Families of tourists in new ski wear strolled the sidewalks with shopping bags and kids in tow.
Handwritten chalkboard signs beckoned pedestrians with seasonal sales and promotions.
As I searched for an open space to park along the curb, my eyes followed the flow of people walking with steaming coffee cups from the roastery a couple of blocks up.
After sneaking the Land Rover into a space, I popped in to check it out.
The Toasted Bean was packed, with several people in line and more occupying nearly every small table. Around the store, shelves of bagged coffee beans and accessories were artfully displayed among winter decorations and tiny gift boxes ready to take home.
“Does Ali know you’ve escaped?”
The soft, coy voice whispered in my ear from behind as I stood in line to order.
I shivered slightly, telling myself it was from cold rather than pleasure, as I turned around to see Charles towering over me in a black quarter-zip sweater and designer coat.
His hair peeked out from under his beanie cap as he unwound the scarf from around his neck.
“Tracking the Land Rover now?” I answered, turning back toward the menu behind the counter. “Or are you going to tell me it’s just a coincidence?”
“I saw the SUV and decided to come say hi.”
“Uh-huh.”
I mean, I loved that he had come to find me away from the chalet. Even if I couldn’t say so. But it wasn’t helping with the distraction problem.
“Let me buy you a coffee,” he said, coming to stand beside me when I refused to look at him.
“You’re butting.”
“What?” he laughed.
“You’re butting in,” I said, nodding over my shoulder. “There’s a line.”
His unflappable grin grew wider. “Alright, let me have cuts.”
“Sorry, can’t do it. Wouldn’t be fair to everyone else.”
Charles shook his head at me. “You really won’t let me buy you coffee? It’s like the absolute minimum effort of friendship. We can be friends, can’t we?”
My tongue turned sour at the sound of the word friend. It sent a strange wave of revulsion through my whole body.
“I don’t know,” I said, trying for aloof. I wouldn’t let this man wear me down. Not when his mother was so very scary. “Can you?”
“I’d like to try,” he said, eyeing me persuasively as I stepped up to the counter.
Concerned he might make a scene otherwise, I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Chai latte.”
His answering smile was triumphant. “Chai latte and a black coffee, please,” he told the barista. “See? Look at us. Practically chums.”
“Whatever.” I smothered a smile as I went to the far end of the counter to wait.
Despite my panic at Mrs. Hawthorne’s criticism, my mood had drastically improved with Charles’s arrival. Even if I wouldn’t let him know that.
“I thought our croissants turned out pretty well,” he said, squeezing in tight beside me to let other patrons come and go as we wedged ourselves in beside the wall. “Dad had three. Mother was livid.”
I winced. “Should I not have made them?”
He waved off my concern. “That’s their fight. Don’t sweat it.”
Still, I should be more careful. Even if she hadn’t said as much in our meeting, I guessed the argument had contributed to her bad mood with me generally.
“Well, thank you again for the help,” I told him sincerely. Because he’d found me just short of a meltdown last night. “I was a little frazzled.”
“So, are you seeing anyone?”
I laughed, throwing my hands up. “That’s your segue?”
Charles put on an innocent face and shrugged. “We’re friends now, right? I’m taking an interest. Getting to know you. If there’s someone waiting back in Denver . . .”
“Chai latte and black coffee!” the barista called cheerily.
I grabbed my cup and handed Charles his as I headed toward the door and back outside onto the sidewalk.
“No one waiting in Denver,” I told him, walking a little too fast. “Although seems a little late for that question, doesn’t it?”
He licked his lips and bit back a smile, almost blushing. I knew because the implied memories made my own face a little warmer too.
“So, where to now?” he asked as I walked in no particular direction past storefronts.
“Don’t you have plans of your own?”
“Nope. I’m all yours.”
I rolled my eyes at the innuendo. “That was cheesy.”
“Cheesy works,” he countered. “People like cheesy. It’s disarming.”
“Yeah?” I said, glancing up at him as I sipped my chai. “How’s that working out for you?”
“Pretty well so far.”
God, he was so sure of himself. And I hated that it looked so good on him.
As we wandered along the narrow streets, I was fully aware of the constant brush of his gloved hands against mine.
The urge to reach out and take one was strong.
The whole experience felt very domestic, which was not a usual feeling for me.
My dating life, which only ever existed in fits and starts, usually amounted to sporadic dates with people I’d meet at work, until one of us ended up losing interest.
With Charles, he’d gotten under my skin. Made me feel things. Like the way he changed the air when he walked into a room. How my body always bent slightly in his direction. It was sort of infuriating.
“So . . .” I said, unable to shake him and struggling for how to fill the loaded silence. “Have you been coming to Maplewood Creek for a long time?”
The quaint shops, trimmed with twinkling lights, and holiday decor lining the snow-covered paths gave the town an almost storybook charm. It had all the appeal and none of the expensive headache of larger ski towns like Vail and Aspen. The perfect hideaway retreat.
“I used to spend summers here as a kid,” Charles said with fondness. “And every Christmas. It’s changed so much and yet not at all. It’s one of my favorite places. Especially this time of year.”
“Yeah, why’s that?”
“The holidays in town are just a dream. If that makes sense. Chaotic, sure, with so many extra people, but there’s a sense of joy and contentment that no other place on Earth has for me at Christmastime.”
There was a sense of nostalgia in his voice, even longing.
Something romantic about the way he talked about this place, with all the sincerity and innocence we have as kids when special places take root in our hearts.
It was a different side of Charles I hadn’t expected.
It hinted at something deeper than the flirty banter and cocky charm.
And only made it harder to pretend I was immune to him.
“What about you?” he asked. “Where’s your perfect Christmas?”
“I’m usually in a kitchen somewhere,” I told him.
“That sounds kind of lonely.”
I shrugged. “Some of us have to work for a living.” I said it like a joke, but it was real to me.
“I’ve worked pretty much every day since I was fourteen.
When my mom got sick, she couldn’t work anymore.
It was just me and her, so I didn’t really have a choice.
All of the rent and groceries, her medications, everything, it was suddenly all my responsibility. ”
“That’s a lot for a kid,” he said grimly. “Is she doing better now?”
I sipped my latte and shook my head. “She passed away a few years ago.”
Charles touched my arm to stop me. “Elle, I’m so sorry.”
His face was stricken. I sort of felt guilty dropping that on him.
I had come to terms with her death long before she was gone.
The unavoidable side effect of a long illness is that you watch them leave you a little bit every day.
But when you tell someone, it changes them.
Changes your relationship to them. They didn’t ask for that responsibility and now, boom, my dead mom was his problem too.
“I usually don’t tell people,” I admitted. “They get weird about it, you know? Don’t know what to say and—”
“I’m glad you told me,” he said, before I could trail off. “I mean it, you can talk to me anytime. About anything. I really do want to be your friend.”
And the strangest thing was, I did too.