Page 4 of Fall Surprises
"Dinner in isolation it is," I muttered, reluctantly picking up the vintage telephone on the nightstand.
Rory answered, cheerful as ever. "What can I do for you, Sam?"
"I was wondering if I could have dinner sent up to my room? I have a lot of work to catch up on."
"Of course! Gus prepared a butternut squash soup and fresh bread for tonight. I'll bring it right up."
I thanked her and hung up, trying not to think about the fact that I'd be eating food prepared by the man I'd just argued with. At least this way, I could keep working and avoid seeing him again tonight.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to resume battle. This wedding would be perfect, whether August Ramsey cooperated or not. I hadn't built my business from nothing by letting stubborn men stand in my way.
As I waited for my dinner to arrive, I forced myself to focus on spreadsheets instead of infuriating chefs. I needed a clear head if I was going to turn this inn into a social media sensation, regardless of whose toes I stepped on in the process.
Chapter Two
Gus
My knife slammed through mushrooms on the cutting board, the steady rhythm echoing through the empty kitchen, matching the throbbing in my temples. Each cut was therapy I desperately needed after that confrontation with the wedding planner.
"The nerve of that woman," I muttered to the empty kitchen. "Instagram-worthy plating, camera angles—as if food were just some prop for social media."
I scooped the evenly diced mushrooms into their container and moved on to the shallots, my knife finding its steady rhythm again. Despite my irritation, my mind kept returning to the image of Samantha Maxwell standing in my kitchen doorway—her brown hair pulled back so severely it must have given her a headache, those intelligent hazel eyes flashing with annoyance behind stylish glasses, and the way her tailored suit couldn't quite conceal the curves beneath.
"Stop it," I growled to myself, forcing my attention back to the shallots.
It had been two months since I'd left San Francisco and the smoking ruins of my restaurant career. Two months of hiding out in this small Montana town, licking my wounds and trying to rebuild some semblance of pride after my business partner—who was also my best friend since culinary school—had embezzled our funds and vanished overnight. The betrayal had cost me everything: my restaurant, my savings, my reputation inthe culinary world. The last thing I needed was a high-strung city woman with her color-coded binders questioning my food—not when I was still raw from Trevor's betrayal.
We met on the first day at the Culinary Institute of America. For eight years, we'd built Harvest together—from pipe dream to reality. We were on the verge of our first Michelin star when I discovered the discrepancies. By the time I confronted him, he was gone—along with nearly two hundred thousand dollars and any faith I had left in people.
The kitchen door swung open, and Rory's familiar footsteps approached.
"Everything alright in here?" she asked, her voice carrying that gentle concern that made her such a natural innkeeper. "I just got a call from our new guest. She's requested dinner in her room."
I didn't look up from my work. "Let me guess—the wedding dictator doesn't want to risk another encounter with the kitchen ogre."
"Gus." The reproach in Rory's tone was mild but effective. "She seems stressed. This wedding is a big deal for her business. Those reality TV people and influencers could make or break a small operation like hers."
I finally looked up, catching the knowing look in Rory's eyes. She didn't need to say it aloud—she knew exactly how it felt to have everything riding on a single success or failure. She'd gambled everything on this inn, just as I'd once risked everything on Harvest. When she'd reached out through our mutual friend in Portland, offering me this position, I'd been at rock bottom. The inn had been my lifeline, and Rory had never once made me feel like I owed her for it.
"Fine," I conceded, wiping my hands on my apron. "I'll put together something for her."
"Thank you." Rory smiled, relieved. "I know it's not easy having strangers in your kitchen space."
After she left, I stared at the ingredients I'd been prepping for tomorrow's breakfast. The inn's only other guests—a family with four children under the age of six—had eaten dinner early, a simple meal of mac and cheese and chicken tenders they'd requested before heading into town for the seasonal festivities. They'd be checking out at dawn Wednesday to continue their road trip, which would give Rory and Cass the rest of the day to prepare the suites for the wedding party's Thursday arrival. Rory and Cass typically made their own meals in the private kitchen in their quarters upstairs, preferring not to impose on me after service hours. Which meant the Maxwell woman's request actually gave me an excuse to do what I loved—create something that showcased real technique and ingredients instead of the kid-friendly fare I'd just plated. My annoyance didn't stop me from grabbing my notebook and sketching a proper plate. The fall menu I'd created showcased seasonal ingredients from nearby farms—one of the reasons I'd accepted this position. Wintervale's location provided access to incredible produce, game, and forage that would have cost a fortune to import to San Francisco. The irony of having better ingredients here than in San Francisco wasn't lost on me.
I settled on a butternut squash soup with pan-seared duck breast—simple but elegant. The soup was velvety and rich, garnished with crispy sage and a swirl of maple cream. I'd pair it with fresh-baked sourdough using the starter I'd been nurturing since my arrival. The starter was a gift from Margot Bergstrom, who owned the bakery below my apartment. When she'd learned I was a chef, she'd insisted I take some of her decades-old starter—'Too good to keep to myself,' she'd said. For dessert, a honey-roasted pear tart with brown butter crust would serve as a peace offering.
As I worked, I arranged each element with special attention to the presentation, making sure the colors complemented each other and the composition would photograph well—though I'd die before admitting I was catering to her demands. Presentation had always mattered to me—but for the right reasons. Food was art, and the plate was the canvas.
Plating the meal on the inn's vintage stoneware, I stepped back to assess my work. The rustic elegance suited the autumn theme perfectly, with the warm colors of the soup and duck contrasting with the dark plate. It looked like fall on a plate.
I carefully arranged everything on a tray, adding a small vase with sprigs of fresh rosemary and thyme from the inn's herb garden. A final touch—a handwritten card with the meal description, ingredients, and provenance of the local components. A courtesy gesture, nothing more.
Rory appeared just as I was finishing. "Oh, Gus, that looks beautiful! I can take it up to her if you'd like."
I hesitated, tray in hand. The easy option was to let Rory handle it, avoiding another potential clash with Ms. Maxwell. But some stubborn part of me wanted to prove I wasn't the ogre she thought I was. Maybe I also wanted to see if she'd recognize the difference between food made with soul versus food made for cameras.
"I'll take it," I said with more confidence than I felt. "Need to make sure the soup is served at the proper temperature. You know, for integrity's sake."
