e who could be trusted to take over the kitchen, even just for one night.
“Okay,” Stella stated as she tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “We can do this. There’s a logical solution, I just have to figure it out.”
“Excuse me?”
Stella jerked her attention to the double wooden doors leading to the bar and private seating area. She was about to say they weren’t open yet, but her words died in her throat.
Hello, cowboy.
That charcoal-and-red-plaid shirt tucked into well-worn jeans did nothing to hide the beautifully muscled bulk of the mystery man in the doorway. Those shoulders stretched the material of his shirt and his silver belt buckle shone with some emblem she couldn’t quite make out.
Well, she could if she wanted to get caught staring at his junk, which wouldn’t really be the classiest move. Not to mention it would be totally unprofessional of her since he was a guest...and likely here with his significant other.
Shame, that. This man might be worth the risk of forgetting her duties and obligations, but she preferred her men to be available...unlike the jerk who thought she was his ticket into the family money—and that she was too dumb to uncover that he actually had a girlfriend with a kid on the way.
Yeah, no thanks, asshole.
Stella pulled her mind from the nauseating memory and opted to focus on the living fantasy standing in the doorway.
But that man would just have to stay a fantasy—along with every other man for the time being—because anything or anyone taking up her time would mean failing at her job, and her father was just waiting for one little slipup to sell this place out from under her. Her sole focus had to be on Mirage.
Smoothing down her button-up shirt-style dress, Stella took a step toward the striking man with dark eyes. “Our dining room doesn’t open for another hour. Did you need to make a reservation?”
Which he totally should, because there was plenty of divine food prepared by an experienced chef. Part of Stella wanted to laugh at the snarky comment inside her head, because she’d realized over the past few months that if she didn’t laugh, she’d have a nervous breakdown.
But at this moment, she worried that her laughter might border on manic or deranged. She was so, so close to getting what she wanted. There was no way she’d let a rogue chef thwart her plans.
“I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re in a bind.”
That whiskey-soaked voice had her shivering and the vivid fantasy she’d tried to push to the back of her mind kept rushing to the front. Wasn’t there some resort rule about lusting after a guest? After all, this was an adults-only resort so he probably wasn’t here alone. A man who looked like that likely never slept alone...while she knew no other way.
Oh, she wasn’t innocent, but she never stayed the night in someone’s bed, and over the past year she’d barely dragged herself into hers. She’d been working her ass off for her father, wanting to gain his approval, wanting...hell, something from him other than disdain.
Getting Mirage running like a dream was her last chance at some type of parental nod.
“I might be able to help,” the stranger added.
Stella crossed her arms and smiled. “Oh, well, that’s not necessary, but thank you.”
“Do you have someone else to cook?” he asked.
Oh, that dark arched brow that accompanied the question had her belly quivering with unwanted arousal. She must be sexually deprived if a brow and a voice turned her on. Well, the whole rough, manly-man exterior also gave a healthy punch of lust.
Maybe she should examine that belt buckle a little closer.
“Are you a chef, Mr...?”
“Michaels. Dane Michaels.” In two strides he was in front of her and offering a half grin that drew her eyes down from his perfect teeth to the dark stubble covering his jawline. “I’m not a professional chef, but I’m a damn good cook. Ask any employee on my ranch.”
His ranch. Of course someone this rugged and mysterious had a ranch. Montana had no shortage of cowboys, but this guy...he was the real deal and no doubt hands-on with his work if those weathered lines on his face were any indication. Likely the emblem on his buckle was that of his ranch.
“Mr. Michaels—”
“Dane,” he corrected and had her toes curling in her boots with that full-fledged smile. “And you are?”
“Stella Garcia. I’m the manager of Mirage.” Soon to be owner...she hoped. “Dane, I can’t ask a guest to come into the kitchen where food is being prepared.”
He propped his hands on his narrow hips and held her gaze. “You didn’t ask and I don’t see that you have many other options right now. Do you?”