Page 54 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

He obeyed, blue eyes curious. “Everything alright?”

“Depends.” I folded my arms, no-nonsense. “Mrs. Whitmore phoned this morning. She hired us—on one condition.”

Mia slid the final floor plan toward him.

I met his gaze, steady despite the thrum low in my belly. “She wants you as head chef, coordinating the entire culinary program atHeaven’s Door. If you accept, the gala’s yours to lead.”

A flicker—surprise, pride, something hotter—flashed across his face. He recovered fast, mouth curving. “When do we start planning?”

The way he saidweshould not have felt like a promise. But it did, humming beneath my skin, dangerous and warm.

Sebastian took the lead without hesitation, slipping into the role of head chef with practiced ease—confident, composed, just the right amount of arrogance to make it all look effortless.

We spent the next three hours locked in the office, sketching out every course from amuse-bouche to dessert.

The first was his idea—a crisp rye tartlet filled with whipped goat cheese, pickled pear, and a drizzle of pine honey. Local, earthy, refined. Second course was mine—saffron-infused consommé with mushroom dumplings and charred leeks. The third? A twist on a pack tradition: smoked venison carpaccio, black garlic aioli, wild berry gastrique.

Of course, the fourth would be his showstopper: sous vide salt cod poached in olive oil, paired with langoustine cigars and Hermitage jus.

And for dessert… the infamous dark chocolate cylinder with smoked hazelnut praline and salted milk ice cream.

Mia, organized chaos personified, juggled three notepads, a spreadsheet, and a marker board she dragged in from the hallway.

“We’ll need six induction burners minimum, two cold stations, a generator big enough to power it all,” she murmured. “Also—tents. Heavy-duty. We don’t know if there’ll be wind up there.”

“Gas heaters too,” I added, absently tapping the side of my glasses. “For the staff tents.”

“Agreed. And transport. Probably a mini-bus—we can’t get everyone up the mountain in personal cars. I’ll hire extra servers, too.”

“Six,” Sebastian said, crossing his arms. “Two per ten tables. The woman’s expecting high-ranking guests—she’ll want polished service.”

Mia nodded, already jotting it down.

Time blurred. We debated wine pairings, plating logistics, and how to organize prep stations inside the tents so they wouldn’t collapse under pressure—or storm. He made a few good points I hated to agree with. I made a few that he didn’t argue with, which was worse.

At the three-hour mark, the sun had shifted outside, and the shadows in my office stretched long.

Mia capped her pen with a sigh and rubbed her temple. “Okay. I think we’ve got the framework. I’ll handle vendors and rentals.”

“Good.” I looked at her, then at Sebastian. “Could you stay behind a minute?”

Mia’s brows lifted ever so slightly. “I’ll go call the rental company before they close.”

She left, shutting the door softly behind her.

The silence that followed was instant. Heavy. Buzzing.

Sebastian leaned a hip against the desk, arms folded,expression unreadable.

I stayed seated, glasses perched low on my nose, pen still in hand even though I wasn’t writing anymore.

“I assume this is where I get yelled at again,” he said, voice dry.

“Not this time,” I murmured.

He tilted his head, curious. “Then what’s on your mind, boss?”

I didn’t answer right away. Because the truth was… I wasn’t sure how to begin.

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