Chapter Two
TAYLOR
One year later
Catering is hard.
Especially on New Year’s Eve, for a party of glitzy city slickers who are used to having the best of everything at their beck and call. My boss Paul jokes that we do everything we normally do, except we make twice as much, cover it all in gold leaf and stick a sparkler in it.
We’ve been prepping for two days straight and I’ve been up since six to finish off some pastry.
I love my job, but I have to say I’m not looking forward to how tired I’m going to be at the end of today.
I’m planning on staying with my family tonight; my housemates are having yet another big party and it’s really not my scene.
I’ve kind of had enough of all their drama and am considering moving back home.
There are seven of us in my family and it’s a joke that out of all the Bells I’m the one most likely to drop something; more of a bell dropper than a bell ringer!
When I started out waitressing I swear I’d drop more plates than I carried back to the kitchen.
One day my manager gently suggested I helped them out in the kitchen and I loved it so much I never went back.
I do have to serve sometimes but I’ve improved and it’s less pressure when I’m not on show on a restaurant floor all the time.
I’ve worked in a few restaurants around Snowflake honing my skills before my latest job doing bespoke catering for small events.
Paul, my boss, is a sweet guy with a Zen-like calm who set up the company with his partner Noel.
Although we work sixteen-hour days sometimes, he’s always fair and gives me time off to recuperate and a generous bonus for the overtime I do.
He’s also understanding when I accidentally set something on fire or drop a tray of glasses which only happens say, once a month or so.
My mom says that when all of us were little, I was the one who caused the most havoc.
I don’t do it intentionally but trouble has a way of finding me sometimes.
I’m not great with being bossed around - I like to have a say in what happens, so working with Paul and his democratic style suits me fine.
As I prep the tray of croissants for brunch, my thoughts stray back to last New Year’s Eve when that huge, super hot guy - Miles - stormed into our house and took charge.
I don’t like being told what to do, but he was so authoritative and in control.
And gorgeous, with those broad shoulders, deep blue eyes and sculpted jawline.
His hands when he held my housemate’s awful boyfriend down were big and capable, making me imagine what they would feel like cupping my breasts and running their way down my back.
I shake my head to snap out of my daydream.
Having done a little sleuthing, I found out Miles lived with his grandmother and brother next door but was serving in our country overseas.
So not much chance of running into him again.
And anyway he made it clear he thought I was an idiot.
Still, nobody since has measured up to my brief encounter with him.
We have a delicious brunch to serve the guests, who arrive at the same time the big grandfather clock in the hallway strikes eleven.
There are a lot of air-kissing “mwahs” echoing from the spacious room that adjoins the kitchen.
Peppermint Lodge is built around a central atrium housing an enormous fireplace with a huge window with a view over the snow-covered fir trees.
This batch of guests is down from the city to do some skiing and explore the woods around Snowflake before their New Year’s Eve dinner.
We’re certainly never short on snow at this time of year and it’s a picturesque place to get away from it all.
The lodge has been redone by a famous architect, Magnus Huckle, so it’s a mix of old-style wooden beams and glass fronts to take advantage of the views.
It’s about three miles from our family house, so I’m familiar with the local area and it feels cozy to be so close to home.
I’m meant to finish up at ten this evening so I’m going to get my brother Alfie to pick me up and take me home to celebrate New Year as a family.
“Ok Taylor, they’re all here. Tray with the champagne is ready to go while I finish the eggs. Can you manage? Or is it a clumsy day today?” Paul raises an eyebrow teasingly.
“Pipe down Paul. I’m like an elegant swan these days.
” I do a gliding impression to make him laugh.
I pick the big silver tray up carefully - it has a magnum of expensive champagne sitting in a bucket on a bed of ice and nine glasses.
I push my way through the doors with my eye on the side table.
I’m hit with the scent of competing perfumes and aftershave as a crowd of glossy women and chiselled men turn to look at the interloper.
Not making eye contact with anyone, I smile, say “Good morning” and head over to set the tray down.
“Ray - I didn’t know there was maid service here?
” One of the glossiest women, who has a Chanel bag that probably cost more than a year of my wages, flicks her hair and gestures in my direction.
I’m wearing an apron over a black dress so her mistake, I guess.
She walks over to me and tries to raise her eyebrows but there’s so much surgery going on that her forehead doesn’t move.
“Do you do manicures?” She asks, holding her hand out for a glass of champagne.
It’s tempting to pour a glass over her head but I’m polite as I hand it to her. “I’m the caterer. My name is Taylor. Hope you enjoy your stay.”
One of the men, an older guy with slicked-back hair and jaded eyes, looks me up and down. “Could you throw in a massage Taylor? I’ll give you a tip.”
The glossy woman brays laughter. “Shut up Henry, don’t be awful.
So, who are we waiting for? Ben’s friend?
” She walks back and they all start talking about skiing as if I don’t exist again.
I circulate with the glasses of champagne.
There’s one left and as I pick it up and look around, the double doors open.
With a burst of frosty air, in walks a tall, built, broad-shouldered man.
It’s Miles.
What the hell is he doing here? I’m frozen in one position with the tray in one hand and clutching the glass of champagne. He’s staring back at me. Oh shit, I’m going to drop it.
He walks quickly forward and grabs the glass just as I’m about to let go.
My cheeks are hot. He’s unbelievably, eye-scorchingly gorgeous, especially in contrast with these primped and preened city slickers.
It’s like a muscular, wild panther has just stalked into a room full of powdered and spoilt show cats.
I’m not the only one who’s impressed, judging by the expression on the women’s faces.
“Hey Miles.” One of the men walks over to slap him on the shoulder. “This is Miles, everyone - we served together before I retired. He knows the area really well - born and bred in Snowflake Falls - and offered to lead the hike this afternoon.”
I’m still standing there like an idiot so I’m glad when Paul comes out with a tray of croissants and I can walk back into the kitchen. I run my hands under some cold water and try to cool down.
Looks like I’m spending my New Year catering for a bunch of entitled rich people and the guy next door who can’t stand me.
I can’t wait to get back home.