I replaced the phone in the cradle. It was the busiest time of year, but the inn was only at 50 percent capacity. As much as she hated change, GJ was going to have to make some updates to Snowy Peaks if she wanted it to last another eighty years.
My Dorothy fromThe Wizard of Ozshoes clicked on the stairs as I rushed to the dining room. An older couple was waiting at the hostess stand. I led them to their table, my shoulders relaxing when there was no sign of the penthouse player.
“Good Morning, Chef.” I passed the cooking line to pick up the coffee carafe.
“Good Morning, Evie.” Chef, a man named Eugene, was frying hashbrowns on the flattop. He wasn’t an official chef, but every time I called him that, his chest puffed and he stood a little taller. Eugene was a self-taught cook, and along with the standard breakfast menu, he included whatever fun recipe he was working on.
“What’s on the secret menu today?” I winked.
He beamed. “Eggs Benny.”
“Really? Nothing weird today?”
“Weird?” He raised his eyebrows. “Only if you call quail eggs and carpaccio with creamed broccoli and spinach on a Yorkshire pudding weird.”
“I do.” I smiled.
He slid a plate across the line and handed me a fork and knife. “Tell me what you think.”
I sliced into the muffin and the yellow yolk spilled out, mixing with the green puree. I wasn’t too sure about the broccoli, but I always tried Eugene’s recipes. The combination melted in my mouth. “It’s delicious. I’ll be back to finish it.” I held up the coffee carafe, “There’s a two-top waiting to be caffeinated.”
“What should we call it?” He pointed to the plate.
I paused at the door to the dining room and bit my lip. “How about the Quorkie Swamp Monster?”
Eugene doubled over in laughter. “That’s your best one yet.”
The couple at Table Three ordered soft-boiled eggs and fruit. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t convince them that the Quorkie Swamp Monster was the gastronomic adventure that their vacation was missing.
My half-eatenQuorkie sat untouched for the next hour. The inn was only half full, but when they all showed up in the Fireside room at the same time, it was a lot for one server. Eugene and I worked well together and by the time ten o’clock rolled around, we’d slung eggs and bacon and at least two gallons of coffee to the entire dining room.
“Phew.” I leaned against the stainless-steel rail in the kitchen after pulling out the last rack of dishes from the dishwasher. My hair was frizzy from the steamy dish pit, but I’d managed to get through the breakfast shift without spilling any coffee on my Heidi getup.
“That was intense.” Eugene wiped his brow with a towel.
“Tell me about it. My feet are killing me in these stupid shoes.” I tried to do a funny tap-dancing shuffle on the tile floor but winced. “I’m trying to convince GJ to update the uniform.”
Eugene nodded. “There are a few things around here that could use a modern touch.” He pointed the flat spatula at the rectangular window in the kitchen door. “It looks like we’ve got one more.”
Breakfast was technically finished at ten o’clock, but we always stayed open a little longer for stragglers. GJ had a lot of house rules that she didn’t follow, and a strict breakfast cutoff time was one of them.
“Ugh,” I groaned. “I thought that we were going to get out of here before noon today.”
“Not at Christmastime.” Eugene shrugged. “Hey, sell him a Swamp Monster and I’ll polish the silverware for you.”
“Really?” I laughed. “Get your rag ready.”
I grabbed the carafe and strode into the dining room, ready to do my best used car salesman act for the Swamp Monster—until I saw who was standing at the hostess stand. Breakfast had been so busy I’d forgotten all about Nick. So much for getting away without seeing him.
“For one?” I pulled a menu from the hostess stand.
“Not unless your GJ has arranged a breakfast date with Clementine. She told me that her friend was the best skier in town and would teach me how to ski.”
“Get in line, Mr. Tinsel. Clementine is a mini celebrity here and I’m pretty sure her ski card is full for the season. I’ve been begging her to take me out since I got here.” I clutched the menu to my chest, suddenly feeling self-conscious about my bodice ripper–style outfit. I looked like I had just stepped off the cover of one of GJ’s historical romance novels.
Tugging the antique chair out from the table was harder than I’d anticipated with only one hand.
“Let me get that for you,” Nick said. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a red flannel shirt. He looked like he belonged in Chance Rapids; I looked like I belonged in the Swiss Alps, blowing one of those long horns.
