7
ICE MELTING
LILAH
My stomach growledloud enough to believe a predator was in the room. But nope, it was me, and time to make something for dinner. Then maybe I’d have a nice bubble bath and rest all night, cozy under a blanket with a good book in my suite.
At least I could be grateful for being temporarily housed in a suite here in the lodge instead of one of the staff cabins around the property. Doubtful that I could even find a cabin now in this weather.
I pulled my hair into a messy knot and headed for the employee bathroom before making myself something to eat. Only, light spilled from under the employee lounge door.
When I pushed it slowly in, my eyes first set on the vending machine sitting wide open like someone had raided it. Then I spotted Holden at one of the round break-room tables like a toddler at a buffet, a paper napkin tucked bib-style into his shirt. He hovered over a paper plate with a mound of food on it haphazardly as if the vending machine had exploded. He brightened when he saw me.
“Ah, Chef Frosty! Just in time,” he announced, gesturing to his tray. “Dinner is served.”
I ignored the nickname because I probably deserved it, and stepped farther in, surveying the carnage. “What do you have there?”
“Ritz crackers with peanut butter. A meat-and-cheese snack pack. Veggie sticks. Powdered donut holes. And a fruit roll.” He gestured across his plate with a goofy grin, like he’d attempted fine dining plating and failed spectacularly.
“This is not food.”
He scoffed. “This is survival. And technically all the food groups.”
“That is not a food group.” I pointed at the fruit roll.
“It’s fruit.”
“It’s sugar dehydrated into leather.”
He picked it up, stuck half of it in his mouth, and chewed dramatically, jaw working up and down.
“Well, someone banned me from the kitchen,” he complained through the chew. “May I remind you—this is my lodge, and yet here I am.”
I winced. Okay. Probably not my finest leadership decision to starve my boss for the weekend.
“I worked up an appetite,” he went on. “After cleaning up the lobby tree mess, I’ve been busy trying to find those towels Rita stated we needed in every room before opening day.”
“And did you find them?” I asked.
“No.” He shrugged. “I may have fucked up the tree, but if I can get the towels in every room, then maybe she won’t be too upset. But I searched everywhere. They weren’t in housekeeping.”
“They’re in the laundry downstairs.”
He blinked. “Downstairs?”
I stared at him. “You built this place. Don’t you know where anything is?”
He picked up a Ritz cracker and examined it deeply, as if he were philosophically offended.
“It’s a hundred-room luxury lodge. During the blueprint meetings, I wasn’t exactly paying attention to anything other than the lobby, the suites, and the ski lift.”
Right. Because why would a rich man care about the inner workings of the lodge he owns?
I rubbed my temple. “Fine. For Rita’s sake, when you’re done with your… cheap charcuterie situation, I’ll show you where the laundry room is.”
He popped a powdered-sugar donut hole into his mouth. “Cool. I’m done. Lead the way.”
White sugar billowed from his mouth like smoke. I bit back a laugh. Against my will, Holden could be entertaining.
