Page 14

THE OLD LILA IS BACK! I knew Montana would deliver. Wear the lucky heels. Text me after. If you go quiet on me, I’ll assume you’re getting busy in a barn.

I shut the phone off and drop it in my lap.

“Roommate?” Gideon asks, not taking his eyes off the snow-dusted road.

“Maya’s already planning our wedding.”

He tips his chin toward the windshield. “Sounds like a good friend.”

“Don’t encourage her.”

“Too late.” He glances over and takes his time checking me out. His brown eyes are warm in a way that doesn’t feel fake. “You look good, Spicy L. Too good for Timber Jack’s.”

This man is killing me. So damn irresistible with a bonus. I’ve never had anyone try to help me win anything.

I force myself to change my focus back to the contest. “I freshened up at the Grizzly. Had to. The Foodie Network scouts might be there, the judges, and that director buddy of yours. We have to sell the fairy tale we want them to swallow.”

“Then we’re the full package.” His voice drops. “Hold my hand when we walk in. Stay close. If Derick starts in on the show, you do your bit and I’ll do mine.”

“Your part is being a broody mountain man who hates cameras?”

“My job is to come off as a man who doesn’t like anyone else staring at what’s his.” He adds, gesturing between us. “You’re my fiancée. Even if it is for show.”

Heat slides low in my belly. Pretend. Right. I nod and turn to the window before I forget why I’m here.

Timber Jack’s sits at the edge of town like something growing out of the pines. We’re still rolling up when I lean forward in my seat.

“This place is right out of a movie.”

Gideon checks me as if he doesn’t understand why I’m so impressed.

“For someone who doesn’t hang out in mountain towns,” I say, pointing through the windshield, “that’s exactly how I pictured a bar in the boonies. Split logs, the wide porch, string lights already blinking. This place is the real deal.”

Through the windows I can see it’s packed. I’ll bet the entire town is here.

He pulls into a spot, kills the engine, and comes around to open my door before I can touch the handle. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

In Chicago, men look at me like a strategic acquisition. My talent and connections are weighed against how I’d elevate a restaurant, a bakery, or an image. Even before my career crashed, I learned to spot their appraisal. It never diminished me; I was simply aware.

But Gideon helps me out of the truck like I’m something fragile he found in a snowbank and refused to let freeze. He’s careful with me, and seems-other than our deal-completely uninterested in what I can do for him.

Between him, his mom, and his family who seem to run this town, I should feel suffocated. I don’t. For the first time since my career blew up, I feel seen. Not as a chef, not as a scandal, not as a stepping stone, just as someone who needed a minute to breathe.

I’m starting to like what I’ve been missing.

Gideon offers his hand and I take it. His palm is rough and warm, his fingers sliding through mine like they’ve done this a hundred times already, and just like that the fake engagement clicks into place.

Inside, the bar is all wood, beer, fried things, and cinnamon from the special they’re promoting on a chalkboard.

I gesture to Gideon and point. “I think I’m going to try the Pumpkin Spice Old Fashioned.”

“Don’t look now, but I think you’re warming up to mountain life,” he teases before we order our drinks and some food from a passing waitress. Then we check the place out while we’re waiting.

Timber Jack’s is decked out for Thanksgiving. Christmas, even. I spot one of those Charlie Brown Christmas trees in the far corner near a jukebox, that looks like it’s seen better days. I have a feeling they keep it up all year. A pie case near the kitchen window is empty except for two slices and a handwritten sign that says SOLD OUT. PIE PALOOZA PRACTICE.

After finding a table, we nibble on our burgers and sip our drinks in silence until Gideon sets his fork down and reaches for my hand.

“Scouts at the corner booth,” he murmurs so close to my ear, his lips almost touch me. He lingers, and the warmth of his breath against my neck sends a tremor through me like a soufflé quivering at the oven door. “Blue jackets. And Derick’s at the bar. Don’t look yet.”