Page 2 of Playing Games on the Mountain

My eyebrows knit together. “I have my reasons, okay?”

“And they are…?” he prompts.

“Does it really matter?”

“I don’t know,” he says with a shrug. “Are you running from something? As your potential employer, do I need to be concerned?”

“Absolutely not.” Quite the contrary, in fact. I’m running toward something. Someone. “This is where I need to be right now. And I have the skills to make Omnivore a success. I already have ideas for creative wild game dishes we can put on the menu.”

He chuckles. “I haven’t given you the job yet.”

My face splits into a cocky grin. “But we both know you’re going to.”

After meeting with Gavin, I walk back to my room at Frosty Crest Haven. The restaurant is attached, making it the perfect location for resort guests. There are a few other eateries at the resort, but nothing of the same caliber that Omnivore will be. And I’m going to be its head chef!

It’s my dream job, and it’s nothing short of serendipity that it happens to be in the same place I met her.

Nearly six years ago, I stayed at Frosty Crest Haven for a weekend. It was a buddy’s bachelor party, and it also happened to be my last hurrah in the States before moving to France. After a day of snowboarding, my friends and I noticed there was a party at the resort. Spying the open bar, we decided to gatecrash. We hurried to our rooms, changed clothes, and snuck into the party.

That’s where I met the brunette bombshell. The moment I saw her, I knew I was in trouble. With her cherry red lips, her electric blue eyes, and her long, curly hair tumbling onto bare shoulders, she was irresistible. Her little black dress hugged her magnificent curves perfectly and had a long zipper down the back that my fingers itched to unzip.

With false bravado, I fed her a line about how she was the most beautiful woman in the world. It was God’s honest truth, but she thought I was full of it. Miraculously, she still allowed me to lead her to the dance floor, and after a few hours, I somehow convinced her to follow me up to my room.

I was upfront with her, explaining that I was moving abroad and could only offer her one unforgettable night. With the circumstances what they were, we agreed that a clean break afterward would be best. For that reason, we only exchanged first names.

She’d blushed when she gave me her name, looking up at me shyly through thick eyelashes. Winnie.

When I woke with her in my arms the next morning, I was tempted to stay in Frosty Crest forever. Dreams of being a world-class chef, be damned! But I couldn’t do it. I’d won a prestigious culinary internship that others would kill for. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to study under the best French chef in the world.

I told myself that what I was feeling couldn’t be love. It wasn’t possible to fall so hard, so fast. Yes, I was feeling something, but I’d just had the best sex of my fucking life, and it was only natural that I’d feel some kind of way about it.

But Winnie, my sweet, sweet Winnie… I was wrong. I never got over you.

And now I’ve finally made my way back to Frosty Crest. I wasn’t worthy of her then, but now? I’m a well-known, respected, Michelin-rated chef. I’m older and wiser, and I know better than to let love pass me by again.

I just have to find her.

I have no idea if she’s still in town, but I have an appointment with a private detective this afternoon, and I’m not giving up until she’s back in my arms where she belongs.

This time, I won’t let her go.

Chapter 2

Wren

Standing over my bathroom vanity, I try in vain to tug a comb through my hair. Curly hair is the bane of my existence. I should just learn to embrace the curls as my sisters have instead of constantly fighting to tame them into submission. I almost never succeed.

With a sigh, I toss the comb onto the counter and divide my hair into sections for a simple braid. My fingers are on autopilot as I layer the sections one over the other. When the braid is finished, I twist it into a tidy bun, securing it with several hair clips.

My eyes flicker to the clock on the wall, and I groan when I see the time. I’m running way behind this morning. Navy will wake up any minute, and then I’ll have to turn my full attention to him. I love my little boy with all my heart, and I wouldn’t trade him for all the gold in Ft. Knox, but five-year-olds are needy. If I’m not fully dressed and ready to go before he’s awake, I’ll have to put my makeup on in the car—and that never works well for me. Last time, I accidentally jabbed myself in the eyeball with my mascara wand and had to walk around all day with an inflamed and bloodshot eye.

As the event coordinator at Frosty Crest Haven, I need to look poised, polished, and ready to conquer the world. Not like a victim of pink eye.

With superhuman speed, I dot foundation onto my skin, blending with my fingertips instead of a sponge to save time. A quick slide of eyeshadow and a swipe of mascara later, and I’m reaching for my signature shade of lipstick. Classic red. I take my time with it, carefully gliding it over my lips. There’s one thing I’ve learned over the years: red lipstick can’t be rushed. I blot with a tissue, toss it in the garbage, and then do a little victory dance.

“We did it,” I cheer, giving my reflection a high five in the mirror.

“Did what, Mommy?”

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