My stomach clenched. Tomorrow morning at eight, I’d be standing in the lobby, waiting for the ski pro todrag me up a mountain and use me as his beginner guinea pig. I wasn’t coordinated on flat ground, let alone on two slippery planks attached to my feet. Sure, this was the Appalachian Mountains, not the Alps, but I could still break something. My pride, if not my body.
I shook my head and forced myself to focus on the computer screen in front of me. There was work to do, and dwelling on tomorrow’s humiliation wouldn’t help.
The hours passed in a blur of check-ins, guest questions, and phone calls. By the time a new shift arrived at ten o’clock, my feet ached in my heels, and my stomach was growling loud enough that I was worried the guests could hear it.
Dennis logged out of his terminal and stretched. “Time for dinner. You coming?”
I blinked. This seemed awfully late to eat. “I was just going to head to my room.” Which I hadn’t actually seen yet, but surely I could find it.
Pam laughed. “Your room will still be there in an hour. The staff usually eats together when the shift ends. Come on, you can meet everyone.”
I hesitated, but Pam was already heading toward the back of the lobby, and Dennis was gesturing for me to go first, so I smoothed down my skirt and followed Pam.
The restaurant was elegant, all dark wood and soft lighting, with a polished bar running along one side. Only a handful of guests were dining—the season hadn’t fully started yet—and their low conversationmixed with the clink of silverware and glasses. We headed to the back, where several tables had been pushed together for the staff.
I slid into a chair next to Pam, across from Dennis and a younger guy who introduced himself as part of the concierge team.
“Is there a menu?” I asked, glancing around.
“Nope.” Dennis poured wine into glasses as he spoke. “Whatever the kitchen makes for staff, that’s what we eat. It’s not the five-star stuff the guests get, but it’s still pretty damn good.”
The conversation drifted to upcoming holiday events and which guests were the most demanding. I smiled and nodded, sipping my wine. A short time later, a pair of waiters emerged from the kitchen carrying multiple plates, setting them down in front of us with practiced efficiency.
The plate in front of me held seared chicken with a golden, crispy skin, roasted vegetables that still had a bit of bite to them, and a small mound of creamy polenta. I tried that first and had to suppress a moan. It turned out that I was hungrier than I realized, which was good because the chicken was perfectly seasoned, the vegetables caramelized, and the polenta was rich and buttery.
“This is amazing,” I said.
Pam grinned. “Asher’s talented, I’ll give him that. He was here last year too, and we were all sad when he left.”
My fork paused halfway to my mouth. Of courseAsher, the very rude man who’d driven me up here, had made this. I should have known.
I forced myself to keep eating, but exhaustion was creeping in. It had been a long day—packing, the uncomfortable drive, Mrs. Greer’s cold reception, hours on my feet at the desk.
When people started pushing back their chairs, I realized I still didn’t know where I was supposed to sleep tonight.
“Pam,” I said, catching her before she stood. “Can you point me toward the staff quarters? I don’t actually know where my room is.”
“Oh, you’re not in the regular staff quarters. You’re in the visiting staff quarters.” She waved her hand vaguely. “It’s a little tricky to get to. Most people call it the hideaway, as a matter of fact. Asher’s staying there—he can show you.”
My heart sank. “That’s okay. I can figure it out.”
“Don’t be silly. He won’t mind.” Pam was already standing. “He’s a nice guy. Come on, let’s see if he can take a break.”
I wanted to argue, but what was I supposed to say? That he spent three hours this morning making it clear he thinks I’m beneath him? Instead, I followed her back through the restaurant and into the kitchen.
The space was immaculate, all stainless steel and controlled chaos. There was only a small staff working tonight—as they’d said, most of the guests hadn’tarrived yet. Asher stood at the stovetop, his back to us, and for a moment I just stared.
He was in his element. His white chef’s coat was splattered with oil and sauce, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. His dark brown hair was slightly mussed, and he moved with a precision that was almost hypnotic—stirring a pan, checking something in the oven, barking an order to someone behind him, all without breaking rhythm. It was like watching someone conduct an orchestra.
“Asher!” Pam called over the noise.
He turned, and his deep brown eyes landed first on Pam, then on me. His expression shifted, something cold sliding into place. He spoke to the guy next to him and gestured toward the stove, clearly having him take over, then crossed the kitchen toward us, grabbing a towel to wipe his hands.
“Can you take a quick break?” Pam asked. “Zoe needs someone to show her to the intern quarters.”
I saw the refusal forming on his face, the slight tightening around his mouth, but after a long moment, he nodded once. “Fine.”
“Thanks!” Pam clapped him on the shoulder and headed back out, leaving me standing there like an idiot.
