by Anya Summers
“I’m glad you made it early. Hopefully the drive wasn’t too hard on you. If you like, I can have the front desk get your belongings to your cabin. Then I can show you the restaurant and where you will be working,” Mason said as he emerged from behind his desk and walked toward her. He gestured with his hand outstretched to take the case from her and help her out. Miss Fox really was a small thing. While he was six one, he had to look down to meet her gaze. He hadn’t known what to expect—certainly not the vision before him.
Yet instead of handing it over, she shifted the case behind her back and held her other palm up, stalling his forward progression.
“Hold up, cowboy, no one touches my knives without losing body parts. I know I agreed to accept the position over the phone, but I need to see the kitchen first before we go any further,” Emily said, her sultry voice making him think of sex. Long, languorous, Tantric style sex before a roaring fire. Sex that left a body boneless and too sated to move. Her voice was sex, plain and simple. And it made his dick hard in his jeans. Mason tempered the unexpected and rather unwanted desire she stirred within him. Or tried to.
Instead he settled on annoyance with a simmering underbelly of lust, which only served to piss him off. It had been way too long since he’d availed himself of the subs at Cuffs & Spurs. And his knee-jerk reaction to his new chef proved that. If Miss Fox was going to prove to be a mistake, he’d rather know now. And if her bossy attitude didn’t end, he would toss her out on her ass. Contract or no.
“If you want to lug a heavy suitcase, be my guest, sweetheart. I think we need a demonstration, a sample of your skills, before we go any further. Don’t you?” Mason challenged, letting his annoyance creep into his voice. She’d accepted the position without the clause of needing to see the kitchen first. So she thought she could toss in an extra demand, put a wrench in his plans to bring the lodge back from the brink, test who was in charge? It wasn’t her. Miss Fox could try but she would fail. This was his place and he would fight like a rabid dog to save it, to protect it further from outside harm. He wouldn’t ever allow the lodge or himself to be overrun by a pretty face.
She smiled. The air was charged between them, electrified, as she stared him down, then said, “Cowboy, once you’ve had my cooking, you will be my slave and beg me to stay.”
An image of Emily, collared, naked, and on her knees begging him to take her, flashed through his mind. The unbidden thought unleashed a windfall of lust and it roared through his bloodstream. Mason tensed, beating back the unsolicited desire. Compartmentalizing the unwanted, erotic images, he narrowed his gaze. “Doubtful. I could take my pick from twenty line cooks today from one of the restaurants in town.”
She rolled her eyes in an exasperated fashion and asked, “Then why did you call me?”
“That’s what I’m beginning to wonder,” Mason retorted, not admitting that he wanted a chef at the top of their game. That he believed if they offered culinary delights not found at other resorts or restaurants, they would attract customers, and maintaining the current menu that was a crowd favorite was paramount.
She was their Hail Mary Pass, even though she didn’t know it. Nor would he tell her that. She already had an overabundance of confidence.
Cole intervened, severing the electric livewire connection as he stepped between them. Mason finally inhaled a deep breath while Cole gave him a brief glance with his brows raised high enough they nearly disappeared beneath his Stetson, and a what the hell? expression. Then Cole shifted fully toward Miss Fox, his face calm with the pleasant smile he typically used to win over a sub, and said, “Emily, why don’t I take you over to the restaurant and you can see if it’s to your liking? We updated the kitchen two years ago and have all the latest equipment. Not that I have any idea what all those gadgets do.”
It was the gamine grin, the spread of her pale pink lips exposing her straight, white teeth, and transforming her face into breathtaking. And it was directed at his brother. It shoved Mason toward caveman status. He wanted to snarl at Cole to back off, not to touch her, that she was his. Which was fucking asinine, and only fueled his internal engines to near record levels.
“That would be fabulous. Thank you. Is he always like this?” she asked Cole, indicating Mason with a jaunty tilt of her head. Her hair shifted, making it shimmer.
A half grin spread over Cole’s face and he replied, “No. Sometimes he’s worse.”
Emily’s full-bodied, sexy laugh sucker-punched Mason in the sternum. The sound skittered along his spine and pooled in his groin. The throaty, jazz singer sound made him wonder what she sounded like when she came. It made him yearn to discover whether she was a screamer or issued almost silent, throaty moans. There was a part of him that wanted to bend her over his desk and fuck her until his legs buckled.
“Good to know,” Emily responded with another shake of her head which made the waterfall of red tresses shift and move like flames. The color was so vibrant, Mason ached to feel the strands in his hands. Would they be as soft as he imagined, or would they singe his flesh?
“It is; better to be armed and prepared. If you’ll follow me,” Cole murmured, diffusing the situation and ignoring Mason.
“Honey, I’d follow you anywhere,” Emily flirted. With his brother. Jealousy gripped Mason, which was idiotic at best. He couldn’t want Emily. Wouldn’t allow himself to desire her. One, she was his employee and there were some roads that were better left untraveled. Two, he wasn’t sure he liked her. She was brash and mouthy, and most likely as vanilla as they came.
But that didn’t seem to matter to his dick, who liked the thought of playing boss and naughty secretary with her a little too much.
Except then Cole picked up the ball Emily had lobbed his way and responded, “Likewise, sweetheart. Mason, you coming?”
Almost.
And from a damn fantasy. He shook his head, attempting to distill the lust raging through his veins. He bit out, “I’ll be right behind you two.”
Mason watched Cole lead Emily from his office. His gaze, trained on her perfectly formed, heart-shaped ass, did nothing to detract from the fantasy. He adjusted himself and winced at the discomfort.
Breathing deeply, he called on his training, on the stalwart control that made him a Master, to corral his needs to a more manageable state. Using that control, he remembered the last time he’d allowed lust to guide his actions. It was akin to dousing himself with a bucket of ice water.
The absolute last thing Mason would do would be to allow his hormones to do his thinking for him. He’d done that once, and look where that had gotten them.
Chapter 2
Beefcake central, party of one.
Emily surveyed the Black Elkhorn Lodge and Resort as one might an alien planet. A testosterone-laden alien planet.
The scenery was gorgeous, both the outdoor and indoor variety. During her trip there, driving on highways through mountain ranges to reach Jackson Hole from Southern California, there had been moments of breathtaking beauty, along with mind-numbing terror at the sharp twists and turns. She was from Los Angeles and they had mountains aplenty. But the peaks in Wyoming made the ranges surrounding downtown Los Angeles seem like nothing more than baby mountains—foothills, really.
The beauty of Jackson Hole, Wyoming, the area surrounding the lodge, was postcard worthy. The sky was a pristine, vibrant blue with no hint of smog. The air even smelled different here. Clean, fresh, with a hint of wet earth, and pine. Thick forests of pine trees with deep emerald boughs blanketed the lower elevations of the surrounding mountains. Those were interspersed with rolling fields of tall grass and wildflowers. The first hints of autumn were upon the land, and the deciduous trees’ foliage was in its final glory, sporting bright gold, deep maroon, and vibrant orange leaves.
The Black Elkhorn Lodge and Resort was billed as a retreat away from the hustle of city life, an oasis where a body could relax and ease their worries. She knew this because she’d fully researched the resort online wh
en Mason Stewart first contacted her about the position five days ago. The land, the cabins, and the attractions were offered to appeal to the outdoorsy type—to someone who just wanted a quiet reprieve away from it all. She’d scoured reviews on various travel sites. Over and over again this place had been proclaimed as super friendly, a home away from home, the staff was excellent and just the nicest people one would ever meet.
And so far, the physical lodge was more beautiful than the pictures had captured. The structures on the property, from what she’d viewed when she parked by the main building, were woodsy; hickory colored log cabins with a rustic appeal. They blended in with the surrounding forests and fields as if they were a part of the land.
Emily surmised the guests’ reviews about this place being friendly was because they’d never been introduced to the co-owner, Mason Stewart. Her instant dislike for him was most likely due to fatigue from her drive across country. And the fact that she hadn’t eaten much more than fast food—chips, all things snack cakes—and had imbibed large enough quantities of coffee that her blood type had probably changed from O negative to classic roast. Emily’s philosophy, considering both the making of and consuming of food were her life, was that when she went on a road trip, her snack supplies looked as if she were a ten-year-old left unsupervised with a hundred bucks. So she was fueled on Ho Hos, Ding Dongs, salt and vinegar potato chips, and slim jims. The road trip fuel of champions.
Which meant her knee-jerk internal reaction to her new boss was likely due to the over-caffeinated sugar high currently inhabiting her body, and not because she actually found the jerk attractive.
But she did. Devastatingly so.
From his trimmed golden walnut hair peeping from beneath his dark brown Stetson to his piercing, light brown gaze that made her think of melted caramel, his tan face was a contrast of hard planes and angles that, when put together, made him appear carnal and sinful. And yes, it had been a long, long time since Emily had looked up from her mixing bowls and pots to notice anyone.
But Mason Stewart, with his broad shoulders and rangy build clad in denim and plaid was without a doubt the most inherently alpha male she’d ever come across. Emily had nothing against the metrosexual movement. But, well, many of the men she’d come into contact with or had dated were soft. Not in the sense that they didn’t work out, because hello, Los Angeles was the land of hard bodies and fitness gurus, the land where the kale movement began. But Mason was different. His confident aura saturated the space around him. He was raw and unapologetically male, as if he’d been hewn from the very mountains outside.
And then there was his brother and co-owner of the Black Elkhorn Lodge, Cole. Whereas Mason was clean-cut in his cowboy appearance, the brother… not so much. Cole was just as handsome, without a doubt. But he didn’t spike Emily’s blood like she’d been sitting in a broiler too long. She could see the resemblance between the brothers. The similar builds. Except, Cole’s hair was shades darker and fell in thick waves an inch or so past his shoulders. Instead of a clean-shaven face, he sported a shadow beard with a few days’ growth the same shade.
Mason’s gaze had rankled the fabric of her being and heated her insides up like a pressure cooker. Whereas Cole just made her feel comfortable, with his easy smile and languid gaze. Which was why she didn’t mind harmlessly flirting with the cowboy mountain man in his jeans and navy flannel shirt.
The lodge itself was stunning. Glossy wooden pine floors, exposed beam ceilings, and all manner of stuffed animal heads on display on the walls. Emily would never understand the need to stuff and mount the head of some poor animal killed for sport. She understood the food chain and the need to feed people. But the idea of killing something for fun had never appealed to her.
The main lodge held the front desk that made her think of the O.K. Corral with its Western design, a great room with huge flat screen television, and a stone fireplace, surrounded by a plethora of sumptuous sofas. There was a bar in the corner of the great room that again sported the Western theme. She’d read that they hosted parties for weddings here and had a cocktail hour in the evenings. Beyond the great room, she spied a door that led to the indoor pool. The lodge offices were located on the opposite side of the building from the Elkhorn Restaurant.
The place she’d been hired to run. The place that would save her from needing to crawl back to her family a failure.
Emily strolled beside Cole, his long-legged gait in seemingly no hurry, down a long hall that sported doors for employees. At the end was a doorway made of tempered glass and wood with the name of the restaurant etched at eye level into the pane. The logo was a lone elk with its proud head raised, its stately horns bracketing the restaurant’s name. Off in the right hand corner next to the door was a black hostess stand and small seating area with a wooden bench for waiting customers. Cole held the door open and ushered her inside the Elkhorn Restaurant.
“This is the restaurant, through here. There’s also an access door on the opposite side for guests coming in from the cabins,” he explained, flipping on lights. Mason had explained over the phone that the restaurant had closed unexpectedly with the previous chef’s departure three months ago. That the sous chef wasn’t full time and couldn’t handle the load.
Emily hadn’t known what to expect when she’d packed her car in Los Angeles and struck out for a new adventure after subletting her apartment. She’d undertaken the journey partly because she had to and, in some respects, also because she needed the infusion of change in her life. She needed to prove that her choice of career was worthy of respect from her parents and siblings. Her dad had undercut her news of being named head chef with another dour outlook for her future and career. He couldn’t even give her one moment, one victory that was hers.
She grimaced. The last thing she would do was allow him to spoil this for her. So what if her new boss was a bit of a jerk? She’d worked with far worse in the food industry. Not to mention, from the moment her little Mazda had crested the ridge overlooking the valley where the Black Elkhorn Lodge resided and driven the long, winding lane onto lodge property, she’d been impressed. Picturesque didn’t even cut it.
They’d have to put her feet over flames to get her to admit that, at least to Mason. Yet, as she viewed the dining room, with Cole silently watching her reaction nearby, she realized the place exceeded her hopes. The rich, golden hued cedar walls created a warmth in the restaurant. The tables were decorated with crisp ivory linen cloths spread over them. The wooden chairs in a darker ebony complemented the color scheme. But it was the large bank of windows with a clear unobstructed view of the craggy mountaintops that was the true beauty behind the restaurant. It said: Come, warm yourself by the stone fireplace. Enjoy a cocktail at the bar. Bask in the serenity of the scenic outdoors from the comfort and luxury of this fine dining establishment.
Excitement hummed in her being. This was a place where she could carve a name for herself. It made the two-day drive across four states fueled by coffee and snack cakes, away from everyone and everything she knew, potentially worthwhile.
“It’s lovely—the view, I mean,” she said to Cole, watching fluffy white clouds scuttle past mountain peaks. A massive bald eagle swooped and danced gracefully on air currents before it dove beneath the tree line of evergreens to some unseen prey.
Cole stood beside her, a grin on his face as he looked out the window with her. “Yeah. It never gets old. And this is why I could never live anywhere else. The kitchen, which will be your domain, is back through that door.”
He guided her through the tables toward their destination. Excitement, and possibly trace amounts of her sugar rush, riddled her form. What Emily spied in the Elkhorn Restaurant was possibilities. A good chef knew that not only did their edible creations need to be mouthwatering to make people clamor to come back for more, but the presentation itself was essential.
They passed through a wooden and glass door that swung on hinges and Emily barely contained her gasp.
&nb
sp; The kitchen was a wet dream for a chef. Industrial, top of the line grade ranges with multiple gas burners, an entire griddle station, ovens, broilers, a multitude of deep fryers. A stainless steel center island prep arena. From what she could see, there was every tool she could possibly desire at her disposal. Granted, she’d want to rearrange a few items, make the work stations flow better, from chopping to prep to cooking, but overall, she loved what she saw. She peeked inside the deep freeze and the dry storage, already taking note of what they were lacking in stock. Mason had promised to have the restaurant resupplied for her arrival so she could re-open the place on day one—and he hadn’t lied.
“Does it meet with your approval?”
Emily cursed under her breath and swiveled toward the speaker.
Mason.
He’d finally decided to join them. And she hated to admit that his attractiveness hadn’t diminished. In fact, heaven help her, it had increased. In her experience, any man who inspired the desire to strip and beg him to screw her brains out was dangerous, and a recipe for disaster. Then there was his aura, his confidence, his alpha, domineering energy suffusing the kitchen and putting her on edge.
“It’s manageable. Not what I’m used to, of course,” she replied blandly, wanting to thunk her head against the wall. Unexpected sexual need combined with a sugar high were poor bedfellows.
Emily had to control herself better around Mason, regardless that he seemed to irk her merely by breathing. Or that his direct, forthright glare caused need to simmer low in her belly.
Focus.
She inhaled a shaky breath. She needed the job, not to act like a horny teenager without a lick of sense. After the epic way she’d quit her previous job as sous chef at La Vida almost a month prior, her options on the west coast were limited to chain restaurants. She knew that because she had looked and had doors slammed in her face. It didn’t matter that her soufflés were out of this world or that she could whip up a batch of pumpernickel bread that made angels weep with pleasure. Until the furor of her departure had faded in people’s minds, Los Angeles and restaurants in any other major city were out of her reach.