Chapter 3 Grumpy Chef Grinch
GRUMPY CHEF GRINCH
HOLDEN
With the wind howling outside, I needed something to do, or I’d go mad. I spied the framed Times article leaning against the front desk. Mack must’ve left it there earlier, planning to hang it.
“Right. Might as well make myself useful.” Surely I could handle one simple task without causing structural damage.
I grabbed a hammer and nail from the nearby toolbox, dragged a leather club chair into position, and climbed up like a man who absolutely belonged on a home-improvement blooper reel.
Outside, Snowzilla raged. Inside, I balanced on a chair in a million-dollar lobby, trying to play carpenter.
I pounded the nail into the wall under the museum lighting Mack had at least managed to install that morning. Then I lifted the frame, centered it, and flicked on the light above it.
“Behold. Perfection.” Nothing said I’m the man around here like a massively framed Times article crowning me Mr. Snowman.
THE SNOWMAN RETURNS:
Holden West’s Frosty New Dream
“He single-handedly brought the sports entertainment spotlight to upstate New York with his state-of-the art luxurious new ski resort. We predict that come opening day, the sold-out crowds of ski fans will hail Mr. Snowman and his newest addition to the world of winter sports…”
I loved that quote. Hands on my hips, I admired my two-by-three-foot masterpiece under glass. Yep—enlarged, double-matted, and lit like a museum exhibit. If I was going to stroke my ego, I might as well make it a focal point at the check-in counter.
I grinned at the nickname. Back when I was a young snowboarding phenom destined for Olympic gold, the media called me the Snowman.
That was before the injury. The surgeries. The endless rehab. The moment I realized the gold medal I’d chased my whole life was never coming.
These days, they added Mr. like a cheeky wink, like a billionaire playboy playing lodge mogul was adorable. But looking at that headline didn’t sting. It felt right.
Snow Quest was my second shot at not screwing everything up. If I couldn’t win medals flying down mountains anymore, then I’d own the damn mountain.
“You stud,” I chortled to the empty lobby. A gust rattled the big front windows, like Snowzilla disagreed.
I ran a cloth along the frame and the glass one more time, as if touching it could make magic happen. As if wishing hard enough could guarantee success.
I’d poured my fortune into this place. Crews gutted and rebuilt it. We added five floors of luxury suites above it. And tonight, I was spending Christmas alone in it.
“Planning on blinding guests with your ego the minute they check in?” The female voice cut through the silence like a knife. I wobbled on the chair and craned my neck.
Lilah stood there, arms crossed, expression unimpressed as hell. A frosty snowstorm in human form. The type of woman who looked like she might bury me alive—and lately, the woman who haunted far too many of my nightly fantasies since the day she started working for me.
My gaze swept over the culinary prodigy.
The granddaughter of Julian Freaking Childs, practically culinary royalty.
She wore her chef’s jacket buttoned up like dinner service started in five minutes, prim and proper.
A few stray curls escaped her tight bun.
Icy blue eyes stabbed at me from under dark lashes.
“You’re still here,” I observed.
She nodded toward the window. “I’m not going anywhere in that.”
“You should’ve left sooner, like everyone else.”
“I took a break and a nap in my suite. When I came back down, Ridley had left a note about the closing, but I’m staying. There’s still much work to do before opening day.” She lifted a brow, a faint blush tinting her cheeks. “And the owner sent my staff home.”
“Safety is important.”
“Says the man balancing precariously on a leather chair with a hammer in his hand.”
Her snark caught me off guard. The leather seam beneath my feet started to protest—actually rip—but I’d be damned if I gave her the satisfaction.
I hopped down and stuck the landing like I meant to do that.
“If you leave now, you might make it before the storm hits its peak,” I suggested.
“I’m not leaving. Michelin stars don’t appear out of thin air just because Mr. Snowman built himself a luxury resort.”
Direct hit. She was good at those.
I crossed my arms, matching her stance. “You think I don’t know that?”
She didn’t blink. “I think you’re in over your head.”
That one stung more than I cared to admit. Was it that obvious?
“Okay, clearly I need to apologize again for the broken case of eggs this morning.” When she didn’t soften even a millimeter, I loosened my stance and tried for charm.
“Come on, Chef. It’s Christmas Eve. Let’s let go of the past. We’re here alone together and might as well embrace it and try to have a little fun. What do you say?”
“I say you’re out of your mind if you think we’re spending any time together over a holiday I stopped believing in long ago.”
“You don’t believe in Christmas?” I balked.
“You of all people should know why.”
Right. Her Christmas wedding runaway from Brad. Shit. Stuck my foot in that one.
She huffed away, and damn if her hips didn’t sway distractingly as she strode toward the restaurant. Before she disappeared around the corner, she paused and glanced back over her shoulder.
I waved and grinned.
She turned up her nose and kept going.
I began to see things clearly. Not only had I hired a chef who hated me for a huge misunderstanding in our past, but one who was also a frosty, grumpy Grinch. And yet I never expected a white chef’s uniform like she wore would play a major role in my fantasies.
There she was last night when I turned the lights out in my suite. Fantasy Lilah straddled me and peeled off that crisp uniform, revealing one hell of a body underneath. Exactly the kind I liked with soft curves, sharp edges, and enough attitude to set the whole mountain on fire.
In reality, about the only fun she gave off was the candy cane peeking out from her breast pocket.
Yes, I had a healthy imagination where Lilah was concerned. A very… productive imagination, keeping my hand busy.
My body suddenly reacted like an idiot. Blood rushed south—zero to sixty in seconds flat. I adjusted myself and muttered, “Wait until Wednesday. Madison will take care of us. Don’t you worry.” But my brain offered absolutely zero fantasies involving Madison to lean on.
Lilah taking this job didn’t surprise me. What I hadn’t anticipated was how much she despised me—how palpable it was in every interaction.
I needed to find a way to clear the air between us because I needed her. Because of—my ego. My gut told me her perfectionistic ways would earn us those Michelin stars I coveted.
By the way she saw right through me, her gut probably said I was nothing but a rich playboy who knew very little about running a ski lodge. She’d be right, of course.
I stared up at the Times article, glowing under the light, mocking me. It dared me to try harder, and I would. I’d prove myself and earn my staff’s respect again and again until they never doubted the man behind the money.
And if I was lucky? I’d earn Lilah’s respect too. Even if I didn’t know why that mattered so damn much.