“Watch yourself.” Heat flashes in Quinn’s eyes. “Tricia has been the best damn thing that could have happened to this farm. Her instincts just might save us for another year.”
“Yeah, but at what cost?” I sigh. “Haven’t you heard that saying about there being too many quicks in a kitchen.”
“Of course.”
“Well, it’s not just a saying. It’s the damn truth.”
And the damn truth is that having another cook—or celebrity chef for that matter—in my kitchen is going to throw everything off.
“It’s going to screw up our groove,” I say.”
“It’s one weekend.” Quinn gives me a pointed look. “Three days. Two nights. You’ll survive.”
“Easy for you to say,” I grumble.
“I expect you to play nice and be welcoming.”
“Oh, I’ll be welcoming.” I narrow my eyes, already picturing how much flour will go flying as we mark our territory. “But I make no promises about keeping my hands clean.”
TWO
KATELYN
The valley looks like it’s been dipped in cinnamon sugar.
Gold trees wave against a sky so clean it almost hurts. The mountains hug this little patch of Alaska like they’re trying to keep the wind off it.
My rental SUV crunches over gravel, and suddenly the whole Carver Family Pumpkin Patch spills open. Banners waving, string lights hanging but asleep for now. A bright sea of pumpkins broken by wagon ruts and kids in puffy coats.
I park beside a battered pickup with CARVER stenciled on the tailgate and take a breath that tastes like cold apples. First impressions matter. So does first bite.
“Okay, Katelyn,” I tell my reflection in the rearview—red lipstick, messy bun, flour under one nail because of course—“let’s feed them before they decide what they think of you.”
I pop the hatch.
A wave of warm bakery air escapes—brown butter, cardamom, roasted pumpkin. Three bakery boxes sit neatly in apile. I balance two on my forearms, hook the third with my chin, and close the hatch with my hip.
I inelegantly waddle toward the Snack Shack—a cedar sided building with, a to-go window, a chalkboard menu written in tidy block letters, and a bell with a pull that says RING FOR PIE—when the side door swings open.
“Need a hand?” The man in the doorway has dark hair, a knit cap, and forearms that should be illegal. His apron says CARVER KITCHEN, and the smudge of flour at his jaw does nothing to make him less distracting.
“Always,” I say, transferring the top box into his hands. “Hi. I’m?—”
“Katelyn Baker,” he finishes, not even pretending he hasn’t already formed an opinion. “We’ve got a thing about last names being job titles around here?”
“It’s on-brand,” I say sweetly. He doesn’t smile.
“Chase,” he offers, backing into the kitchen to make room. “This is my kitchen.”
His kitchen is spotless.
Prep lists taped neatly. Pies cool in disciplined rows. A deep fryer hums low, waiting to crisp the next food.
“It looks good in here,” I say, setting my boxes on the stainless table. “I respect a clean kitchen. I also brought bribes.”
“Bribes?”
I pop a lid and the room fills with the scent of pumpkin custard and caramel.
