Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 93942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“They have flashlights. Emergency equipment. Everything they need.” I kept my voice calm, authoritative. “Let’s go somewhere more comfortable. Have you eaten?”
She shook her head.
“Come on.” I gestured toward the stairs that led down to the restaurant. “Let me get you two something.”
Dinner service wasn’t supposed to start for another hour, but my staff was already prepping in the kitchen. I stuck my head through the door.
“Everyone out. Take a break. Thirty minutes.”
There were a few surprised looks, but no one questioned me. They filed out, and I held the door open, watching them go. When I turned back, Zoe was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Not the irritation I’d seen when we first met. Not the heated longing from our recent encounters. Something else, perhaps? Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
I pulled out chairs for Mrs. Martin and Emma at a table up front. Emma was sniffling, her small hands clasped tight in her lap.
Zoe sat beside Mrs. Martin and reached out to hold her hand. Just that simple gesture was important. She was offering comfort, connection, and support. I saw Mrs. Martin’s shoulders relax slightly, saw her squeeze Zoe’s hand back.
“They’ll be okay,” Zoe said softly. “Try to breathe.”
But I noticed the way Zoe kept glancing toward the stairs, toward the door. The way her free hand was clenched in her lap. That distant look in her eyes like she was seeing the mountain in her mind.
I leaned in slightly, keeping my voice low so only she could hear. “Landon’s done this a lot. He’s trained for it. And Kai’s an amazing skier. They’ll find them. They’ll be okay. They’ll all come back.”
Her eyes met mine, and I saw the fear there. Fear for Henry and his father, yes. But also fear for our friends.
“You’re sure?” she whispered. For a moment, she sounded as young as Emma.
“I’m sure.”
She nodded, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. There was genuine concern in her eyes—not just for the family in front of her, but for the men out there on the mountain. This wasn’t the uptight, by-the-book intern I’d resented driving up here. This wasn’t even the gorgeous woman who’d been driving me crazy with desire these past few days.
This was someone with a good heart. Someone who knew how to be present for people who were hurting.
And all at once, it hit me how hard I’d been on her. Over a fucking review she didn’t even remember. A review from years ago when we were both just starting the path toward our careers.
I’d been a petty asshole. And for what?
Emma was pacing now, unable to sit still. Her mother watched her without truly seeing her.
“Hey,” I said to the little girl. “You want to help me in the kitchen?”
“Really?” She looked up at me, surprised. Maybe she thought men didn’t cook much. Or maybe she was just wondering why the fuck I was going to give a cooking lesson during an emergency. But having something to do was better than just waiting and wondering.
“Yeah. Come on.”
I led her through the swinging doors into my domain. The stainless steel gleamed under the lights, everything in its place, organized and ready. This was where I felt most at home. Most myself.
“Ever made scrambled eggs?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Then today’s your lucky day.” I grabbed a bowl and some eggs. “First rule of cooking—always crack your eggs on a flat surface, not the edge of the bowl. You get fewer shell pieces that way.”
I demonstrated, and she watched carefully. Then I handed her an egg. “You try.”
She cracked it—a little messily, but not bad for a first attempt.
“Good. Now we whisk.” I handed her a fork. “You want to break up the yolks completely. See how it’s all turning yellow?”
She nodded, concentrating hard on the task. Her hands were steadier now that she could focus on something she could actually control.
This was definitely not the kind of cooking lesson I usually gave, but it was serving the purpose of distracting her.
I got a pan heating on the stove, added a pat of butter. “Watch it melt. See how it foams? That’s when you know it’s ready.”
“Okay,” she said quietly.
“Now we pour in the eggs. And this is the important part—you don’t just let them sit there. You have to keep moving them around.” I handed her a spatula. “Gentle. You’re not beating them up. You’re coaxing them.”
She started pushing the eggs around the pan, and I guided her hand when she went too fast.
That’s when I felt eyes on me.
I looked up and saw Zoe and Mrs. Martin standing in the doorway. Zoe had her arm around Mrs. Martin’s shoulders, the older woman watching her daughter with fondness. And Zoe watching me.
Something shifted in my chest.
I was in my element here. This was what I was good at—creating, teaching, nurturing through food. But it felt different with Zoe watching. Like this was the first time she was actually seeing me.