Page 13 of Chef's Kiss at the Chalet
Charles squinted against the glare of the sun reflecting off the freshly fallen snow. He turned his head, groaning.
“Sorry to take off. Turns out I’m not fired, so I’ve still got a chance to get my shit together before I screw this up.”
I’d always said you learn a lot about a person by how they handle a hangover. There were the hair-of-the-dog types, who woke up nursing a Bloody Mary. Or the well-prepared ones, with Advil and water ready at the bedside. Personally, I prided myself on the mind-over-matter approach. If I didn’t mind the headache and slightly queasy stomach, it didn’t matter. I simply never had the luxury to wallow in bed.
“I’m happy for you.” Charles dragged himself out of bed, pulling on his bottoms commando-style. “Suppose that means you’ll be sticking around for a while.”
“Yeah, but assuming you are too, let’s not make it awkward,” I said, shamelessly memorizing the planes of his bare chest as the hazy images of last night tumbled around in my head. “I’m going to be working a ton and this . . .” I gestured between us. “Isn’t really part of the plan. So, let’s not make it a thing.”
“A thing?” He watched me from the edge of the bed as I gathered my stuff and shrugged on my jacket. “Surely you must clock out at some point.”
“Not sure I ever learned how.” I paused to give him a reassuring smile. “This was fun. You’re wonderful. But you’ve got a face I could get used to, and I don’t see how I’d have time for that. It’s a distraction I can’t afford.”
He nodded, thinking on that. “You find me distracting.”
“Big time.”
“I could work on that,” he offered. “Being less distracting. You’d be amazed how growing up in my family has trained me to blend into the background.”
“I find that incredibly hard to believe,” I told him frankly. “You kind of stick out in a crowd.”
“I do?” he said, wincing.
“You’re lousy with charisma. Filthy, really.”
And tall. Devastatingly attractive. With an irresistible aura that grabbed me from across the room. All the qualities that would turn one date into constantly glancing at my phone for the next text. The next call. Leaving early and going in late. I could already envision the domino effect that would lead to professional disaster. He was trouble, no doubt about it.
“Can I at least get your number?” he asked.
Luggage in hand, I approached him at the bed and pressed my lips to his briefly before pulling away.
“We’ll always have the blizzard,” I told him, and marched myself out of the room before I forgot why anything else mattered.
Downstairs, a Black woman about my age stood behind the reception desk. Her nametag said Delilah and she had long blond hair fixed up in a dozen thick braids that zigzagged around her head.
“Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “You’re still a bit early for breakfast. If you’re hungry, I can give you a recommendation in town.”
“Do you know, by any chance, if the road up the mountain is clear yet?”
She nodded with a smile. “Plows went out last night after the snow tapered off. It should be open, but you’ll still want to take care with the ice. Gets pretty slippery going up.”
“Great. Thanks. I’ll go ahead and check out now then, if that’s alright.”
“Of course.” She prepared an invoice for me and I slid her my credit card. “How was everything?”
“Terrific.” I blushed to myself, grabbing a mint from the dish on the table. “You’ve got a wonderful place here. Tell Pops I said thanks again. He’s a real lifesaver.”
“Will do. Hope you can come back and see us again soon,” she said, and handed me a paper map of the town. “Just in case. Cell reception is pretty hit and miss around here.”
I gratefully pocketed the map. “No kidding.”
Leaving The Snowdrift, I decided to skip breakfast and head straight to the chalet. With lunch to prepare for the Hawthornes’ arrival and no idea what the state of the kitchen or provisions might be, I had to give myself all the time I could get. One benefit of being the chef: it’s never too hard to scrounge for a snack.
Slowly, I hauled myself up the icy mountain. It was truly a spectacular view, climbing through the pine trees with the snow-covered valley below, the clear blue sky growing impossibly larger outside my windshield. I took it as a sign that I was out of the woods, so to speak. A new day. A little hiccup out of the way, and back on track.
The Hawthornes’ chalet was known as The Viceroy, according to the additional information Megan had sent. All the estates on the mountain had similarly pretentious names, apparently. The Viceroy was on North Mountain, aka the highest peak in Maplewood Creek. It was about a forty-minute drive from The Snowdrift up to the top, then another fifteen minutes to navigate the neighborhood they were in. Gated and gorgeous, of course.
Each home I passed on the way up had a wall of windows that invited in the natural scenery. At a stop sign, I marveled at a beautiful home of stone and wood with a drastic roof angle that pitched in three places. It was angular and modern, yet somehow it still fit in with the rural atmosphere around it. MyGPSalerted me that I would have to make the next turn. There, two large pillars rose up from the ground on either side. In the center was a large wrought-iron gate with a plaque that read “Vantage Summit.”
