I don’t answer.
He whistles low. “Can I not tempt you to spend one day off with me?”
“Josie isn’t here. I have to take over.”
“You can’t get someone else?” I shoot him a look, causing him to throw his hands in the air in surrender. “All right, whatever. Just trying to have some fun, is all.”
“Silver Peakisfun. You just have to go and find it.”
“I’d rather just hang out with my buddy, if that’s okay.”
Jace starts snapping pictures while I’m plating a tray of honey cornbread muffins like it’s a damn Vogue shoot. I ignore him at first. Maybe if I don’t react, he’ll get bored and go bother someone else.
“Give me a little smolder,” he says, angling his phone like he’s Spielberg.
“I will give you a restraining order.”
“Oof. That’s hot. Do it again.”
I don’t even look up. I’ve known Jace long enough to know he feeds off attention like a raccoon digging through trash at 2 a.m. Best not to engage.
“You could at least pretend to smile,” he adds, snapping another photo while I brush melted butter over the tops of the muffins.
“I’m not here to do mall glamour shots,” I mutter.
“That’s what makes it authentic. The grumpy jawline. The aggressive biceps. The deep emotional trauma, I’m sure you're repressing.” He lifts his phone again. “Ooh, give me ‘sexy wounded soldier with a whisk.’”
I flip him off without looking. He snaps that too.
“Excellent,” he says. “This one’s going on the grid.”
A few minutes pass. I’m chopping herbs and trying to pretend I’m alone in the woods when the door swings open and Eli’s voice cuts through the kitchen like a chainsaw wrapped in sunshine.
“Knox Knightly, you are putting Silver Peakon the map.”
“Huh?” I ask without turning around.
“You’re trending.”
Now I turn. “Trending what?”
He marches over and shoves his phone in my face. “This.”
On the screen: a video.
Me, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed, chopping veg like I’m auditioning for a gritty cooking drama. There’s literal slow motion. There’s steam rising dramatically behind me. There’s sensual jazz music. And there, in the corner, is the logo: Jude Knightly Media.
Eli cackles. “Jude edited Jace’s photos and clipped it like a damn cologne commercial. And it’s gone viral. Not just in the town, but all over. In moments.”
I groan. “You’re kidding me.”
She scrolls. “You’re officially trending under #HotMountainChef. There’s already merch.”
Jace claps a hand on my back. “I made the hashtag. You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“No oneasksto go viral,” Eli says, still swiping. “It just happens. Like love. Or food poisoning. Jude’s DM’s are flooded.Someone offered ten grand for a one-on-one pasta-making session with you. Fully clothed… probably.”
