Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 93942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
And now here he was, striding toward me, looking really good. Why did he have to be so damn gorgeous? I couldn’t help the involuntary smile that slipped out as he got closer.
He gave me a small, polite smile in return.
And then he veered off and jogged down the stairs to the lobby.
I halted mid-step, staring after him.
He couldn’t even say hello?
I stood there for a moment, frozen between surprise and offense. Maybe he was mad about how I’d ended things yesterday. I had walked out pretty abruptly. But what was I supposed to do—let him call me “baby girl” and pretend I was okay with it?
When he’d said that, it felt like he viewed me as a plaything. He may as well have called me a baby doll, like I was a toy instead of a competent, capable woman about to embark on a prestigious career.
Still, what kind of a man didn’t even say ‘hi’ to the woman he’d been all over the day before? Frustrated, I moved to the window, looking out at the mountains, trying to settle the knot in my chest.
But I could still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin. The heat of his mouth. The way my body had responded to him. The way we’d fit together, like we were made for each other.
I shook my head and headed back downstairs.
Focus, Zoe.
Near the Christmas tree, an older couple stood looking a bit lost. The man was in his late sixties, silver-haired and wearing an expensive-looking coat. The woman beside him—his wife, presumably—had kind eyes and a patient smile.
I approached them with my best professional warmth. “Good morning. Welcome to The Fraser. Is this your first time with us?”
The man’s face lit up. “It is! We’ve heard wonderful things.”
“Are you the Hartleys?” I’d studied the guest list so long yesterday that I knew who was supposed to arrive each day this week.
“Yes, we are.” Mrs. Hartley seemed pleased that I’d figured out who she was. that kind of thing always made guests feel special.
“You’re going to love it here,” I said. “The skiing is the best in the southeastern United States, of course, but even if you’re not hitting the slopes, there’s plenty to enjoy. The spa is incredible—I just came from there. And the restaurant serves some of the best food I’ve ever had.”
“Oh, that’s good to hear,” the woman said. “We’re not skiers, I’m afraid.”
“Then you’ll definitely want to try the hot stone massage,” I said. “And if you’re interested in the local area, the concierge can arrange tours. And—”
The man stepped closer, his hand brushing my forearm. “You’re very helpful, my dear. What’s your name?”
I kept my smile in place even as I took a subtle step back. “Zoe. I’m an intern here.”
His fingers lingered a beat too long on my skin before he let go. “Well, I hope we see more of you during our stay. Such a warm welcome.”
Had he emphasized the word ‘warm’? If so, ew. But I’d dealt with this before—male customers who got a little too familiar, who stood a little too close. It always made my skin crawl, but I stayed professional. I felt bad for his wife, though. She didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she was just used to it.
“Thank you, Zoe,” she said with a genuine smile. “We’ll definitely check out the spa.”
I excused myself and headed downstairs to the restaurant, my stomach tightening with each step.
It was still early for lunch, but I could hear the sounds of the kitchen—the clatter of pots, the sizzle of something on a burner, voices calling out orders. I pushed through the door tentatively and scanned the room.
And there he was.
Asher stood at the center of the controlled chaos, his chef’s whites pristine despite the activity surrounding him. He was in his element, barking instructions to the staff, his movements precise and efficient.
He saw me and his expression darkened, but he didn’t stop working.
I looked around, taking in the scene. I recognized some of the roles—the sous chefs prepping vegetables, someone reducing a sauce, another checking the temperature of something in the oven. I’d taken a restaurant management class a couple of years ago, and bits of it were coming back to me. The brigade system. The hierarchy. The choreography of a professional kitchen.
I approached a woman who was plating something that smelled of garlic and some other spice. “Excuse me. Can you tell me where the head chef is?”
She paused and pointed toward Asher.
I stared. “Him?”
“Yes. Do you need to talk to him?”
“I... yes. Please.”
She nodded and walked over to Asher, saying something I couldn’t hear. He looked over at me, clearly annoyed, then wiped his hands on a towel and strode toward me.
“You’re the head chef?” I asked, even though I’d just been told that. I still couldn’t believe it.