Chapter 160: Operation Mountain Glory

NORA’S POV

The alarm on my phone went off at six in the morning.

A pale winter sunrise was just starting to peek through the bare oak trees outside Room 304. Frost coated the glass in thin ferns, and the radiator hissed softly in the corner of the room.

I zipped my small canvas overnight bag, setting it on the floor next to my desk. In my smaller leather tote, I packed only my essential tools... my favorite wooden-handled dough scoring blade, my digital kitchen thermometer, a linen proofing cloth, and my apron.

Everything else, from commercial convection ovens to heavy-duty mixers, was already waiting for us at Emerald Pines.

Priya sat up in her bed, wrapped like a burrito in her thick fleece blanket. She pushed a steaming ceramic travel mug into my hands.

"Fresh hazelnut roast," Priya mumbled, her eyes still half-shut with sleep. "Drink it before Bear shows up and tries to make you eat raw protein powder for breakfast."

"Thank you," I said with a laugh, taking a warm sip.

Right on cue, the deep rumble of an engine vibrated through the floorboards. Two sharp taps of a loud truck horn echoed from the driveway below.

I looked out the window. Bear’s massive silver four-door pickup was idling near the sidewalk, thick white exhaust curling into the freezing morning air.

"That’s my ride," I said, pulling on my coat and slinging the strap of my tote over my shoulder.

Priya kicked off her blanket and gave me a tight, fierce hug. "Go show those high-end Boston snobs what real baking tastes like. Call me the second you get to the resort."

"I will," I promised.

I headed down the stairwell and pushed through the glass lobby doors into the biting November chill.

Knox was already standing on the pavement beside the open truck door. He wore a dark wool jacket over a gray henley, dark jeans, and work boots. His breath puffed white in the air, his dark hair ruffled by the sharp morning breeze.

When his eyes found mine, the corners of his mouth lifted into a warm, easy smile that made the morning cold disappear.

"Morning, Bookworm," Knox murmured, stepping forward to take the bag from my hand.

"Morning, Captain," I replied.

He tossed my bag into the covered truck bed, turned back, and pulled me flush against his chest. His gloved hands settled on my waist as he dipped his head, pressing a warm, possessive kiss to my lips. His mouth tasted of peppermint and hot black coffee.

"Ready for a road trip?" he asked against my skin.

"More than ready," I said.

Knox helped me up into the back seat of the crew cab before climbing in right beside me and closing the door.

Up in the driver’s seat, Bear turned around, a massive grin plastered across his face. He had a giant paper cup of gas-station coffee in the cup holder and a box of glazed donuts sitting on the center console.

"Look at this team," Bear cheered, dropping the truck into gear. "Operation Mountain Glory is officially rolling. First stop, Oakhaven."

The truck rolled smoothly off the Briar campus and merged onto the quiet country road heading west.

Five minutes into the drive, my phone buzzed in my coat pocket with a news alert.

"What is it?" Knox asked, his gray eyes watching my face.

"A food article," I said, tapping the notification. "Priya and Jake just sent me the same link. The Boston Food Review posted their morning preview of the Emerald Pines Winter Showcase."

"Read it aloud," Bear called out from the front seat, checking his side mirror. "Let’s see what the city critics are saying."

I cleared my throat, reading from the glowing screen:

"Emerald Pines Winter Showcase: Chef Marcel Moreau Poised for Blowout Victory. With six finalists descending on the White Mountains this weekend, all eyes are on two-time Michelin-starred Chef Marcel Moreau of Boston’s famed L’Étoile. Moreau, known for his modern French pastry precision, remains the overwhelming favorite to take home the fifty-thousand-dollar grand prize."

"Keep going," Knox said quietly, his hand resting on my knee.

"There’s an interview quote from Moreau," I continued. "When asked about the competition, Chef Moreau stated: ’We respect tradition, but modern pastry is an elite science. Cute provincial bakeries and home-style hobbyists are charming for a Sunday afternoon, but they do not belong in a high-stakes professional kitchen.’"

Bear slammed one palm against the steering wheel, his jaw dropping in disbelief.

"Cute provincial hobbyists?" Bear shouted, his voice filling the truck cab. "Did this clown really call Sugar and Spice a hobby? I swear to God, when we get to that resort, I’m going to find this Moreau guy and feed him a whole bag of dry yeast."

A genuine laugh broke from my chest, cutting right through the sudden spike of nervousness in my belly.

Beside me, Knox took my hand, lacing his long fingers firmly between mine. His thumb swept slow, steady circles over the back of my knuckles.

"Listen to me, Bennett," Knox said. "Guys like Moreau talk loud to the press because they live off hype. They spend half their time in front of television cameras instead of near an oven. People eat real food, not Michelin stars. Your dad’s sourdough starter has thirty years of honest history, and your hands know how to work that dough. He’s talking because he’s nervous."

Hearing Knox say it with such steady, rock-solid certainty settled my racing heart in seconds.

"You really think so?" I asked softly, looking up into his steady gray eyes.

"I know so," Knox replied, lifting my hand to press a soft kiss to my knuckles. "We’re going up there to win, Nora."

Forty minutes later, the truck slowed down as we crossed the town line into Oakhaven.

The familiar brick storefronts of Main Street were quiet, dusted with a fresh layer of morning frost. Snow sat on the dark green awning of Sugar & Spice Bakery, the cozy front display windows glowing with warm interior light.

Bear steered the truck to the curb and killed the engine.

Standing on the wooden front porch, bundled up in her navy winter coat and a knit cream scarf, was my mother. Beside her stood a medium-sized rolling suitcase and a thick, hard-sided red cooler.

"Mom!" I called out, pushing my door open and hopping down onto the pavement.

"Nora!" Mom hurried down the porch steps, wrapping her arms around me in a tight, emotional hug. She smelled like cinnamon, vanilla extract, and sweet butter. "Look at you! You made good time."

Knox and Bear stepped out of the truck, their boots crunching on the frozen gravel.

Mom stepped back from our hug, her eyes widening slightly as she looked up at Knox.

Knox walked over with an easy, respectful smile, extending a broad hand. "Good to see you again, Mrs. Bennett."

Mom took his hand with both of hers, a warm, relieved smile softening her tired face. "Knox, dear. Thank you so much for doing this. You have no idea how much it means to have you both here."

"We wouldn’t be anywhere else," Knox said smoothly.

Before Mom could say another word, Bear stepped up beside Knox, puffing his broad chest out like a proud soldier.

"Mrs. Bennett, I am Bear," he announced with a booming grin. "I am your personal chauffeur for the weekend. Your luxury chariot awaits."

Mom chuckled, looking up at his massive frame with a delighted smile. "So you’re the famous Bear! It’s wonderful to finally put a face to that booming voice on the phone."

"I hope I didn’t disappoint," Bear grinned.

"Of course, you didn’t," I teased with a smile.

"Well, ma’am, I made promises about heated seats, and I intend to keep them," Bear said, picking up Mom’s rolling suitcase in one massive hand as if it weighed nothing at all.

He walked her straight to the open passenger door, proudly pointing to the glowing dial on the dashboard. "Setting three, Mrs. Bennett. Maximum warmth. It will keep you toasty all the way to Canada if we kept driving."

"Oh, goodness," Mom laughed, climbing up into the front seat and settling into the soft leather. "This feels like an electric blanket. It is absolute heaven."

Down on the sidewalk, Knox walked up to the porch to retrieve the red cooler.

"Is this the starter?" Knox asked, treating the heavy plastic box like it was made of thin glass.

"That’s the crown jewel," I said, stepping beside him.

I unclipped the side latches of the cooler and lifted the insulated lid. Inside, nestled snugly in thick thermal foam, was the large glass crock. A thick rubber band held the clean linen cloth tightly over the mouth.

Through the clear glass, the creamy sourdough starter was alive with bubbly, active fermentation, giving off a rich, warm, tangy scent of fresh yeast and aged grain.

"Looks perfect," Knox murmured, closing the cooler lid and snapping the heavy latches back into place.

He lifted the cooler carefully by both handles, carrying it to the truck. Instead of putting it in the truck bed where the winter cold might shock the yeast, Knox set it securely on the floorboard of the back seat, wedging it safely between our bags so it couldn’t slide an inch.

"Secure and temperature-controlled," Knox said, dusting off his hands.

"You’re a natural sous-chef, Sheridan," I teased, smiling up at him.

"I take my orders from the head baker," Knox countered with a low chuckle, his arm sliding around my waist to guide me toward the open door.

We climbed into the back seat together, Knox clicking the door shut behind us.

Bear fired up the engine, the heater blowing warm, toasty air through the cab. He pulled out onto Main Street, turning onto Route 93 North toward the White Mountains.

In the front seat, Mom leaned back against the heated headrest, letting out a long, happy breath.

"I can’t believe this is really happening, Nora," Mom said, turning her head back toward us. "After everything this fall, we’re actually going."

"We’re actually going, Mom," I said with a broad smile.

Beside me, Knox unfolded a dark wool throw blanket, draping it over my lap to keep the chill away. He settled his arm comfortably around my shoulders, drawing me close against his side.

I rested my head against his broad chest, listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart beneath his wool jacket.

Outside the tinted truck windows, the flat Massachusetts farmland began to give way to rolling hills and towering evergreen pine trees dusted with deep white snow.

Up ahead, the jagged peaks of the mountains rose against the winter sky, looming closer with every passing mile.

An overhead green highway sign flashed past in the swirling flurries: EMERALD PINES RESORT — 30 MILES.

"Two hours until check-in," Bear called out from the front seat, tapping the steering wheel. "Told you, Mrs. Bennett. Smooth sailing the whole way up."

The words had barely left his mouth when a sudden shudder ripped through the floorboards.

A loud BANG exploded under the truck, followed instantly by the violent slapping of shredded rubber against the wheel well.

The rear end of the heavy truck kicked hard to the right on the icy asphalt.

Knox’s arm clamped like an iron bar across my chest, pinning me back against the seat as my hands flew down to protect the red cooler.

"Hang on!" Bear roared, wrestling the steering wheel with both hands.