Page 1 of Hitched to the Mountain Man
CHAPTER ONE
SAVANNAH
The scent of burned garlic hits me the second I walk through the door of my childhood home. I drop my purse on the entry table and head straight for the kitchen, where my father stands over the stove, spatula in hand, frowning at a pan of what used to be chicken.
"Dad, what are you doing?" I pluck the spatula from his grip and nudge him aside with my hip. "You're massacring perfectly good protein."
"I was following the recipe." Sheriff Tom Parker gestures helplessly at his phone propped against the flour canister. "It said medium heat."
"Medium heat doesn't mean cremation temperature." I shut off the burner and scrape the charred mess into the trash. "When did you eat lunch?"
"I had a protein bar around two."
I check my watch. Seven thirty. My father, the man who lectures everyone else about proper self-care, went nearly six hours on a protein bar. Typical.
"Sit." I point to the kitchen table. "I'll make something edible."
He settles into his usual chair with a grateful sigh. "How was the interview?"
My hands still over the vegetable drawer. Right. The interview. The one I bombed spectacularly because telling a restaurant manager that his menu lacks imagination is apparently not the path to employment.
"It was fine." I pull out bell peppers and an onion, buying time before the inevitable interrogation. "They'll let me know."
"That's what they always say." His tone carries the gentle disappointment I've grown to dread. "Savannah, maybe it's time to consider other options."
"Other options?" I slice the pepper with more force than necessary. "Like what, Dad? Working at the diner slinging hash browns? Hostessing at the casino?"
"Practical jobs. Reliable income." He pulls off his badge and sets it on the table with a heavy thunk. "This culinary school dream has been going on for four years. You graduated six months ago, and you're still working at The Grind making lattes."
The coffeehouse job was supposed to be temporary. Just until I found the right opportunity to showcase my skills. But Whisper Vale, Nevada, doesn't exactly overflow with fine dining establishments looking for ambitious young chefs with big ideas and no professional kitchen experience.
"I'm not giving up." I crack eggs into a bowl, whisking with sharp, angry strokes. "I have a plan."
"Your plan is burning through your savings while you wait for something that might never happen." He leans back in his chair, arms crossed in that way that means a lecture is coming. "I'm saying this because I love you. Sometimes we have to adjust our dreams to fit reality."
"Like you adjusted yours?" The words are out before I can stop them.
His face hardens. We both know I'm talking about Mom. About how she left because being married to a small-town sheriff wasn't the exciting life she'd imagined. About how Dad threw himself into work instead of dealing with the pain.
"That's different." His voice goes cold. "I'm trying to protect you from disappointment."
"I'm twenty-two, not twelve." I pour the eggs into the heated pan. "I don't need protection. I need support."
"What you need is a reality check." He stands, restless energy taking over. "The restaurant business is brutal, Savannah. Ninety percent fail in the first year. You're talented, but talent doesn't pay bills."
The eggs sizzle in the silence between us. I plate them with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times, adding fresh herbs I grew on the windowsill because even in my father's basic kitchen, I can't help trying to elevate things.
"Here." I set the plate in front of him. "Eat."
He looks at the omelet, perfectly folded, herbs arranged artfully on top, and something in his expression softens. "It looks restaurant quality."
"Because it is restaurant quality." I pour myself a glass of water, too frustrated to eat. "That's my point. I can do this. I just need a chance."
"And I'm saying that chance might not come." He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. "Have you thought about culinary school loans? How you're going to pay them back on a barista's salary?"
Seventy-three thousand dollars in student debt. The number haunts my dreams. My degree in culinary arts, my certification in pastry, my summer studying abroad in France. All of it adding up to a crushing weight that grows heavier every month.
"I'm managing." Barely. But he doesn't need to know that I've been skipping meals to make rent, or that I'm one emergency away from financial catastrophe.
