Page 61 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

I didn’t even have time to yell. That’s how bad it was.

Luckily, we didn’t have any major events booked this weekend. Which was both a blessing and a curse. Blessing because the team needed rest—burnout was practically dripping from their pores—and curse because no bookings meant no realincome, and I didn’t have the luxury of empty weeks.

Friday was the worst. The final boss of the week from hell. Everything that could go wrong, did. I burned my tongue on a too-hot espresso while reading three invoices that didn’t match up. The supplier forgot half of our dairy order. Then the delivery van blew a tire on its way back from picking up produce, and Peter had to detour through half the damn county.

Oh—and in the middle of all this chaos, I had to go generator hunting.

Heaven’s Door—Charlene’s mythical mountain event—was three weeks away. The venue, an ancient carved temple nestled inside a rock face like something out of a forgotten legend, had no electrical setup suitable for catering. Of course it didn’t. That would’ve been too easy.

So here I was, shoved in Peter’s passenger seat, sweat sticking my silk shirt to my back as we visited one sketchy rental company after another, trying to find a generator powerful enough to support an entire mobile kitchen and delicate enough not to fry the equipment we were hauling up there.

At least Charlene had approved the menu. Well… she approved it after I told her that Sebastian had curated it especially for her palate. Which wasn’t technically a lie. Just… strategic truth-bending.

She lit up like a damn chandelier after that.

One charming comment about langoustines and suddenly I had her approval and a massive headache.

The truck jostled over a pothole and I exhaled, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Three weeks. Three godsdamned weeks until I had to drag my team into the mountains and hope to the moon we could pull off a culinary miracle.

And of course, he was going to be there.

Because nothing said “peaceful work environment” likecoordinating a historically significant, pack-prestigious, ego-busting event… with the one alpha who could still make my heart stutter just by standing too close.

I stared out the window, jaw tight.

Moon Goddess help me. I was going to need better pills and something to calm down my stress.

The moment I stepped back into the kitchen, it felt like walking into the eye of a hurricane. The air was thick with steam, spices, and stress. My boots stuck slightly to the floor—someone hadn’t cleaned up a spill—and orders were being shouted across the stations like we were preparing for war.

I made a beeline for the back office where I found Mila, hunched over a clipboard, her face paler than usual and lips pressed into a stubborn line. Her sleek ponytail was still intact, but her posture told another story. I didn’t need to ask. I could see it in her eyes—she was running on fumes.

“You look like hell,” I said bluntly, crossing my arms.

She didn’t even deny it. “I’m fine, just—”

“Don’t.” I cut her off before she could spin one of her soldier-on speeches. “Seriously, Mila. Go home. Rest. I can handle it.”

Her mouth opened, eyes narrowing, already ready with a dozen reasons why she shouldn’t, but I raised a hand.

“That’s an order. From your boss and your best friend.”

She hesitated. Then finally sighed and set the clipboard down. “Fine. But only because you’re starting to look like death warmed over, too.”

I cracked a dry smile. “Thanks. Now get out before I sedate you.”

Once she was gone, I pulled my hair into a bun, changed into a black chef shirt, rolled up the sleeves, and jumped into the kitchen trenches. Prep, plating, inventory, double-checking allergen labels—every task I could get my hands on, I took. It wasn’t about proving anything. It was about getting through theday without losing a single client or my sanity.

And then, of course, he showed up.

Sebastian passed by my station with a towel slung over his shoulder, the top button of his chef jacket undone, blond hair pulled into a bun that looked like it belonged in a cologne ad. He didn’t even slow his stride as he said, low and maddeningly casual:

“Don’t strain yourself too much. I need you functional tonight.”

I blinked. “What?”

He shot me a sideways grin. “Our date?”

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