all very elegant and tasteful, as sophisticated as the chef himself.
The restaurant was a spacious room, much longer than it was wide, with windows along the wall that faced the lake. The far end could be enclosed for private events, something Grace had done many times in the past four years. Tonight’s tour group had opted to sit in the main area of the dining room, and she saw that a table for twenty-six stretched along the windows across from the stone fireplace. Eight or so tables held the last of the lunch crowd and, as usual, the long room was immaculate.
Mirror Lake Lodge was known for its many stone fireplaces. Not every venue in the Lake Placid area could boast so many beautiful public rooms, which made her job booking events easier. All she had to do was show potential brides the Wildwood Room, a private dining room and wedding venue separated from the main restaurant with a view of the lake and, of course, its own massive fireplace. Then there was the Mirror Lakeview Ballroom, just a few steps up from the Wildwood Room through a set of French doors. Floor-to-ceiling windows highlighted a huge room designed in the Victorian summer-home style, with wooden walls painted white and dark wood floors. It boasted two rustic stone fireplaces, one on each end of the rectangular room. Since its construction ten years ago, the Mirror Lakeview Ballroom had been the setting for many weddings, reunions, fashion shows, civic functions and “celebrations of life.”
Julie Barrett’s wedding ceremony was to have taken place in front of the fireplace in the Wildwood Room, with her reception for eighty-five people up half a flight of stairs in the ballroom. She’d wanted room for dancing, and had been thrilled that the two large Christmas trees would be decorated and lit. She’d even requested Grace’s specialty, the hot-chocolate bar, to add to the cozy winter atmosphere. So, what had happened?
It was none of her business, she reminded herself as she weaved through the tables toward the kitchen. But still, what made love start and stop? She found it all a little sad.
A young waiter carrying two silver platters of homemade cookies burst out of the kitchen and headed her way.
“Teatime,” Brian announced, stopping to lower one of the gaily decorated platters in front of Grace. “Want one?”
“No thanks.” Tea and cookies were provided in the lobby each afternoon, much to Patsy’s delight. Their guests loved the tradition, of course, which added to the lodge’s popularity. “Is he in?”
“Of course.” The boy grinned. “He’s training two more interns.”
“Uh-oh.” She inhaled. “Those smell so good.”
“Hey, you know baking cookies is the highlight of Maria’s day,” he called, hurrying out of the room.
Maria had been the lodge’s pastry chef for thirty-one years. Her cookie recipes were highly guarded secrets, though Patsy swore she’d replicated the almond cookies once. Maria was a sweet, quiet woman in her fifties who rarely spoke, but she had a gift for baking, if not for conversation. She made a different kind of cookie for each day of the week and Mondays were oatmeal raisin.
“Grace! You are looking for me?” Dominic “Nico” Vitelli stepped out of the kitchen and smiled. “Finally!”
His smile lit up his eyes. That genuine smile of his had attracted viewers of all ages to his television show last year. The tall rangy body clad in a white chef’s jacket and jeans, along with dark curling hair and surprising blue eyes, looked good on camera. Grace, who had little interest in cooking, had watched the show several times, but only when she was channel surfing on a rare Saturday afternoon off. And during those times she had been mesmerized by the man’s sex appeal. He made cooking look seductive and sensual. She often wondered why his show had been cancelled, why he’d returned home after that failure—and it must have been devastating—instead of continuing his exciting Hollywood lifestyle. But here he was. Smiling at her.
“Finally?” She couldn’t imagine why he’d be looking forward to seeing her. She kept their meetings brief and to the point. All business, all the time. She didn’t want to be flirted with, had no desire to play games with the former television star. She longed to meet a quiet accountant who dreamed of living a quiet, ordinary life devoted to his wife and family.
Unfortunately, the accountants she met at the lodge were all married, snapped up by women who knew a good thing when they saw it. Unlike Grace, who fell for charming men with commitment issues.
“Of course.” He waved her closer. “Come into the kitchen. I want you to try the special tonight, ravioli with pesto cream. And I have a bottle of Chianti breathing on the counter.”
“I have something important—”
“Good. We’ll discuss it. Come,” he said, holding the door open for her.
She had no choice but to step into the kitchen, Nico following behind her. Grace scurried around the corner and into the gleaming kitchen. Nico’s World, someone had nicknamed it shortly after the chef had been hired to return the restaurant to its former glory. The kitchen was usually noisy and loud, filled with bustling servers, cooks and dishwashers, but this afternoon only a handful of prep cooks lined the stainless-steel work counters. In another hour the restaurant would be chaotic again. Right now the smell of freshly baked cookies competed with the aroma of garlic and bread just out of the oven.
Grace greeted the staff and trotted across the stone floor in her ruby-red heels. Suddenly her right foot slipped from underneath her. Her ankle twisted and she was falling backward into the arms of the handsome chef.
“Whoa,” he said from somewhere above her head. “What the hell—”
“Sorry,” she managed to say, until he attempted to set her back on her feet and her ankle buckled again.
“Hold on.” He gripped her waist so she was lifted off her feet. “Chair!”
Three white-coated interns rushed to find a chair and within seconds an intern set one down in front of Nico and Grace. Nico placed her carefully on its brown leather seat.
“Thank you,” Grace said, surprised at how much her ankle had started to hurt. “I don’t know what happened.”
“I do. I think you slipped on these.” He bent over to pick up a tiny cluster of metal jingle bells and held them in the air to show his staff. “Ideas, anyone?”
“The cookie platters, Chef,” one of the young women said. “They must have fallen off the cookie platters.”
“Ah.” He frowned at the bells and shoved them in his jacket pocket before turning back to Grace. He knelt down to peer at her foot. “Those are ridiculous shoes.”
“I’m glad the heel didn’t break. I love them.”
“I loved them, too,” he muttered, lifting her foot to his thigh. “Until a few minutes ago.”
“Just give me a minute to catch my breath and then I’ll limp out of here.” It was so embarrassing. One minute she’d been ready to discuss business and then she’d landed against a surprisingly wide chest and into a pair of extremely muscular arms.
Must be all that chopping and whipping and stirring, she decided. Cooking was not for wimps.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Chef?” An intern pushed an empty chair closer. Nico positioned it in front of Grace and sat
