Chapter 3 The Wilderness
The kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon grease, but Izzy’s stomach still twisted in knots. The morning light barely touched the lodge’s windows, frost clinging to the glass like lace. Staff bustled around, loading crates of supplies onto snowmobiles outside.
Marlene stood at the head of it all, clipboard in hand, her sleek bob razor-sharp against the fur trim of her coat. She spotted Izzy and clicked across the floor, heels like gunshots on the wood.
“Clarke,” Marlene said, no warmth in her tone. “Do you understand what’s at stake this week?”
Izzy tightened the knot of her scarf. “Feed ten men, keep them happy. Got it.”
Marlene’s laugh was a low, cutting sound. “If only it were that simple. These aren’t frat boys on a camping trip. These are billionaires, CEOs, men who spend more in a weekend here than you probably made in a year back in your—what was it again? Restaurant?”
Izzy’s jaw tightened. “That was a low blow.”
“Not low. Realistic,” Marlene said, eyes glittering. “Richard Dane alone drops six figures here every season. And when men like Dane hunt, they expect trophies on the wall and meat on the table. You’ll be cooking whatever they bring in.”
Izzy’s brows shot up. “Whatever they—”
“And,” Marlene cut her off, “if they fail—which they often do—Shaw’s stocked backup venison in the outpost freezer. Use it sparingly. Make it stretch. They don’t like to feel like failures, so you make it look like it came from their rifles. Understand?”
Izzy folded her arms. “So, make miracles out of moose meat. Smile at Dick Dane’s gross jokes. Keep the billionaires happy. And if I screw it up, it’s my fault, not theirs.”
Marlene’s smile was sharp as broken glass. “Now you’re catching on.”
A laugh—low, humorless—came from behind. Beck leaned against the wall, arms folded, his beanie pulled low over his dark hair. “Told you she wouldn’t last.”
Izzy spun on him, heat flashing in her cheeks. “Good morning to you too, Shaw. Nice of you to contribute.”
Beck’s gaze swept over her boots, her fitted coat, the loose hair that had already escaped her bun. His lip curled. “You’re dressed for brunch, not the bush.”
Izzy’s pulse spiked. “And you’re dressed like a lumberjack convention.”
He smirked, lazy and cruel. “Difference is, I belong out there.”
Before Izzy could retort, Marlene clapped her hands. “Enough flirting.”
Izzy choked. “Flirting?”
Marlene arched a brow. “If that’s what you want to call it. Either way, save it for after you feed the men who keep this place alive. Now move.”
Heat climbed up Izzy’s throat. Beck didn’t even bother hiding his grin.
The yard outside the lodge buzzed with engines. Snowmobiles lined up in a row, their sleds stacked with crates of food, firewood, and bottled liquor for the week ahead. Guests laughed too loud, already swigging from silver flasks despite the early hour. Their voices carried sharp and clear in the cold air.
Izzy tugged her fitted coat tighter, heels crunching in the snow. Her breath plumed white, her thighs already numb. She approached one of the machines and eyed the throttle like it might bite.
“Where’s the ignition on this thing?” she muttered, gloved fingers fumbling at the controls.
“Jesus Christ.” Beck’s voice came from behind, low and incredulous. He strode over, boots crunching heavy in the snow. “You can’t even start it?”
“I was about to,” Izzy snapped, straightening.
He leaned down and flicked the switch. The machine roared to life instantly.
Izzy winced. “…Was just warming up.”
Beck’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “You try to drive that, we’ll be digging your body out of a snowbank by noon.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Not confidence. Facts.” He jerked his head toward the lodge. “Stay here.”
Before she could argue, he stalked off.
Two minutes later, Beck returned carrying a bulky snowmobile suit and a pair of heavy boots. He shoved them into her arms. “Put these on.”
Izzy blinked down at the gear. “Excuse me?”
“You’ll freeze in that city getup. Those boots?” His eyes dropped to her suede ankle heels, unimpressed. “Might as well wear ballet slippers.”
Izzy’s chin tipped up. “I happen to like these boots.”
“Yeah? Let’s see how much you like them when your toes fall off.” He shoved the suit closer. “Change. Now.”
Heat flared in her cheeks, from anger or embarrassment she couldn’t tell. “What, right here in the snow?”
Beck’s smirk was quick, dangerous. “Fine by me.”
Her pulse spiked. She yanked the gear from his hands and stomped inside the lodge’s mudroom, muttering curses under her breath.
When she emerged minutes later, stuffed into the padded suit, Beck’s brows rose slowly.
“Shut up,” Izzy warned before he could speak.
“Didn’t say a word,” Beck said, though his smirk betrayed him.
Marlene’s voice cut through the air. “Clarke, with Shaw. He’s hauling supplies—don’t need you wrecking a machine before we even leave.”
Izzy froze. “With him?”
Beck swung a leg over his snowmobile, settling onto the seat. He didn’t look at her, just jerked his chin toward the back. “On. And hold tight.”
Muttering, Izzy climbed on, the sled creaking under their combined weight. Her thighs brushed his hips as she settled behind him.
“Closer,” he ordered over the engine’s rumble.
“I’m fine.”
“Suit yourself.” The snowmobile lurched forward.
Izzy squeaked and instinctively grabbed his waist, pressing against the solid wall of his back. Heat seared through the layers of padded fabric. Beck’s shoulders stiffened, hands tightening on the handlebars.
“Not a word,” she muttered, face buried near his collar.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, princess,” he growled, though his voice was strained.
As the snowmobile roared across the white wilderness, Izzy clung tighter with every bump and turn. Each time, Beck’s jaw clenched harder, eyes fixed on the trail like it was life or death.
And if his grip on the throttle was a little too white-knuckled, neither of them said a thing.
By the time Beck’s snowmobile crunched to a halt, Izzy’s thighs were numb and her teeth ached from clenching against the cold. The clearing opened up before them: a cluster of log cabins half-buried in snow, smoke trickling weakly from a single chimney.
The men dismounted their machines with loud, braying laughter, already bragging about the size of the moose they’d bag “by tomorrow.” Their voices echoed through the pines like gunfire.
Beck killed the engine, unstrapped the supply crates, and barked orders without missing a beat. “You—haul that firewood inside. You—don’t just stand there, get the stove running. Dane, tell your men to keep the rifles cased till I walk you through the range rules.”
They listened. Not happily, not quietly—but they listened. Beck’s voice had that kind of weight.
Izzy slid off the snowmobile, nearly tripping in the deep powder. She yanked off her helmet, hair static-frizzed, cheeks stinging. She caught Beck’s sideways glance and bristled.
“Don’t say it,” she warned.
His smirk was faint but lethal. “Didn’t have to.”
She was still muttering under her breath when Marlene’s voice crackled over Beck’s two-way radio, clipped and sharp: “Clarke. Dinner by six. Ten men expect five-star dining. You’ve got a small kitchen and whatever Shaw stocked. Do not fail.”
The radio went silent. Izzy glared at it like she could burn Marlene through the static. “Five-star dining with half a stove and mystery meat. Fabulous.”
Beck hefted a crate of firewood onto one shoulder like it weighed nothing. “Better get moving, princess. Wouldn’t want Dane to think you can’t handle your…delicate hands.”
Izzy’s jaw snapped tight. “Go chop something, Shaw.”
He grinned, teeth flashing wolf-like, and headed off toward the largest cabin where the men were already crowding inside.
The outpost’s kitchen was barely larger than a closet, with one sputtering stove, an icebox, and a counter the size of a cutting board. Izzy surveyed the supplies Beck had hauled in: venison wrapped in brown paper, a handful of root vegetables, and a sack of flour. Barely enough to feed ten grown men, let alone impress them.
Jonah wasn’t here to help. Marlene wasn’t here to pressure. It was just her.
“Fine,” Izzy muttered, tying her apron tighter. “Let’s see what the delicate hands can do.”
By six, she had managed a miracle: venison stew rich with garlic and wine, roasted carrots and potatoes, biscuits that actually rose despite the weak stove. The men devoured it like wolves, mugs of whiskey clinking against the wood.
Dick made his move halfway through the meal. He raised his mug and smirked at Izzy across the firelit room. “A toast—to the prettiest thing I’ve eaten in years.”
The men roared with laughter.
Izzy’s smile was brittle as ice. “Careful. Too much whiskey and you’ll forget there’s actual food in front of you.”
The laughter turned on Dick, but his grin didn’t falter. “Spicy. I like that.” His gaze lingered too long, too low.
Later, when the dishes were scrubbed and the men stumbled toward their bunks, Izzy finally untied her apron and let her shoulders slump. The fire in the main cabin crackled low, heat prickling her skin after hours in the cold.
She found Beck outside stacking wood near the small staff cabins. Snowflakes clung to his dark hair, his breath steaming.
“Which one’s mine?” she asked, rubbing her frozen fingers together.
Beck pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the nearest door. The hinges creaked. Inside: one small room, two narrow beds side by side, one woodstove in the corner.
Izzy froze. “…No. No way.”
Beck tossed the key onto the table and started peeling off his gloves. “Other cabin’s locked. Marlene only left us one key. This is it.”
“There must be a mistake.”
“No mistake.” He tugged off his beanie, shook out his dark hair, and glanced at her with infuriating calm. “Unless you’d rather bunk with Dane.”
Izzy’s mouth opened, closed. Heat rushed into her cheeks. “You’re unbearable.”
“Get used to it,” Beck said, stripping off his coat to reveal the muscles and scars beneath his Henley. “It’s gonna be a long week.”