“Well, thanks for your help. I think I’m all set here for now. Off you go.”
He stood, dazed, at the threshold of the kitchen. “You’re kicking me out of my own house?”
“Nope. Just the kitchen. Good night.”
The door slammed in his face while I went to the island and gulped down the last of his wine, and mine. Every nerve in my body was buzzing. My fingertips tingled. And I desperately wished I’d never laid eyes on Charles Hawthorne.
Chapter 13
I woke the next morning to my phone’s alarm, blushing at the unbidden images of Charles in my dreams, wearing nothing but smudges of dough on his face and that infuriating grin that dared me to ignore him. He’d be easier to dismiss if he were a typical entitled asshole, but so far, I’d seen only kindness and humor. Where the hell did he get off being so damn approachable anyway? It went entirely against type. Not okay.
If there was one benefit to our little cooking class last night, it did relieve some of the anxiety I’d harbored over our first awkward conversation as chef and client. Honestly, in some ways, it couldn’t have gone better. But that only reinforced how much harder I’d have to work to maintain the boundary. Especially if Charles was determined to trample all over it.
Getting dressed, I pulled my black hair into a messy bun and slid on a stretchy black headband, because I hated getting hair in my face while I was working. My typical kitchen attire was my white daytime chef’s coat with a simple white T-shirt underneath and a pair of jeans and sneakers. Nothing that begged male attention. Which was perfect for hiding from Charles’s advances.
Much as we’d both like to pretend there was no conflict of interest here, he was off limits. And there was just no point entertaining any ideas otherwise. Like it or not, he would only be a fond blizzard memory. And a cautionary tale.
Despite only a couple of hours’ sleep, I was in the kitchen to prep before seven. Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne got in from traveling early this morning, so breakfast had been changed to brunch. I first sent the waitstaff out with fruit, bacon, and the basket of chocolate croissants, while I poached some fresh crab legs for a variation on eggs Benedict.
“These are incredible,” Ali said, standing over the island to enjoy my pains au chocolat. “How on earth did you have time to make them?”
While she still carried herself like an upright rake, Ali’s demeanor had softened considerably, so long as I kept her plied with food.
“I had a little help,” I admitted, though she wasn’t really listening.
While the crab cooked, I concentrated on my hollandaise. It was deceptively simple to make, and even easier to ruin. In a bowl, I cracked seven eggs, then processed them with an immersion blender for a couple of minutes. Next, I poured in melted butter while continuing to blend, allowing both to perfectly emulsify. The key was constant movement and not too much butter. A little this way or that, and the sauce would separate, ruining it. Then I added a pinch of salt, cayenne, and a squeeze of fresh lemon. When my crab and poached eggs were ready, I assembled everything on a warm, toasted English muffin, doused with hollandaise, and topped with fresh microgreens and a few fried capers.
And just for good measure, I prepared Mr. Hawthorne some low-fat, low-sodium oatmeal with macerated berries and cinnamon as an option. Even if he chose not to eat it, I wanted him and his wife to know I was making the effort.
“Quickly,” I told the waitstaff when they came to collect the dishes. “Don’t let them get cold.”
So far, feedback from the family had been sparse but largely positive. I was encouraged that it meant I hadn’t managed to screw anything up yet. Not that I doubted myself, but food makes people finicky. Too hot. Too cold. Too spicy. Too bland. There were a million ways to fall just short, and far fewer to succeed. And I had to succeed.
So, following brunch, when Ali told me Mrs. Hawthorne wanted to discuss the major events that were coming up, I was hopeful I might get some sense of her satisfaction with me thus far.
“I have a friend in Denver,” I told her as we sat in the office with the big, imposing desk and immaculate view of the mountains. “Megan Wheelan. She’s the owner of the firm you used to hire me. I’d like to work with her to staff the events.”
Mrs. Hawthorne looked over her reading glasses and leveled me with her chilling stare. “I suppose that’s acceptable. Ms. Wheelan knows our requirements and already has ourNDAon file. We need to have them here in time for Ali to train them. If we don’t have space in the cottages, we can ask Mr. Wagner to provide rooms at The Snowdrift.”
Nodding, I jotted a reminder in my notebook to contact Bea and Delilah at the inn. Ali had warned me that Mrs. Hawthorne looked approvingly at always having something to write on in these meetings.
“This is particularly important,” she stressed. “An announcement is coming soon from my husband about my son’s future role in the company. These next few eventsmustbe perfect.”
I swallowed, a nervous bubble lodging itself in my throat. “Understood, Mrs. Hawthorne. I will do my best.”
“Not just your best,” she insisted. “Perfection. There mustn’t be any distractions.”
It seemed I hadn’t yet broken through Mrs. Hawthorne’s tough exterior. Or else if I had, it only concealed a much tougher center.
“Of course,” I answered.
“And Ms. Evans,” she added. “The hollandaise was slightly split this morning. Let’s try harder next time, yes?”
My stomach dropped. I must’ve been pale enough to see through as all the blood drained from my face.
“I’m so sorry. Yes, of course.”
“That’ll be all,” she said, dismissing me.
