Chapter 5 Culinary Horror
CULINARY HORROR
LILAH
The overhead lights flickered twice before steadying. Great. Snowzilla was officially gnawing on the mountain. It snapped me out of my memories of my failed wedding day.
“Keep it together, Lilah,” I muttered, swiping away the last tear. For the umpteenth time, I swore that would be the final cry over Brad. It’s been five years. Let it go.
I rubbed my hands together, blew warm air over my fingers, and leaned back against the stainless-steel counter. The kitchen had settled into an eerie hush, broken only by the soft hum of refrigeration units.
I prayed the power would remain on. We were packed with a lot of food we had expected to cook this week for the staff, plus notable guests and friends and families coming to get a preview of the lodge before opening day.
I should verify with Holden about the generators, but that would mean I’d have to talk to him and gaze into his chocolaty puppy dog eyes, and endure his smoldering smile.
The playboy was too gorgeous for words. But nope. Not going there. Not after my Christmas wedding imploded and the conversation I overheard between him and my groom detonated my life.
“That’s it,” I said to the empty kitchen. “Just keep remembering the past, and you’ll survive being stuck alone here with Holden West.”
I spent the afternoon staying busy—freezing anything that might go bad, reorganizing prep stations, taking inventory, sketching a minute-by-minute opening-day timeline, timing each dish perfectly. Anything to avoid thinking about the man haunting the lodge like a smug Ghost of Christmas Past.
Satisfied, I brewed a fresh pot of coffee. While it whirred, I headed to the basement laundry room to fold the aprons and towels Rita had washed before leaving.
By the time I returned, I stopped short. A stealthy, no-good, mischievous elf named Holden stood at my counter making a… peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
My eyes bulged at the sight of purple handprints smeared the refrigerator door. Breadcrumbs littered the floor. And—oh no—purple footprints tracked across the tile like a crime scene.
He’d used a cutting board. Three knives. And inexplicably… a strainer.
“Oh. My. God.” I stared. “What the fresh hell is this?”
“I was hungry and figured you must be, too.” He licked jelly off his fingers one by one. “Can’t have my chef starving.”
“Back away from the counter. And don’t touch anything.”
“You can’t be serious.” He held up a plate stacked with grotesquely overfilled jelly sandwiches that probably had a tiny speck of peanut butter in there somewhere. “Relax. It’s mid-afternoon. We needed a snack.”
I didn’t even know we stocked jelly. Or peanut butter. Or generic white bread. If a Michelin inspector walked in right now, they’d have a coronary.
“What, you think I can’t scrounge for food myself and make something infinitely more appealing than that?” I scoffed.
He cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t like PB&J?”
“I’m allergic.”
“To peanuts?” His eyes widened.
“No. To culinary horror.”
He blinked—then burst out laughing. That warm, rich rumble filled the kitchen, bounced off the tile, and slid straight under my skin where it didn’t belong.
“Come on,” he said. “Just try a bite.”
He lifted the plate with a proud flourish, tilted it, and the sandwiches slid straight down the front of his shirt and jeans, leaving a trail of jelly before landing face-down on the floor. Grape goo oozed out like a crime scene reenactment.
His shoulders sagged. “No,” he whispered, mourning the sandwiches like fallen soldiers.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Your jelly is bleeding onto my tile.”
He crouched, sighed dramatically, and scooped the mess into the trash. “I’ll have to start over.”
“Absolutely not. Get out.” I pointed toward the door like I was banishing a demon.
“I should at least clean this up.” He grabbed a white towel from the freshly washed stack in my arms and dropped to his knees, scrubbing with the focus of a man trying desperately not to disappoint his mother.
Against my better judgment, I stared. He was ridiculous—hair messy, jelly smeared everywhere. And yet beneath the chaos was a man who kept trying, even when he had no idea what he was doing.
I saw that about him. Admired it, really.
Unfortunately, effort was not a love language I accepted from him. Not after the past. Not after Brad.
When he tossed my now-purple towel into the trash, I stomped my foot.
“Don’t touch another thing.”
“I just want to help.”
“Help me have a stroke?”
He flashed the cockiest grin I’d ever seen. “Admit it. You want to see what I come up with next.”
“I absolutely do not.” Oh, I absolutely did. If nothing else but to laugh hysterically at whatever he made. I set the towels down on the prep counter.
He opened the cooler and stood there, gaping inside, letting all the cold air escape—a pet-peeve of mine.
“There’s so much weird stuff in here I’ve never even heard of,” he observed.
“You already ruined eggs and murdered bread and jelly.” I nudged him out of the way with my hip, and shut the door. “Enough damage for one day. Get out of my kitchen.”
“But we should talk.”
“Not happening.”
“I think you’re forgetting one tiny detail.” He tapped his chest. “I own the place.”
“And if you ever want Quest to earn a Michelin star, you’ll never step foot in here again.”
“You’re serious.”
I stomped and pointed.
He obeyed—but slowly. Dramatically. With several deep sighs. Of course, after he left, he peeked back in through the round window with sad puppy-dog eyes.
I grabbed the nearest object—a silicone spatula—and hurled it at his face.
He ducked. All I could do was pray I wouldn’t hear or see him again for at least a few blessed hours. It’d take me that long to clean up his mess—and sterilize everything he touched.
Then, out of nowhere, a snort-laugh escaped me.
I clapped a hand over my mouth, but it was too late. The laughter spilled out anyway.
Holden West was so much trouble. A charming, infuriating troublemaker. Sometimes cute and—
Nope. Absolutely not my problem.
I wiped my eyes, straightened my chef’s coat, and reached for the bleach.
Laughter was allowed. Falling for him was most definitely not.