Chapter 161: Emerald Pines Mountain Resort

NORA’S POV

The truck rocked violently from side to side.

Bear turned the steering wheel hard to the left with both hands. His knuckles turned white as the front tires fought for traction against the slush. Under the back wheel, shredded rubber slapped against the frame and shook the whole truck floor.

Knox kept his arm pinned firmly across my chest, holding me secure against the seat. My hands stayed clamped around the handles of the red cooler at my feet, guarding the glass crock with every ounce of strength I had.

With a final sliding crunch of gravel and packed snow, Bear steered the pickup onto the wide shoulder, bringing it to a stop against a shallow drift.

The violent shuddering died, leaving only the low hum of the engine and the whistling mountain wind outside.

"Everyone in one piece?" Bear breathed out, wiping a hand across his sweaty forehead.

"We’re fine," Knox answered immediately. He turned his head toward the front seat. "Mrs. Bennett, you okay?"

Mom let out a long, shaky breath, her hands slowly releasing their white-knuckled grip on the dashboard. "I’m alright, Knox. Good driving, Bear. Truly."

"Just routine mountain turbulence, ma’am," Bear said, attempting a grin as he clicked on the hazard flashers.

I unlatched the red cooler, my heart in my throat. I lifted the insulated lid just an inch to check inside. The thick foam had absorbed every bit of the shock. The glass crock sat upright, unbroken and secure, the starter bubbling quietly beneath the clean linen cloth.

"The starter is safe," I told them, breathing a massive sigh of relief.

"Good," Knox said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Let’s go look at this tire."

He and Bear pulled on their winter gloves and pushed out into the freezing November air. The sharp mountain gale howled through the cab for a split second before the heavy doors slammed shut behind them.

Through the frost-rimmed back window, I watched them walk to the rear passenger side.

The tire was completely destroyed. The tread had separated from the rim, ripped to shreds by a jagged chunk of road ice or metal debris.

Bear grabbed the hydraulic bottle jack from beneath the back bumper. Knox dropped the tailgate and reached underneath the frame, unhooking the chain that held the full-sized spare.

The bitter cold made every move harder. The lug nuts were caked in gray road salt and frozen solid.

Knox braced his boots against the slushy asphalt, setting the tire iron onto the first frozen bolt. With his jaw set and muscles straining under his dark wool coat, he threw his full body weight into the lever.

With a crack, the bolt broke free.

Knox worked quickly and smoothly. Bear used the hydraulic jack to lift the heavy truck while Knox took off the remaining nuts by hand. Together, they lifted the ruined tire into the truck bed and put the spare onto the wheel.

In the front seat, Mom watched Knox through the side mirror with a quiet, thoughtful smile touching her lips.

"He didn’t hesitate for a single second, Nora," Mom murmured softly. "Your father always said you can measure a man’s character by how he acts when things go wrong on the road. Thomas would have liked him very much."

A deep warmth settled in my chest, cutting straight through the lingering chill. "I think you’re right, Mom."

Knox torqued the last lug nut down with a loud grunt. Bear lowered the jack, tossed the tools into the truck bed, and slammed the tailgate shut.

When Knox and Bear climbed back into the cab, their cheeks and noses were bright red from the biting wind. Knox pulled off his gloves, his breath coming in white clouds as he rubbed his numb palms together.

"Spare is locked in tight," Knox said, glancing back at me.

"Thirty-five minutes lost," Bear said, checking the dashboard clock. The glowing green digits read 3:25 PM. "We have thirty miles of mountain switchbacks to cover before four o’clock."

"Take it safe," Knox instructed calmly. "We’re making it."

Bear dropped the transmission into four-wheel drive and eased the truck off the snowbank, merging back onto the highway.

The next thirty miles were a tense, silent blur.

The highway narrowed into a two-lane mountain pass, winding steeply through thick forests of snow-heavy fir trees. Flurries swirled across the windshield, but Bear drove with steady, focused care.

Beside me, Knox took my cold fingers into his warm hands, rubbing warmth back into my skin. He leaned in close, pressing a soft kiss to my temple.

"Breathe, Bookworm," Knox murmured against my ear. "We’re going to get you into that kitchen."

At fifteen minutes to four, the road crested a steep ridge.

Through the snow, a massive pair of wrought-iron gates appeared, set into soaring stone pillars: EMERALD PINES MOUNTAIN RESORT.

The resort was breathtaking.

Built from massive cedar logs and native river stone, the main lodge rose three stories against the snowy peaks, with roaring stone chimneys sending sweet birch smoke into the gray sky. Ice sculptures lined the driveway, and green-and-gold banners flapped in the wind: 14th Annual Tri-County Artisan Baking Showcase & Winter Gala.

Bear swung the truck into the heated stone portico, braking to a halt right in front of the grand entrance.

The dashboard clock clicked to 3:58 PM.

"Go!" Bear ordered, turning around with wide eyes. "I’ll take Mrs. Bennett’s bag, park the rig, and get our room keys at the desk. You two run down to the exhibition hall before they lock the doors!"

"Thank you, Bear!" I called out.

I grabbed my leather baker’s roll tote and pushed my door open. Knox grabbed the red cooler by both handles, stepping out right beside me while Mom hurried out of the passenger seat.

We rushed through the soaring double glass doors into the main lobby.

The interior was magnificent... cathedral ceilings supported by peeled pine timbers, massive two-story stone fireplaces roaring with wood fires, and polished slate floors. Wealthy winter vacationers dressed in cashmere sweaters and ski jackets turned to look at us as we hurried past.

"Exhibition hall is down the lower east wing," Knox said, spotting the brass directional signs.

We took the wide carpeted stairs down to the terrace level.

At the end of the long corridor, a pair of frosted-glass double doors stood closed beneath a gold sign: GRAND ALPINE EXHIBITION HALL — COMPETITORS ONLY.

I checked the brass wall clock beside the door.

4:06 PM.

Six minutes late.

I took a deep breath, smoothed down my sweater, and pushed the glass doors open.

The room was vast, brightly lit, and dead silent.

Under high wooden rafters, six modern baking stations were set up across the smooth floor. Each station had shiny steel counter tables, electric stovetops, and large stone ovens. Overhead, camera rigs and bright lights hung from metal frames, ready for the live TV show tomorrow.

Standing near the main podium in the center of the room were the other five finalists.

They all wore clean white chef coats with fancy logos, dark pants, and shiny shoes. Two assistants stood beside each chef, carrying leather folders and metal tool cases.

The second the door swung shut behind us, the head judge at the podium stopped speaking.

Every single head in the room turned toward us.

We looked like we had just survived a winter storm. Snowflakes were still melting in my hair, my boots were damp from the road, and I was clutching a worn leather tool roll.

Knox stood tall beside me in his dark wool coat, snow dusting his broad shoulders as he carried the red plastic cooler. Mom stood just behind us, smoothing her scarf with nervous hands.

The heavy silence stretched across the hall.

A sharp-featured woman in a tailored black blazer and high heels broke away from the judge’s table, marching toward us with an event clipboard in her hand. Her eyes swept over us with pinched disapproval.

"Excuse me," the woman said. "Kitchen deliveries and catering crew use the service basement at the rear of the lodge. The public gallery isn’t open until tomorrow morning."

I lifted my chin, keeping my shoulders back and my voice completely calm. "We aren’t deliveries. We’re Entry Fourteen. Sugar and Spice Bakery."

The coordinator blinked, taken aback. Her gaze dropped to the damp scuffs on my leather boots, and then moved to the red plastic cooler in Knox’s hands.

"You’re... competing?" she asked, her eyebrows arching in disbelief. "In the finals? With a beverage cooler?"

Across the polished floor, a soft ripple of chuckles broke out among the waiting chefs.

The group parted, and a tall man stepped slowly out from the front row.

He wore a clean white chef coat with gold stars embroidered on the chest. His dark hair was combed back neatly, and his cool eyes looked down on us with an arrogant sneer.

Chef Marcel Moreau stopped ten feet away from us, crossing his arms over his chest.

A slow, mocking smirk curled his thin lips as his gaze drifted over our windblown clothes, stopping dead on the red plastic box in Knox’s hands.

"Ah, the little town wildcard. We assumed you saw the snow and wisely decided to stay in the valley. Tell me, mademoiselle, does that cooler hold your lunch, or do you actually intend to bake with it?"