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“Come on, you slowpoke,” Madeleine called from the open window.

“I’m on time,” I countered, but she stuck her tongue out at me.

I sat next to her, and she gave me a big hug.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” I commented with a smile.

With an excited giggle, she pressed herself against me. “You have no idea how happy I am to get out finally.”

“I’m slowly getting an idea,” I said and took her in my arms. “Who else is coming?”

“Everyone!” Chloe called from the driver’s seat. “Everyone from the hotels in the area who can make it will be there. It’s the big get-together for the hotel staff here. There isn’t a housekeeper, cook, ski instructor, snowboard instructor, pool boy, or concierge who won’t be there today. I mean, unless they absolutely don’t have time. But normally, no one misses the party at Hayton’s. Besides the good music, food, and company, it’s the place to be to get the essential gossip of the season.”

I groaned loudly and one of the two ski instructors laughed. “I don’t want to go to a gossip party!”

“You have no idea,” Madeleine interrupted me. “You have to know which entertainment director behaved inappropriately and which chef is bleeding her employees dry.”

“That sounds dramatic,” I admitted meekly.

“It’s not that bad,” Chloe continued. “But it’s important for team spirit. After all, you want to know where you’re going next season. Or whether it’s best to move to another state.”

I let the stories about past celebrations wash over me and got myself in the mood for the party. I couldn’t quite imagine what it would be like. Hayton’s largest event room full of service staff. Was I imagining it as a prom or a wedding?

When we arrived at Hayton’s a short time later, we parked a short distance away in a small side street. There I realized that it was neither of the two types of events I had imagined.

The path to the party led through the hotel grounds to a lodge, as the signs said. Said “lodge” was a luxury barn from which the bass of the music boomed.

Madeleine and Chloe hurried ahead, arm in arm, throwing their free arms in the air. The two ski instructors, Mason and Luke, saw a colleague and walked toward her. Without hesitation, I ran after my driver and colleague.

In the entrance area, I was greeted by a wall of heat, sweat, other vapors, and sound waves. You practically ran into it and had to fight your way through the invisible barrier. Behind it was a small reception area.

The girl smiled openly at me and shouted over the noise: “ID, please!”

“Is there an admission fee?” I asked as I took my wallet out of my pants and showed her my ID.

She nodded and waved her hand at the same time. “No admission fee.” She held out a green ribbon to me. “This is your drink wristband. The cloakroom is right there.” She pointed to a small side entrance.

I stuck my admission ribbon around my left wrist, exchanged my jacket for a collection slip at the cloakroom, and entered the hall.

The entire left side of the lodge was lined with a bar, where alcohol was obviously not being skimped on. On the right was a buffet, which I would check out later. And the centerpiece was a huge dance floor where hundreds of people were cavorting. At least that’s how it looked.

I pushed my way past them to a group of bar tables at the other end.

From there, I got myself a Coke and watched the dancing crowd. I wasn’t alone for long. To my great surprise, the entire resort staff seemed to be present. Soon I found myself in conversation with Tammi, who praised my food as if it were something special.

Slowly, various people I had never seen before in my life joined us.

An energetic person who didn’t even reach my shoulders tapped me enthusiastically. “Hey. You work as a chef at Pineward’s Resort, right? Wasn’t Jacques Tedemens there recently? What was that like? I thought I’d fallen out of the sky when I heard that. I adore him! Please tell me everything. If I had known, I would’ve applied to Pineward’s this year. Lennard Flischman was at our place four weeks ago. Ugh. An unpleasant guy.”

I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, and when she was finished, I reacted too slowly. She laughed and held out her hand to me. “I’m Leyla. Sorry for ambushing this way!”

“No problem! I’m Ruben! And it was a great experience. Even though I don’t want to hear the words ‘Breton fleur de sel’ again anytime soon—or ever again.”

Leyla laughed heartily but quickly became serious. “And I don’t need to hear what an idiot I am ever again.” Sighing, she reached for her glass.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied. Working in the kitchen was hard. And unfortunately, some chefs were harsh in their tone, which affected the whole atmosphere in the kitchen. There was often only a fine line between tension, the pursuit of perfection, and madness—or one overcooked fish too many.

But Leyla waved it off with a good-natured wink. “It was one weekend.” She shook herself slightly. “Hopefully it stays that way and he never comes back.”