Juniper Hill (The Edens)

The microwave in the break room dinged. With my fork between my lips, I carried the steaming container to the round table in the corner. Lunch wasn’t fancy—none of my meals were fancy these days—but my mouth watered as I stirred the yellow noodles before blowing on a bite. I had the fork raised to my lips when a large body filled the doorframe.

“What is that?” Knox asked.

I set my utensil down and glanced at myself. “What?”

“What are you eating?”

“Macaroni and cheese.” Duh. I bit back the smart-ass remark and didn’t point out that most chefs were familiar with the concept of mac ’n’ cheese. I was treading lightly where Knox was concerned. Well . . . where everyone was concerned but especially him.

It had been nearly a week since our coffee collision, and I’d only seen him in passing. Until I had a replacement rental lined up, I was giving Knox a very wide berth.

Apartment hunting had been unsuccessful at best. Every Thursday when the local newspaper came out, I scoured the classifieds for a listing, but nothing new was available. I’d called the real estate office in town, hoping they might have a lead, but the woman I’d spoken to had no information and she’d warned me that rentals in my price range grew even scarcer through winter.

Eviction was not an option. Avoiding Knox would be the key to staying in his loft until spring.

I’d spent the past weekend resting and playing with Drake. We’d braved the grocery store for some essentials and then I’d taken him to a local park for a walk beneath the colorful fall trees. I’d walked into my Monday morning shift with more energy than I’d had in weeks. But today was Thursday and Drake had been up last night for three hours.

Knox needed to leave me alone so I could scarf these simple carbohydrates in the hopes they’d give me a boost to finish the day.

He had a pen and notepad in one hand. Sometime in the last week, he’d trimmed his beard, shaping it to the chiseled contours of his jaw. The sleeves of his chef’s coat were pushed up his forearms like he always seemed to do, and even though it was a fairly shapeless garment, it molded to his biceps and broad shoulders.

My heart did its little Knox-induced trill. No matter how many times I saw him, he stole my breath away. Even when he was glowering at my food.

“What kind of macaroni and cheese?” he asked.

Was that a trick question? “Um . . . the regular kind you buy at the grocery store?”

Eloise appeared behind Knox’s shoulder, pushing past him into the room. “Hey. What’s going on?”

Knox tossed a hand in my direction. “I came in to inventory the coffee supply. She’s eating macaroni and cheese.”

Eloise’s gaze, the same striking color as her brother’s, darted to my lunch. She cringed. “Oh. Is, um . . . is that the blue box kind?”

“Yes.”

She scrunched up her nose, then turned and disappeared down the hallway.

“What’s wrong with the blue box kind?” It was the cheapest. And I was using my dollars wisely.

One day, I’d move out of Knox’s loft. One day, I’d like to have my own home. One day, I’d like to have a garden and a fenced yard where Drake could have a puppy.

One day.

If I was going to make it to that one day, it would require sacrifices like blue box mac ’n’ cheese and ramen noodles.

Knox walked over, straight into my space, and I tilted up my chin to keep his face in view. He frowned and swiped up my plastic container, walking it to the garbage can in the corner. One tap on the side and my noodles went plopping to the bottom of the black liner.

“Hey.” I shot out of my chair. “That was my lunch.”

And I couldn’t afford to walk down Main to a restaurant for a replacement. Damn him. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my mouth shut.

Don’t call him an asshole. Don’t call him an asshole.

“We have a rule in this building,” he said, going to the break room’s cupboard where we kept the coffee. He opened the door, surveyed the contents, then scribbled something on his notepad. “No blue box mac ’n’ cheese.”

“Well, I didn’t know that rule. Next time, tell me the rules and I’ll be sure to follow them. But don’t throw my lunch away. I’m hungry.” On cue, my stomach growled.

“Come on,” he ordered and strode from the room.

I sighed, my shoulders slumping, and trudged behind him with my fork still in hand.

Knox didn’t so much as spare me a glance as he led the way to Knuckles.

It was still early, only eleven fifteen, but already half of the tables were full. Two waitresses moved around the room, delivering menus and glasses of water.

Knox strode past the Please Seat Yourself sign, following the main aisle through the room.

I hadn’t been in here with the lights on. When Eloise had brought me through on my first day of work for the tour, it had been dark and quiet. Even now with the pendants glowing and light streaming through the exterior wall’s windows, the room held a dim edge.

The style fit Knox. Modern and moody and masculine. Exposed brick. Deep wall color. Rich wood tones. Cognac leather booths. It was exactly the style my father loved for his hotel restaurants.

All that was missing from a Ward Hotel eatery was the dress code. Dad required men wear a jacket and tie. He also required his housekeepers and desk clerks wear uniforms. I was happy that Knuckles and The Eloise were so laid-back, that my jeans and tees and tennis shoes were standard housekeeping attire.

People waved when they spotted Knox. He nodded and waved back but didn’t slow his pace. He breezed past them, and in his wake, faces turned my way.

I ducked my chin and kept my eyes on the floor, not wanting to be noticed.

Old Memphis—the naive, spoiled girl—would have strutted through a room like this. She would have reveled in the attention. She would have accentuated every step with the click of a stiletto heel that cost thousands of dollars. She would have had diamonds in her ears and gold on her wrists. She would have sat at the best seat in the restaurant, ordered the most expensive meal and picked at her food, letting most of it be thrown in the trash.

How many housekeepers had I walked past in my lifetime? I’d never acknowledged a single one. Or the maids who’d worked on my parents’ estate. If a housekeeper had walked by, Old Memphis would have turned up her nose.

Old Memphis was dead. I’d killed that version of myself. I’d stabbed her to death with the shards of a broken heart.

Good riddance. Old Memphis, though not all bad, had been a brat. Soft and silly. She wouldn’t have survived the past year. She would have caved and given into her family’s demands. She wouldn’t have been the mother that Drake needed.

My son would not be spoiled. I would teach him how to work hard. How to fight for a life on his own terms. When he walked past a housekeeper in a hotel, he’d pause to say thank you.

Maybe I’d lost my shine, but I was a better person without it.

Knox pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen, holding it for me to follow him inside.

The scent of bacon and onions and buttered bread filled my nose, making my hunger claw. The stainless steel table in the center of the room was crowded with mixing bowls. The smaller ones had sauces, the larger salads. Five cutting boards were placed in between. One had an array of sliced vegetables, lettuce and pickles and tomatoes, all ready for sandwich and burger toppings. Another had a beef brisket, sliced thin.

“Did you bring me here to torture me?” I asked.

Knox chuckled, not quite a laugh but more a rumble from deep in his chest. He went to the side of the table where Eloise and I had sat on my first day, taking out a stool. “Have a seat.”

“Hey, Memphis.” Skip glanced over his shoulder from where he stood at the flat top, caramelizing some onions.

“Hi.” I waved and sat down.

“Want some lunch?” he asked.

“I’ve got it.” Knox held up a hand and walked to a shelf teeming with pots and pans. He took down a pot and filled it with water. Then he set it over a flame with a dash of salt before disappearing to the walk-in, returning with four different blocks of cheese. He chopped and grated until the water boiled, then he dumped in a box of dried pasta.

Knox moved through the kitchen with command and grace. It was like watching a dance.

A movement at my side stole my attention. Skip slid a plate and napkin in front of me, then winked. Busted. I hadn’t so much been staring at Knox as caught under a spell.

I blushed. “Thanks.”

“Want a new fork?” He nodded to the one still in my fist.

“This one is fine.” I set it on the plate.

Skip returned to his tasks, tearing off a ticket that rolled from a small black printer against the wall. He read it, then attached it to a clip that hung beside a warming rack. The bulbs glowed orange against the silver metal shelf.

My gaze drifted to Knox as he plated salads on three white plates. His hands plucked exactly the right amount of lettuce from a mixing bowl. His forearms flexed as he sprinkled the greens with shredded carrots and croutons from a roasting pan. Then he added sliced cherry tomatoes and drizzled on a purple vinaigrette.

Those blue eyes stayed focused, never once drifting my way. If he felt me staring, he didn’t glance up.

And once more, I became entranced with his every move. His steps. His hands. His face. His hair was long enough to curl at the nape of his neck. My mother would have called it shaggy, though I’d argue it was sexy. I’d seen what was beneath that coat my first night in the loft. I knew what those curls looked like dripping wet.

A low pulse bloomed in my core. There was always a rush where Knox was concerned but this was a curl, like thread wrapping around a spool, winding tighter and tighter with every turn.

Knox was more tempting than any meal.

More dangerous than the knife in his grasp.

The swinging door flew open and a pretty woman with brown hair hurried inside. A black apron was tied around her waist. Her white long-sleeved button-down was perfectly starched. “Hey, Knox. We’re out of chardonnay in the wine cooler. Do we have more stashed away?”

“There’s more in the cellar,” he answered, returning to the cutting board, this time with a red chili pepper. What would have taken me minutes to chop, he diced in seconds, the pieces precise and delicate. “I forgot to grab it this morning. Give the front desk a call. Eloise or someone else can bring some up for us.”

“I can go get it,” I offered.

The woman looked to me and smiled. “You’re Memphis, right? One of the housekeepers? I’m April.”

“Hi.” I waved. “Nice to meet you.”

“Here.” Knox dug a set of keys from his pocket. “The wine cellar is two doors down from the break room. Would you mind?”

“Not at all.” I took the keys and hurried from the kitchen.

I couldn’t, wouldn’t, let myself get distracted by a handsome man. Not again. My heart couldn’t handle another break.

Not that Knox was in any way interested. In truth, I wasn’t all that interesting. I’d given up worrying about my appeal the day Drake’s life had stirred in my belly.

Hurrying to the cellar, I unlocked the door and stepped inside, scanning the dimly lit shelves. The temperature was cooler in here and goose bumps broke across my bare arms.

I’d been hot all morning. Usually when I cleaned a room, it was right after the guest had showered, and it made the rooms muggy.

I scanned the wine labels, some I recognized. My fingers drifted along the sleek neck of a cabernet from a winery I’d visited in Napa years ago. It was a bottle I could no longer afford.

One day.

I moved to the shelves of white wine, loading up on a variety, then hauled them out of the cellar, locking up behind me. In the short time I’d been gone, the number of restaurant patrons seemed to have doubled. Without Knox snagging attention, fewer noticed me as I rushed back to the kitchen, depositing the wine bottles on the prep table.

“Thanks.” Knox nodded to my plate. “Lunch.”

A steaming bowl of macaroni and cheese sat beside the plate Skip had brought over. On it was the same salad Knox had made for an order.

I took my chair, knowing I would never eat it all, but picked up my fork and dove into the mac ’n’ cheese first. Rich, creamy flavors exploded on my tongue. A moan escaped my throat. The chili peppers gave the sauce a kick. The cheese was gooey and tangy and complex.

Knox stood on the opposite side of the table, and when I met his gaze, there was nothing but utter satisfaction on his face.

“This is really good.”

“I know.” He arched an eyebrow. “No more blue box.”

“I bought a ten-pack.”

“Ditch it. I always keep the ingredients on hand if you want some.”

“Thank you.” A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth as I dove for another bite. I wouldn’t bother him to cook for me. I’d just save my cheap pasta and powdered cheese for dinners alone at home.

By the time he came home most nights, he’d never know otherwise.

I’d paid too much attention to his schedule this week, mostly in hopes of staying out of his way. But also for a rare glimpse. The thrill that came with Knox was addicting. Only a foolish woman wouldn’t appreciate such a good-looking man, and I was trying very hard not to be a foolish woman.

Knox went back to cooking as I ate with abandon. He tore off an order slip from the printer, and it joined the lineup of others. While Skip manned the flat top, Knox arranged plates, then dropped a basket of shoe-string-cut potatoes in a fryer.

“Why Quincy?” His question was spoken as he sliced a ciabatta roll. He was so intent on the bread that it took me a moment to realize his question was for me.

“I wanted a small town. A safe place to raise Drake. I was thinking California. An influencer I follow on Instagram was raving about these small towns up and down the coast. But they were too expensive.” As much as I would have loved to live beside the ocean, there was no way I’d be able to afford it.

“You’re from New York?”

“I am. I was tired of the city.”

He pulled the fries, then smeared the ciabatta with an aioli, balancing what seemed like ten orders at once.

When I was in the kitchen, I had to concentrate only on the food, cooking one thing at a time. He’d probably grimace if he knew that preparing my blue-box macaroni had taken me just as long as it had taken him to make it from scratch.

“So how’d you land on Montana?” he asked.

“That same blogger did an interview with this baker in LA. She, the baker, said her favorite place to vacation was Quincy. That she and her husband spent a Christmas here and fell in love with the town. So I looked it up.”

The pictures of downtown had charmed me instantly. School ratings and the cost of living had sealed the deal.

Knox gave a dry laugh as he shook his head. “Cleo.”

“Cleo. Yes, that was the baker’s name. You know her?”

“She invaded my kitchen on her vacation here that Christmas. I’ve never seen anyone make so much food in a few hours. We’ve kept in touch. I actually just sent her some recipes a few weeks ago. Including that one.” He pointed toward my plate. “Small world.”

“That it is.”

Though I hoped, for my sake and Drake’s, there was a bit that remained big. That over the miles between Montana and New York, I’d be able to put some distance between the future and the past.

Montana had an appeal for many reasons. This intimate, friendly community was one. Another was the lack of Ward Hotels in the entire state.

My grandfather had started the first Ward Hotel in his twenties. Over his lifetime, he’d grown his enterprise into a chain of boutique hotels before passing the business to my father. Under Dad’s rule, the company had quadrupled in the past thirty years. Nearly every major metropolitan area in the country had a Ward Hotel, and he’d recently begun expanding into Europe.

But there were none in Montana. Not a single one.

“I read Cleo’s interview, then saw the application for a housekeeping position and applied,” I said.

“And now you’re here.” Knox stopped plating and braced his hands on the table, locking his gaze with mine. Questions swam in his eyes.

Questions I wasn’t going to answer.

“Now I’m here and had better get back to work.” I stood from the table. “Thank you for lunch. It was delicious.”

“See ya, Memphis,” Skip called over his shoulder.

“Bye.” I headed for the door, glancing back one last time.

Knox’s gaze was waiting. His expression was almost unreadable. Almost. Suspicion was written across his handsome features. And restraint. Probably because he wanted my story.

But that confession was mine and mine alone.

I was halfway through the restaurant when my phone rang in my pocket. I dug it out, checking to make sure it wasn’t the daycare. It wasn’t. So I hit decline and stowed it away.

Sixty-three.

At this rate, it would be one hundred before the end of September.

Maybe by then, the calls would stop.