rollers. Fiona wheeled the handle in a circle until the window yawned wide enough for her to call through it. “Um, are you aware it’s not even six a.m.?”
Derek scarcely bothered to glance over his shoulder. “Well then, I’m late. This should have been done by five-thirty.”
He immediately turned back to his log splitting routine and cleaved through another one. It halved neatly and Fiona grudgingly noted that he’d barely put much effort into it at all. He was cute, dang it, even when he was being ornery.
It put Fiona’s back up. “Isn’t it a little early for all this racket?”
“If I don’t get this birch cut, there’ll be no smoked salmon for dinner.” And then he muttered, “New York princess,” under his breath but loudly enough that she heard him anyway, which had likely been his intent.
“Vermont lumberjack,” she returned cattily and rolled her window shut.
Since she was up, there was no excuse not to take a run, though surely there was far less to see on her route here than there was in the city. She’d have to make the best of it. But first, breakfast. That would put her in a more positive frame of mind.
Vermont was not going to break her.
Morning had long been Derek Price’s favorite time of day. He’d taken to getting up early in Paris, before the city fully woke for the day. He’d had a top floor apartment in the 10th arrondissement, tiny but serviceable, and the window opened up with a view over the rooftops.
The day hadn’t started yet, so the sun would just peek over the tops of the buildings, lighting on the spires of Sacre-Coeur, the white basilica on the hill. It was like a sign. That was when Derek knew he’d made the right choice to become a chef.
It hadn’t always been an easy road. But once he’d landed this dream job at Inn at Swan Lake, his life finally clicked onto the right track. He’d carved out a place here where he could build something meaningful. Put down roots in the Vermont soil where he belonged. He liked stability, traditions and people who said what they meant, in that order.
Which meant that interlopers in his kitchen were not necessarily welcome, particularly in the form of one Fiona Rangely, who had decided to become the thorn in his side, apparently.
She came into the room wearing an explosion of purple fitness wear, her long brown hair caught back in a shiny ponytail. With running shoes on her feet, no one could mistake the New York princess’s aim to go for a jog this morning. In the snow. Where there was ice.
Derek shook his head and laid down the knife he’d been using to pare pineapple for the fruit sauce he planned to drizzle over the wood-smoked salmon he’d mentioned to Fiona
“Can I help you?” he called out as he met her in front of the pantry she’d been about to open.
Fiona whirled, clearly startled, though why she’d expected the place to be empty when he had guests to feed remained a mystery to him.
“Oh, no thank you,” she said sweetly. “You were already helpful enough with the wakeup call.”
That was more Harris’s daughter’s speed—acerbic wit slathered in charm. He shouldn’t encourage it so much, but he just wanted to see what came out of her mouth next.
Which is why when she reached for the pantry door again, he closed it firmly. “My kitchen. So what can I get for you?”
Fiona sighed and then smiled in that way Derek didn’t trust for an instant.
“We got off to a rocky start,” she said. “But why don’t you just do your thing? I’m going to grab some food and go for a run.”
And then she actually tried to open the pantry door again. Man, the message was not getting through here and he had dinner prep to do, which took all day. Derek closed it with a click, which put him much closer to Fiona. She smelled…expensive. Nice. But definitely higher maintenance than he typically liked.
“Again. My kitchen.”
They stared at each other for a long beat, and it was a moment laden with more things than Derek could sort. Surprising things. Not just two strong-willed people facing off, but a spark.
Huh. Hadn’t seen that one coming. Sure, Fiona was attractive in a non-subjective way, same as a sunset was beautiful. But she had that attitude. Well, maybe he kind of liked that too.
“Fine,” she said and it was clearly not fine, but it broke the odd tension. She handed him a folded piece of paper. “Have it your way. Gluten-free, no soy, no dairy diet.”
He scarcely glanced at the list because…come on. “Food allergies.”
It wasn’t a question. Only someone who had no choice would deliberately go gluten-free, soy-free and dairy-free. Might as well add cardboard and sawdust to the list.
“No, my nutritionist has this amazing—”
Decisively, Derek ripped the list in half and threw it on the counter. If he never heard about it again, it would be too soon.
“What are you doing?” Fiona squeaked and picked up the pieces, trying to fit them back together. He should have thrown it in the fireplace.
“Don’t worry,” he advised her. “I’ve got breakfast covered. You’re going to love it.”
Because it had food in it. The kind that took hours to make, which meant it was worth it. He poured her a cup of coffee from the French press on the counter and handed it to her as he fetched a plate from the cupboard.
“Maybe I don’t drink coffee,” Fiona said primly as she accepted the cup with hungry eyes that had already devoured the first sip.
“You? Please.” She had caffeine addict written all over her. She’d need it to speed through her day as she missed all the greatness of Vermont around her because she was too much in a hurry to appreciate the small things.
Pulling a pan from the oven with a dishtowel, he put fresh cinnamon rolls on the counter and just caught her sipping the coffee from the corner of his eye, a note of bliss on her face that he could get used to seeing a whole lot more.
When people enjoyed something he’d made, that was the best. It was why he’d become a chef—to feed people good food that nourished them body and spirit.
She watched him pull a roll off the tray and as he put it on a plate, she waved at the pan. “Just so you know, I’m on a carb free diet.”
“Until now.” Wow, she really needed to loosen up. Like a lot. She treated food as a punishment of some sort, skipping all the good things about eating, particularly the enjoyment part.
Her gaze never shifted from the roll in his hand though, no matter how much she protested. Just to prove the point, he took extra time with the glaze, coating the roll twice with his brush.
“Literally watching paint dry here,” she said, revealing more than she’d probably intended, like how much she wanted this roll.
“Just give me
