Page 1 of Mountain Man Santa

Chapter

One

STACEY

“You see this?” Jerry, head chef and owner of the Silver Fork, asks rhetorically, holding up a roll of blue Sterochef kitchen tape in one hand and a permanent marker in the other as he walks around the kitchen. “Everything in this kitchen starts with the tape and permanent markers. With no tape and no Sharpies, there’s no organization. You live and die by the fucking tape and pen. And I’m not talking masking tape and ballpoint pens, fucking pencils, shitty-ass highlighters. No. Kitchen tape and Sharpies. Understand?”

Never has a man spoken more passionately about adhesives and writing implements…or looked more intimidating while doing it. Every time he curses, one of the high schoolers jumps where they stand as the realization sinks in. They’re in the big boy kitchen now.

The giant chef demonstrates how to properly label a food item using the kitchen tape and permanent marker with the correct naming and date conventions before stacking them for the refrigerator. Everything has a standard with no detail overlooked, and no step skipped. The cafe’s three newemployees watch the man with laser focus, eyebrows raised, and apprehension written all over their faces.

Black-haired Em, with her tresses slicked back in a ponytail, and brunette Kyle and blond Steve, both with buzz cuts, have the same question written on their faces.What have we gotten ourselves into?

“As for the order of using ingredients in the fridge, what must you always remember?”

“FIFO,” the three say quietly and simultaneously, sounding like a shell-shocked choir.

“That’s right,” Jerry says, more like a drill sergeant than a cook. “First in, first out. Say it with me.”

They repeat the phrase with him for at least the twentieth time. All three are high school seniors hired to help with meal prep before school and as part-time servers working around their class schedules. I feel for them today. After all, Jerry can be a royal pain in the ass. The chef’s attention to detail makes his food amazing, but newbies always face a steep learning curve.

“Any questions?” The man barks. The quiet response from all three teens doesn’t surprise me. As we dive into things, I field most of the actual inquiries. And that’s fine because I’ve worked on and off at the Silver Fork since I was the same age as the new crew.

Back then, the Collettis, a family of Italian immigrants who first came to the area around the turn of the century, owned it, serving Genovese-inspired lunch and dinner fare. The place has undergone a gourmet transformation under the leadership of Jerry.

The massive chef towers over the gathered employees, looking more like a linebacker than a restaurant owner, and his face is grim and serious as he talks. I don’t know of a more authoritative man, and that’s saying a lot as the daughter of aretired sheriff’s deputy and sister to one cop, one bounty hunter, and an FBI agent.

Em struggles with her next move, so I prompt her, “Do you remember what we’re doing with the pesto?”

Her face looks nervous as she nods uncertainly before shaking her head. I walk her through the instructions again, aware that Kyle’s already standing at my elbow with more questions.

I feel a searing warmth on my back, looking up to find Jerry staring at me long and hard. His eyes are nearly black, and his face looks unreadable. I smile like an idiot, heart racing, before focusing on Em and Kyle again.

A few minutes later, when the teens are distracted by the fridge, Jerry comes up behind me, hovering his big body so close to mine that I can feel the heat radiating from him. Drawing back the hair from my downturned face, he whispers in my ear, “How’s that labeling coming, Shortie? You need an extra hand?”

I nod, giggling, and he grabs the pen, writing “Hottie!” on my kitchen tape.

I turn towards him, my lips lingering near his for one scintillating second. I say sarcastically, “You didn’t leave room for an expiration date.”

“When it comes to you, there is no expiration date,” he growls before turning back to the class and making his face grim again.

My whole body shivers with desire as my eyes linger over his large, muscular frame—a walking Adonis garbed in white.

By the end of the early morning prep, neat rows of prepared sauces, homemade condiments, chopped vegetables, and everything that makes the food at the Silver Fork delectable line the refrigerator. I feel confident about what the new employees have learned, even though they continue to second-guess themselves. Practice will nip this tendency in the bud. They have good work ethics, essential to succeeding in a kitchen.

After debriefing them about everything they learned, they hand in their aprons. “Nice work, everyone,” I call after them. “Remember to wear red and green tonight for the Christmas fundraiser.” They nod, heading towards their cars in the back lot.

Once back in the kitchen, I hear Jerry grumble, “Shortie, can I see you in my office for a moment?” At six foot five, everyone’s short compared to Jerry. Yet, somehow, I got this endearment about six months ago when we started working more closely together, thanks to the fast turnover rate of employees. As a plus-sized five-foot-nine woman, the nickname makes me laugh, as no one has ever really made me feel tiny except for Jerry.

“Yes, Chef,” I reply brusquely, my heart thumping behind my ribcage.

As soon as the door to his office closes, the giant of a man pins me against the wall, leaning down to nuzzle my neck. “Fuck, you smell amazing, Stace.”

“Thank you,” I say softly, closing my eyes as his soft, hot lips brush over my décolletage, showering me in kisses.

“Did you think about me last night?” He grumbles in that naughty, dark voice of his that I first started hearing three weeks ago after a begrudging kiss under the mistletoe. What began as an attempt to uphold tradition sparked a wildfire of attraction that threatens to burn down the whole restaurant if we’re not careful.

“Yes,” I confess breathlessly.

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