Page 2 of Cold Snap

When Maya returns, I jump to my feet. "What did they say? They weren't insulted that I sent cookies to grown men?"

Maya laughs, shaking her head and sending her ponytail swishing around her shoulders. "Not in the slightest. According to Mrs. H. we can feed these guys endlessly – they loveeverything." She grins. "Oh, and Baz, the biggest guy, said to thank you and tell you that you're very talented."

Why does that make my heart flutter? I don't normally pay attention to men, but these guys seem intriguing. "So, what are they like?" I ask. Since I'm always in the kitchen keeping an eye on the stove, I almost never poke my nose out into the dining room.

"Well, there's Baz, the really big one. He's definitely got that gruff loner vibe going on. At a glance, he seems almost…I don't know, surly? But he's polite, for all that, and he really appreciates your food."

"That's good."

"Moore is hilarious. Kind of snarky, but in a good way. And Dylan…" She pauses awkwardly, looking down at the black-and-white tiled floor.

My eyes grow wide. "You like him!"

We hear familiar footsteps coming toward us. Our boss, Mrs. H., is a wonderful woman, but can be very strict about some things, including making itexceedinglyclear that we're not allowed to get too "familiar" with the guests.

As she enters the kitchen, I say to Maya, "Since you're in the dining room all the time, I'm going to ask you to spy for me. If you hear them mention something is too spicy, or they're hoping for a certain meal, please let me know."

Mrs. H. grins. "Ordinarily I wouldn't condone spying on our guests, but if it's in the interests of meal planning, I'll allow it."

"It sounds like they adore everything," Maya says. "But I'll keep my ears open."

They both go back to organizing the far end of the kitchen, as I turn back to the menu board and zone out for a moment. I like to mix things up. If there's a lot of spinach at lunch, I won't use it again in any dish for at least a day and a half. I keep things fresh, alternating cozy with spicy. Rich with bright.

Once I get the next few meals planned out, I begin prepping lunch.

Time flies, and before I know it I'm cleaning up after dinner, sipping my end of day victory chamomile tea.

Maya and Kelly help wash some of the pots and pans, then Kelly goes to clean the dining room while Maya tidies up the butler's pantry.

When Maya returns, I ask, "Is there anything else our guests might need tonight?"

"Apparently they drink whiskey in the evenings while they're reading. But they were drinking wine with dinner, so in a few minutes I'm going to go offer them both."

My right foot taps as I think. "They were drinking full-bodied reds with their meal. Whiskey on its own could be a bit heavy after that. Give me a minute."

"Okay. I'll be back."

I always love the kitchen when I'm completely alone. Of course, I appreciate everyone's help, but new recipes usually come to me when I have the place to myself.

I grab a few things from the kitchen, then take a tray to the butler's pantry, which is next to the bar area. With a little soda, a few herbs and simple syrup, I create a light whiskey cocktail.

After rolling an orange across the cutting board to get it nice and juicy, I reach out to grab one of the bar knives. As soon as I lift it, the handle slips out of my wet hand, twirling in the air as I shriek and jump back.

It nicks my inner left forearm, but thankfully it misses my feet as it plunges blade first into the floor. My breath is a shaky stutter as I lean back against the dark green wallpaper.

Then I gasp as a giant man rushes toward me. Holy crap – he must be six foot four. And he's built like one of those giant football players who specialize in knocking everybody else down.

His eyes lock with mine.Wow. He's wildly handsome. But not pretty like a movie star. He's more rugged, like a grizzled character actor. Someone with substance.

His gaze drops to the knife sticking out of the floor in front of me, then he comes closer to grab my hands, examining me. The nick on my arm is already bleeding, but not too badly.

"Where's your first aid kit?"

Something shifts low in my belly from the sound of his voice. It's dark. Gritty. As if he doesn't speak very often, but when he does, the entire world listens.

"In the kitchen."

He pulls the knife out and tosses it onto the counter, then wraps an arm around me, leading me around the corner to a couple of chairs just inside the door to the kitchen.

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