Page 16 of Fall Surprises
"Honestly? Anything you make is going to be amazing. Surprise me."
After she headed upstairs, I stood in the kitchen surrounded by carved pumpkins and scattered seeds, trying to ignore thehollow feeling in my chest. She was being smart. Professional. We both needed to remember why we were here.
I pulled out ingredients for a simple but elegant meal—pan-seared salmon with roasted Brussels sprouts and quinoa pilaf. As I cooked, I tried not to think about how much I'd enjoyed the afternoon, or how right it had felt having her in my kitchen, laughing over pumpkins.
Twenty minutes later, I arranged everything on a tray with the same care I'd taken the night before. A small vase with rosemary sprigs. A handwritten card describing the meal.
I carried the food upstairs and knocked on her door.
"Come in," she called.
She'd changed into yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, that messy ponytail still in place. Her laptop sat open on the desk, surrounded by color-coded binders, but she wasn't working. She was staring out the window at the darkened garden.
"Delivery, Ms. Maxwell," I said, setting the tray on the small table with a flourish.
"Thank you." She turned to me with a small smile, but something in her expression made my chest tighten. "For all of it."
"Just doing my job."
"No, you're not." She stood, crossing to where I stood by the door. "You didn't have to be kind. You didn't have to take me to the orchard or the pumpkin patch or make me laugh. You could have just cooked the food and tolerated my presence."
We were standing too close again—close enough that I could see the pulse jumping at her throat.
"I know." She took a small step back. "Tomorrow the chaos starts. The wedding party, the TV crew, all of it. We need to stay professional."
"Right. Professional."
Neither of us moved.
"Goodnight, Gus."
"Goodnight."
I left before I could do something stupid like close that small distance between us. As I headed back downstairs, I tried not to think about how she'd looked standing there in her sweatshirt, or the way her voice had gone quiet when she'd thanked me.
By the time I finished cleaning and made my way to the small guest room on the first floor where I'd be staying through the weekend, it was past ten. I'd brought my things over from my apartment earlier in the week—easier than driving back and forth when I'd be working dawn to midnight for the next few days. Through the window, I could see the garden where we'd set up for the wedding, the gazebo barely visible in the moonlight. I sank onto the edge of the bed, running my hands through my hair.
Sam Maxwell was nothing like the women I'd dated in California—the ones attracted to the successful chef with the hot restaurant, who'd vanished the second I declared bankruptcy. I'd sworn off dating after that, figured there was no point when you couldn't trust anyone's motives.
But Sam had hired me based on Rory's recommendation and the food I'd been cooking here. She didn't care about the chef I used to be. She'd actively disliked me at first, had no problem calling me on my bullshit. She was difficult and controlling and drove me crazy.
Except now I couldn't stop thinking about the weight of her in my arms when we'd landed in those leaves. The way her eyes had gone dark when I'd touched her face earlier. How close I'd come to kissing her.
"You're an idiot, Ramsey," I muttered.
She was leaving in a matter of days. Back to Denver, back to her business, back to a life that had no room for a broke chef in Montana. Neither of us was in a place for anything real.
But none of that stopped me from wanting her.
I fell back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Three more days. The wedding party arrived tomorrow, the ceremony was Saturday, and by Sunday she'd be gone. Back to Denver, back to her life.
Three days to keep my head on straight.
The thought should have been a relief.
It wasn't.
