CHAPTER ONE
SIMON
I give the stainless steel surfaces a final wipe. They’ve already been cleaned by the other staff, but I like to do them again myself, then I know they’ve been done properly. I would never leave my kitchen for the night unless it’s spotless. Not that it’s actually my kitchen, I’m not the head chef, but still I like to make sure everything is as it should be. The actual head chef, Conal, won’t bother. I learned that when I arrived a couple of weeks ago. I should be setting up my own restaurant by now, but my supposed former business partner Ruben took all the money we’d saved and disappeared. I didn’t even have enough left for a plane ticket back to the UK. Not that I wanted to go back there, my tail between my legs, a failure, but there was nothing left for me here in the States anymore.
I’d heard about this job from Avery. We’d met when I first came to this country and we became fairly good friends. He’s a barman, and he said he always came here for the few weeks before Christmas and into the new year. He promised the tipswere good as people were always in a festive mood. He’d called me when he’d found out the sous chef had suddenly left and there was a job available for a few weeks. The money was good, and I could at least afford a ticket home while I figured out what I was going to do next with my life. And so the next day I found myself in Aspen, high in the Colorado mountains, at a hotel and resort complex. It’s a good thing the money is good as it didn’t take me long to figure out why the previous guy left. The head chef is a grade A arsehole. Kitchens are high-stress environments, notorious for bad language and heated tempers, and I’ve worked in plenty around the world, but Conal is by far the worst I’ve come across. He’s insolent and ignorant and I have no idea how he managed to get the job. I’ve spent half my time trying to keep the remaining staff from leaving, as I doubt the hotel would be able to recruit any more this close to the holiday season, and with the influx of guests a few days ago for a sporting event, we’re rushed off our feet.
I put the used cloths into the laundry, and I’m just doing my last check round when I hear the doors swing open behind me. I whirl round in surprise that Conal would be back tonight, as he usually leaves after the last meal has been plated, if he even stays that long. But it’s not him. I vaguely recognise the guy from the group that arrived a few days ago. One of the servers said they were polo players, which I thought was odd as we’re surrounded by snow—not that I know anything about polo, except I’m pretty sure you need grass—but I didn’t have time to question further, and didn’t care as long as they weren’t in the habit of complaining about the food, which so far they haven’t.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” I call out as he walks towards me, but he doesn’t stop. Although I’ve turned most of the lights off, there’s still enough to get a good look at him. He’s tall and lean, maybe six foot, a couple of inches taller than me. He’s wearingjeans that look like he was poured into them, and a puffy jacket. He has a mop of dark brown hair, and his skin is olive—that annoyingly attractive colour which doesn’t need to tan, unlike my very pale English skin which burns as soon as it sees the sun. He’s incredibly handsome and I try not to stare as he comes closer. I definitely don’t notice his large chocolate-brown eyes and dark lashes.
“Did you hear me? I said you shouldn’t be here,” I repeat, and only then wonder if maybe he doesn’t speak English.
He stops in front of me and gives me a disarming little smile. I ignore how my heart beats a little faster.
“I wondered if you had any . . . carrots?” he says with a flash of perfect white teeth. Well, my theory about him not speaking English is blown away, but he has an accent which I can’t quite place. South America somewhere.
“Carrots?” Whatever I was expecting him to say, it wasn’t that.
“My horse, she played well today. I was looking for a treat for her,” he asks, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to come into a hotel kitchen at eleven p.m. and ask for carrots. His accent, though... The rich tone sends shivers up my spine and makes my head fuzzy.
When I don’t respond straight away, he gives an apologetic shrug and a quirk of his mouth, and I find myself answering.
“Um, yes of course.”
I fetch a bag of carrots from one of the large refrigerators and pull out my Santoku knife.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I mutter to myself, as I stop with my knife poised. A thought occurs to me. “Do you want me to peel them?”
“That will not be necessary,” he answers, his warm eyes dancing with merriment. I’m glad he finds it amusing, but I still don’t know why I’m doing this. I start to chop the carrots into small, perfectly even orange discs.
“Stop!” he cries out and moves his hand in front of me. Only my quick reflexes stop me from chopping off his finger, or at least causing a flesh wound.
“What the fuck?” I turn to look at him, the adrenaline of the near miss making me snap.
“Not like this.” He picks up one of the discs.
“What’s wrong with them? They’re perfect,” I ask, confused. I’ve won competitions in catering college for my exemplary vegetable preparation.
“Like this she can choke. They need to be this way.” He turns his hand and mimes a chopping motion along the carrot.
“You want me to julienne carrots . . . for a horse?”
Again he gives me that little shrug and half smile, and I sigh. Of course I will. I scoop up the discs and box them up—I’ll use them in the soup tomorrow. I take three carrots and cut them into perfectly sized regular lengths instead.
“So, you’re a polo player?” I ask.
“I am.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a lot of snow outside. Surely you can’t play polo in the snow.”
“There are a few changes to playing on grass, but yes, you can. Aspen is famous for it. Or St Moritz in Europe.”
“Huh. So it’s just like hockey but with horses, then?” I look up at him and see his eyes darken.
“It’s nothing like hockey. That’s played on ice,” he replies sharply as if I’ve touched a nerve.
“Ice, snow, ice skates, horses. Seems pretty much the same to me.” I shrug.
