Chapter 2
TWO
KATELYN
The valley looks like it’s been dipped in cinnamon sugar.
Gold trees wave against a sky so clean it almost hurts. The mountains hug this little patch of Alaska like they’re trying to keep the wind off it.
My rental SUV crunches over gravel, and suddenly the whole Carver Family Pumpkin Patch spills open. Banners waving, string lights hanging but asleep for now. A bright sea of pumpkins broken by wagon ruts and kids in puffy coats.
I park beside a battered pickup with CARVER stenciled on the tailgate and take a breath that tastes like cold apples. First impressions matter. So does first bite.
“Okay, Katelyn,” I tell my reflection in the rearview—red lipstick, messy bun, flour under one nail because of course—“let’s feed them before they decide what they think of you.”
I pop the hatch.
A wave of warm bakery air escapes—brown butter, cardamom, roasted pumpkin. Three bakery boxes sit neatly in a pile. I balance two on my forearms, hook the third with my chin, and close the hatch with my hip.
I inelegantly waddle toward the Snack Shack—a cedar sided building with, a to-go window, a chalkboard menu written in tidy block letters, and a bell with a pull that says RING FOR PIE—when the side door swings open.
“Need a hand?” The man in the doorway has dark hair, a knit cap, and forearms that should be illegal. His apron says CARVER KITCHEN, and the smudge of flour at his jaw does nothing to make him less distracting.
“Always,” I say, transferring the top box into his hands. “Hi. I’m—”
“Katelyn Baker,” he finishes, not even pretending he hasn’t already formed an opinion. “We’ve got a thing about last names being job titles around here?”
“It’s on-brand,” I say sweetly. He doesn’t smile.
“Chase,” he offers, backing into the kitchen to make room. “This is my kitchen.”
His kitchen is spotless.
Prep lists taped neatly. Pies cool in disciplined rows. A deep fryer hums low, waiting to crisp the next food.
“It looks good in here,” I say, setting my boxes on the stainless table. “I respect a clean kitchen. I also brought bribes.”
“Bribes?”
I pop a lid and the room fills with the scent of pumpkin custard and caramel.
“Pumpkin cronuts for the team.” I flash a smile. “Laminated croissant dough, a pumpkin cream, cardamom sugar, salted caramel glaze. Everything you could want from fall, but bougier.”
Someone whistles. A man in a ball cap with DYLAN printed on his name tag, leans against the door frame to the walk-in, intrigued.
Another man, who I recognize from the patch’s social media as Quinn, appears beside him.
A woman with dark hair in a high pony slips in, eyes sharp, smile warmer than coffee, who introduces herself as “Lanie.”
And then there’s Tricia, the marketing genius I’ve been DMing for a week, and Taegen, the reporter whose tell-all video capture my attention.
The room suddenly feels like a family reunion I’ve snuck into with dessert.
“Hi!” I beam. “I’m so happy to be here, truly. Thanks for having me. And please.” I gesture to the boxes of treats. “Help yourself.”
“You had us at cardamom,” Lanie says, already reaching for a napkin.
Chase slides the box an inch away from her and gives me a look that says he’s seen every trick in the book.
“What exactly is the plan here, Chef Baker?”
It’s impossible to mistake the ice in his tone.
I keep my smile. “I’m here for a pop-up. You keep the ship steady, I’ll set up a limited menu at a side station, we cross-promote, nobody dies.”
“Promising not to kill my customers is a low bar,” he says.
“Then I’ll charm them, feed them fast, and clean my station so well you’ll want to marry it.”
Something flickers at the corner of his mouth—humor, maybe, that he refuses to let out. “We’ll see.”
Quinn clears his throat. “Play nice, Chase. Katelyn, we’re grateful you came. We can walk the site in a bit and talk through line logistics.”
“Perfect,” I say, and shove a box toward Tricia. “Want to try?”
She takes a delicate bite and then forgets delicacy exists.
“Oh, no.” She rolls her eyes and groans. “This is so good, it should be illegal.”
I chuckle. “I guess you’d better arrest me.”
Taegen films the cross section with a low murmur of appreciation. “That’s a lamination I’d swipe right on.”
Dylan’s already halfway through his. “I don’t know what you just said, but yes.”
Even Quinn, who looks like he tries not to enjoy things on principle, blisses out at first bite. “We’re gonna need more of these.”
Chase hasn’t touched one.
I place a cronut onto napkin and set it in front of him.
“Chef to chef,” I say quietly. “I’m not here to show you up. I’m here to draw a crowd and make good food. If you hate it, tell me why.”
His eyes meet mine—hazel, steady. A beat. Then he picks it up, breaks it open. Steam curls up. He considers the interior, the even crumb, the custard-to-dough ratio. He takes a bite. Another, smaller one, as if to check if the first was a fluke.
“Well?” Lanie prods.
He swallows, sets it down, and nods once.
“Texture’s right. Flavor’s… restrained.” It sounds like a compliment but also like a slam. “It’s decent.”
“High praise from Mr. Pie,” Dylan says.
Chase shoots him a dirty look.
“We’ll go over your station later,” he says to me, professional cool snapping back into place. “We open in an hour. Try not to get in the way.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, even as a little spark of heat catches low in my belly. It is profoundly unfair that a man can be that competent and that infuriating at the same time.
Tricia squeezes my arm. “You’re going to be great. Let’s get you a tour before the rush.”
We spill out into cold sunshine. The patch hums awake—a tractor coughing to life, kids bouncing on one of those inflatable pillows.
Tricia points out the highlights. The Enchanted Forest sign makes my heart do a little turn. I can’t wait to see it lit after dark.
“Your signage looks amazing,” I tell her. “And your marketing — the photography, the voice. It’s warm but not cheesy.”
She blushes, delighted. “We’ve been working hard. It helps when there’s good stuff to photograph.”
We loop back past the front office. Taegen films a quick Reel. Lanie corrals a volunteer schedule with quiet efficiency. Quinn stands at the gate, scanning tickets.
The line to the Snack Shack thickens.
“Time to work,” I say, rolling my shoulders. The nerves sharpen—a good edge. The best dishes are made on that edge.
Back in the kitchen, I claim a corner station near the window. I lay down my supplies in preparation: laminated dough ready to fry, custard in piping bags, cardamom sugar, caramel warm and glossy. I move fast—faster when I feel eyes on me.
Chase doesn’t hover. In fact, he barely seems to notice me.
He moves with practiced easy.
His actions are economical in the way that only comes from thousands of reps. Pie shells are pulled, fillings poured, and pies slid into the oven with precision.
He calls out low requests to his crew—“pull six quarts from the walk-in, rotate the cider, two more pans”—and the crew moves like they were born in this room.
I love the bustle of kitchens. I love this one even when the head chef is determined to pretend I don’t exist.
We hit the first rush head on.
Orders pour in. Donuts, cronuts, coffee, cider, corndog with a twist. Whatever that is. For a while there’s no room for anything except speed.
I fall into the rhythm. Fry, drain, toss, fill, glaze, hand off. Smile at a grandma who says, “I saw you on the internet, honey.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Chase answering a skeptical dad’s question about pie with a discussion on apple varieties that ends in three slices sold and a handshake.
He doesn’t look my way. I don’t let myself look too long either.
Even though there’s nothing bad about looking at Chase. Even if his dark gaze is more of a glare when it’s directed my way. And it’s a good thing his jaw looks good set like that.
I just hope he doesn’t crack any teeth grinding them like that every time I’m spotted by a fan.
The rush ebbs. I shake my arms out and take a heavy gulp of water.
A paper towel roll on the top shelf lists dangerously, shoved awry by a stack of sheet pans someone didn’t place properly.
“Careful,” I step forward past the teenager standing in front of it.
The shelf tips.
It happens fast. A metal shiver, the unpleasant scrape of bracket against screw, the tipping point I can’t catch.
A forearm bands around my waist and I’m yanked back and up against a solid chest. The breath knocks out of me as the shelf gives up and crashes down where I was. The sound of pans hitting the tile echoes in the room. Somebody swears. The fryer keeps humming.
“You okay?” Chase’s voice is rough in my ear.
For a half beat I can’t answer because all of my blood seems to have decided to rush in the direction of his hands. One is splayed low on my stomach. The other is braced on the prep table beside us, boxing me in.
He smells like cinnamon and coffee and clean sweat. His heartbeat is a steady thud against my back, and my body—traitor it is—molds to every muscle of his pressed into me.
“I’m fine,” I manage, a little breathless. “Thanks to you.”
He’s still close enough that I can feel the word rumble through him when he says, “You shouldn’t stand under that shelf. It’s been loose for a week. I told Dylan to fix it.”
“I will add it to my list of Things Not To Stand Under,” I say, trying to cover the fact that all of my senses are heightened.
Particularly where it concerns him.
He lets me go and pulls back, as if he’s just realized he’s holding me and touching me has burned his skin.
He crouches to pick up the mess around us. I kneel to help.
“Don’t,” he says, too sharp.
I raise a brow. “I can pick up lids, Chef.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I know you can pick up lids. I’m saying you almost got clocked by a sheet pan.”
“I almost got clocked by a sheet pan,” I repeat, “and then I got rescued by a heroic chef. Thank you.”
He glances up, mouth flattening like he wants to refuse the compliment on principle. “Heroic is a stretch.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
His eyes flick briefly to my mouth. My pulse does a circus trick.
“We get teenagers in here who think top shelves are gravity-free zones,” he says, standing with an armful of paper towels. “I know what to expect.”
“Well,” I say, standing too, smoothing my apron that suddenly feels like a costume from a romance novel, “I appreciate your reflexes.”
Something softens at the edge of his expression. It’s there and gone in an instant, replaced by the chef face. “We’ll go over your setup after close,” he says briskly, pitching the mangled bracket into the trash. “Station map, par levels, how to route your line so you don’t cross mine.”
“Yes, Chef,” I murmur, because I can’t help myself.
His eyes flash—annoyance, I decide, not heat. Definitely not heat. I focus on stacking the lids. Don’t look at his hands. Don’t look at his shoulders.
The bell at the window jingles; the world starts again. We fall back into the easy choreography of a kitchen that knows what it’s doing.
The second rush hits and we ride it. Chase calls tickets and slices pies. I fry, fill, and charm. We make a whole bunch of people happy.
By late afternoon the sun slides toward the ridge and the light turns that particular Alaskan honey. The line thins. Crew members pull off aprons and switch to sweeping.
Chase checks the closing list, tapping boxes with the end of his pen.
“Your station’s clean,” he says without looking up. “You passed my first test.”
“I live to be graded,” I say. “A girl likes to know where she stands.”
He finally looks at me. For the first time since I walked in this morning, the irritation in his eyes eases enough to let something else out—respect, maybe. There’s definitely curiosity.
“Let’s meet out at the picnic tables at seven,” he says. “We’ll sit and plan tomorrow. Crowd’s thinner. Less distraction.”
“Food?”
“I’ll bring some things from the kitchen.”
“A peace offering?”
“Don’t push it.”
I grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck like he’s remembering I’m a person and not a problem to solve. “You did good today.”
My chest goes warm. “So did you.”
A beat. The corner of his mouth almost lifts. “I always do.”
Cocky. Infuriating. Competent.
My type, apparently, which is terrible news.
“Seven,” I echo, backing toward the door. “I’ll bring a notebook. And more cronuts.”
“Bring a hammer,” he mutters, eyeing the offending shelf. “And stay out from under things.”
“Yes, Chef.”
I step out into the evening and the whole place glows under string lights. Somewhere out near the trees I can see the first fairy jars lighting one by one, and I can’t wait to walk that path.
I lean against the Snack Shack’s outer wall for a moment and let my heartbeat settle. When I close my eyes, I can still feel his hands—work-hardened yet careful—catching me.
Seven o’clock can’t come fast enough.