Page 24 of Fall Surprises
Friday morning hit like a freight train to the skull.
By six AM, three prep stations ran simultaneously—Jake and Molly, my assistants from town, handling vegetables and proteins while I built the wedding cake that would either make or break tomorrow's reception. Genoise sponge layers cooled on racks. Italian meringue buttercream stabilized in the mixer. Fondant rested under damp towels, temperamental as hell and requiring split-second timing between stages.
The kitchen hummed. Knife work. Timers beeping. The steady whisk-against-metal rhythm that meant Jake hadn't yet figured out how to make meringue without bicep strain.
Through the window, Sam crossed the garden like a general commanding troops. Clipboard in hand, directing the rental company crew, conferring with the lighting crew, her mouth set in that determined line I'd come to recognize.
"Chef, the duck needs to come out," Jake called.
I pulled the pan from the oven, the skin crackling and golden. Perfect. I'd been planning this rehearsal dinner menu for days—wanted it to showcase what Montana autumn could offer. Duck breast with huckleberry reduction, roasted fingerling potatoes with fresh rosemary, Brussels sprouts with bacon and balsamic. For dessert, individual apple tarts with cinnamon ice cream.
The kind of food that made people remember why they fell in love with eating.
My phone buzzed. Sam's name lit up the screen.
Still breathing?
I smiled despite myself, wiped my hands on my apron, typed back:Barely. You?
The rental company delivered ivory chair covers instead of burgundy. Currently sourcing replacements. Send coffee.
Already brewing. Come to the back door in 5.
Five minutes later, she appeared at the kitchen's side entrance, frazzled and gorgeous. She'd pulled her hair into a messy bun, and her cream-colored sweater had a smudge of something—dirt, maybe—near the hem.
I handed her a travel mug of coffee and a plate covered with a cloth napkin.
"What's this?" She peeked under the napkin, her expression softening. "Gus..."
"Breakfast frittata with aged cheddar and chives. You need actual food, not just caffeine."
"I was going to grab a granola bar—"
"Eat the frittata, Sam."
She took a bite, closed her eyes. Made that soft sound in her throat that went straight to my groin. I'd been hearing that sound in my head for two days now, imagining other ways I could draw it from her.
"God, you're good at this," she murmured.
You have no idea how good I could be.I kept the thought to myself, settling for: "Just doing my job."
"No." She opened her eyes, held my gaze. "You've been taking care of me since I got here. Making sure I eat. That's not in your job description."
My throat went dry. "Neither is you planning to keep the TV crew out of my kitchen all day."
"Diana wants footage of everything. Someone has to protect your space."
"We're protecting each other." I stepped closer. Her pupils dilated.
"Yeah." Her voice dropped. "We are."
We stood in the doorway, October cold at our backs, kitchen heat at our fronts. Her mouth parted slightly—the same way it had when she'd tasted my soup that first night, when she'd bitten into the apple donut at Hartley's. Every damn time she did that, I had to remind myself not to close the distance and kiss her.
"Chef?" Molly's voice broke through. "The buttercream's ready."
Sam stepped back, breaking the spell. "I should—the rental company is waiting for my approval on the replacement chair covers."
"Go. But eat the rest of that frittata."
