Page 17 of The Proximity Effect

While I enjoyed another afternoon snowboarding lesson, Evan decorated my bathroom in a dolphin theme—the fact he had material to achieve this was something we’d explore later. Now was the true test: whether the upgrade he’d made to my room would distract Archer and Liam enough so that I could enact my part of the plan.

I pretended to be engrossed in my book while secretly watching the lobby over its edges like a spy. The crackling fireplace provided excellent ambiance for both reading and covert operations, though I hadn’t processed a single word on the page in the last twenty minutes.

My coffee had gone cold, but I didn’t dare get up for a fresh cup in case I missed Evan’s signal. We’d agreed onsomething “unmistakable,” though what that meant to someone who thought dolphin-themed bathrooms were a good idea was anybody’s guess.

A couple walked past, discussing their ski lesson, and I ducked further behind my book. The last thing I needed was for Archer or Liam to spot me and wonder why I was lurking in the lobby.

Movement caught my eye, and I looked up to see Evan doing... was that the Macarena? In the middle of the lobby? While wearing a tie as a headband?

That would be our signal then.

I waited until he moonwalked (badly) toward the management offices before making my move. Clutching my book to my chest and grabbing my abandoned coffee, I walked toward the kitchen with as much casual energy as I could muster, which probably looked about as natural as a penguin at a line-dancing competition.

Jenny was waiting by the kitchen’s side entrance as planned. She held the door open with a conspiratorial wink. “Coast is clear, Chef.”

My stomach did a little flip at being called ‘Chef.’ It had been so long since I’d been in a professional kitchen and not just a gourmet one in someone’s house.

The kitchen was exactly what you’d expect from a place whose idea of fine dining was microwaved pasta with ranch dressing (yes, that had been on last night’s menu, and no, I still wasn’t over it). But beneath the neglect and questionable organization, I could see what had once been a magnificent workspace.

I pulled the evening’s menu from my back pocket—courtesy of Jenny’s reconnaissance—and spread it on the stainless-steel prep table. The offerings would have been tragic for the three amigos to prepare, but good thing they had me.

The horror I’d felt when Evan had shared that Archer had emailed a revised menu for dinner service was unlike anything I’d experienced before. And that was saying a lot considering my ex-fiancé ended our engagement.

With access to the walk-in and dry storage, I could elevate the planned dishes from “dear God, why?” to “Sweet baby Jesus, come to mama” in the two hours before dinner service.

Phase two of Operation Bon Appétit was in full swing.

My fingers itched to get started. The familiar excitement of pre-service prep tingled through my body like I’d injected espresso. This was what I’d been missing—the rush of creating something extraordinary under pressure, the dance of timing and technique, the pure joy of making food people wanted to eat.

I tied on the clean apron Jenny had left for me on the counter and got to work. The jarred marinara sauce could be salvaged with fresh herbs and seasoning since there weren’t enough tomatoes to make it from scratch. The “chef’s special” (a truly haunting combination of canned tuna, boxed noodles, and cheese) would mysteriously disappear from the menu, replaced by a pan-seared trout with lemon butter sauce using the fresh fish I’d spotted in the walk-in.

Time melted away as I got started. I was in my element, and it had been a long time since I felt so… alive.

Well, until the kitchen door swung open, and I didn’t even need to look up to know it was Archer. I couldfeelthe man as he stalked into the kitchen.

Phase three of Operation Bon Appétit had arrived, and right on time for my test plates.

I kept working as Archer’s presence filled the kitchen like an approaching thunderstorm. The man had a way of making even a spacious commercial kitchen feel cramped.

“Ms. Callahan.” His voice was eerily calm. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

I carefully plated the pasta in a beautiful, spiraled mound. “Making dinner. Though I suppose technically, it’s a rescue mission for whatever that menu was supposed to be.”

“You can’t be in here.”

“Actually, I can.” I ladled my improved marinara over the pasta. “I have permission from Evan, who, as a one-third owner of this establishment, has the authority to make executive decisions about one-third of the meals served here.”

Archer’s silence was deafening.

I risked a glance at him. His jaw was ticking, the muscle jumping beneath his stubbled skin in a way that made him look like a very angry, very handsome statue carved by an artist who’d had a thing for brooding men in fitted button-downs. The kind of statue that belonged in a museum with a little plaque reading “Man About to Lose His Mind (Because Someone Dared to Help Him), circa right this second.” Not that I was focusing on how good he looked when he was annoyed. That would be ridiculous. And unprofessional. And completely accurate.

“Since Evan had no say in breakfast or lunch, dinner falls squarely within his jurisdiction. I did the math.” I hadn’t, but it sounded good as I arranged a chicken cutlet on the plate. “It’s basic fractions, really. Would you like me to draw you a pie chart?”

“I’m a lawyer,” he ground out, his tone carrying all the warmth of a January blizzard.

“Really?” I grated fresh parmesan over the dish in a delicate snow of sharp, nutty cheese, followed by a sprinkle of fragrant basil. The herbs released their sweet aroma as they settled onto the warm pasta, and I allowed myself a small, satisfied smile. “I never would have guessed from your sunny disposition and relaxed demeanor. Do you practice exclusively in rain-cloud law, or is that more of a hobby?”

His eyes narrowed dangerously, and I swore I saw the exact moment his professional training kicked in, probably calculating how many regulations I was violating by daring to improve his menu. “Do you have any idea of the liability issues?”

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