Untamed

Snow whipped sideways across the runway, a white blur that made Izzy Clarke wonder—for the tenth time—why the hell she’d said yes to this job.

The tiny prop plane shuddered as it landed, its wheels crunching against ice. When the engine sputtered off, the silence was so total it made her ears ache. No taxis, no horns, no neon. Just snow, and trees that looked like they hadn’t seen civilization since the Ice Age.

The pilot, a wiry man in too many layers of plaid, shouted over the wind: “End of the line!” He offered no help with her luggage before ducking back into the cockpit.

“Perfect,” Izzy muttered, dragging her leather suitcase across the ice. Her ankle boots—chosen for style, not survival—slipped instantly. She caught herself before face-planting, cursing under her breath. The cold bit into her skin like knives. Her city coat, chic but thin, was about as useful as tissue paper.

Then she saw it: the lodge.

It loomed at the edge of the treeline, a sprawling log structure with pitched roofs heavy under snow, smoke curling from stone chimneys. From a distance, it looked like something out of a fairy tale. Up close, she could see the gleam of luxury—expensive woodwork, windows lit with golden warmth, like the kind of place billionaires hid when they got tired of yachts.

For a second, her chest loosened. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Cook for some rich assholes, collect her paycheck, stay off social media until her old scandal blew over. Easy.

That was before the door swung open and a wall of flannel stepped out.

Tall. Broad. Dark hair ruffled by the wind, beard shadowing a hard jaw. He didn’t move to greet her. Just crossed his arms and watched her drag her suitcase through the snow, expression caught somewhere between amusement and disdain.

Izzy yanked her suitcase upright and shoved her hair out of her face. “What?”

The man didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked over her coat, her boots, her suitcase. Finally, he said, voice low and rough, “You won’t last a week.”

Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

He smirked. Not a friendly one. “Princess like you? Snow’ll eat you alive before the job does.”

Izzy’s blood simmered under the cold. She squared her shoulders. “Newsflash, Paul Bunyan: I’m not here to chop wood. I’m here to cook. And unless you’re secretly starving, my survival skills don’t concern you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a laugh—or maybe a snarl.

Before he could reply, the lodge door creaked wider and a woman stepped out, bundled in fur-lined black. Her sharp eyes cut between Izzy and the flannel wall like she already sensed trouble.

The woman in the fur-lined coat descended the steps briskly, heels crunching on ice. Mid-forties, sleek black bob, lips painted wine-red. She looked like the kind of woman who could command a boardroom—or burn it down.

“Marlene O’Hara,” she said, offering a gloved hand. Her grip was firm enough to hurt. “Lodge manager. You must be Isabelle Clarke.”

“Izzy,” she corrected automatically. “Unless you want to sound like my mother, and trust me, you don’t.”

One of Marlene’s brows arched, but her lips curved, just slightly. “Izzy it is. You’ll be running the kitchen. We expect five-star dining at all times—especially when the high rollers arrive. Fail to impress, and it reflects on all of us. Understood?”

“Crystal,” Izzy said, pasting on her best professional smile. She wasn’t about to admit her fingers were already going numb.

Behind them, Flannel Wall—Beck, she would later learn—let out a snort. Low, dismissive, like he couldn’t even bother to hide it.

Izzy’s head snapped around. “Problem?”

He didn’t look at her. Just shifted his weight, eyes on the snow. “Not yet.”

Her molars ground together. She opened her mouth to retort, but Marlene clapped once, sharp. “Inside. You’ll freeze solid out here.”

The warmth of the lodge hit like a lover’s embrace—roaring fire, golden lights, the faint tang of whiskey and pine. Izzy inhaled like she might never exhale again.

“Kitchen’s through there.” Marlene gestured toward swinging doors. “Jonah should be waiting.”

As if summoned, a young man stumbled out of the kitchen, nearly tripping over his own feet. Early twenties, floppy hair, flour dusting his apron. His grin was too big, too eager.

“You must be Izzy!” he blurted, thrusting out a hand still streaked with butter. “I’m Jonah, sous chef, assistant, dishwasher, taste-tester—whatever you need. I can chop onions in record time. Want to see?”

Izzy blinked. “…Maybe after I set my bags down.”

Jonah flushed red to the tips of his ears. “Right, right. Sorry. Welcome to the lodge. I’ll, uh—yeah. I’ll just—” He spun to retreat, nearly colliding with Beck. “Sorry! Sorry!”

Beck didn’t move. Just stared down at him until Jonah scuttled sideways like a crab.

Izzy muttered, “Charming place you run here.”

From a worn leather chair by the fire, a gravelly voice cut in: “Charming enough to keep you warm, girl. Don’t knock it till you’ve survived a blizzard or two.”

Izzy turned. An older man sat with boots propped on the hearth, weathered face split by a grin. He had a cap pulled low, hands scarred from years of labor.

“Gus Harper,” Marlene said, pinching the bridge of her nose like she regretted it already. “Groundskeeper. He speaks his mind.”

Gus winked. “Damn right. And my mind’s sayin’ a city doll like you’s gonna freeze her ass off before Valentine’s Day.”

Heat rushed up Izzy’s neck—not from the fire. “Nice to meet you too.”

Beck’s low chuckle rumbled behind her. Not amused—mocking.

Izzy whipped around. “What? Something funny?”

This time he met her eyes, slow and steady, storm-grey and cutting. “Yeah. You.”

The room tilted hotter than the fire, though her toes were still numb. Izzy forced a sweet smile, voice sugar-sharp. “Enjoy the show while it lasts, lumberjack. I’m not going anywhere.”

Beck’s smirk said he didn’t believe her for a second.

The warmth of the fire hadn’t even thawed Izzy’s fingers before Beck spoke again.

“Your bag’s still outside,” he said flatly, nodding toward the door.

“I’m aware.” She forced her sweetest smile. “Thanks for the weather update, Ranger Rick.”

He didn’t blink. “If you can’t haul your own gear, you won’t last long here.”

Izzy’s molars ached from clenching. She yanked her scarf tighter and stalked back into the icy wind, determined to drag her suitcase upstairs without his smug eyes on her. The leather case bounced awkwardly against the steps, her heels slipping on ice. By the third stair, she was huffing, hair falling in her eyes.

From the doorway, Beck leaned a shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. Watching.

“Need a hand?” he asked, voice all mock-innocence.

“I’d rather freeze,” Izzy shot back, tugging harder at the suitcase. It thunked against the step with a groan.

Beck’s mouth curved, lazy and irritating. “Suit yourself.”

Before Izzy could curse him out, another voice slid in—smooth, warm, practiced.

“Now that,” it purred, “is no way to treat a lady.”

A man stepped into view, coat unbuttoned despite the cold, scarf draped like an accessory rather than necessity. Mid-fifties, silver hair slicked back, face tanned and lined in the kind of way that came from yachts and money, not hardship. His smile gleamed as he approached.

“Richard Dane,” he said, offering his hand like it was a gift. “But please—call me Dick. Everyone does.”

“Izzy Clarke,” she said, shaking his hand briefly before going back to wrestling her suitcase.

Dick tsked softly, brushing imaginary snow from her shoulder. “Let me.” With a surprising amount of strength, he plucked the suitcase from her grasp. “I may be a guest, but I never turn down the opportunity to help a damsel in distress.”

Izzy opened her mouth to argue, but his grin was already wide, teeth white against the grey of his stubble.

“Besides,” Dick added, eyes lingering too long, “you don’t strike me as the type who should be carrying anything heavy. Leave that to men like me.”

Her skin prickled, heat rising in her chest—not from attraction, but irritation. She forced a tight smile. “Thanks, but I can handle myself.”

From the doorway, Beck’s laugh was a single, low exhale. Dry. Amused. Dangerous.

Izzy whipped her head toward him. “Problem?”

His storm-grey eyes met hers, then flicked to Dick hauling the suitcase. His jaw ticked once, hard.

“Nope,” Beck said. “No problem at all.”

But the way his fists clenched at his sides told her otherwise.

By late afternoon, the kitchen was already hot, humid, and a mess of half-prepped ingredients. Izzy had her hair tied up in a high knot, apron tight around her waist, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her knives gleamed on the counter like soldiers awaiting orders.

Jonah hovered beside her, bouncing on his heels. “So, uh… should I start chopping? Or peeling? Or—oh! I make a mean salad dressing, if you—”

“Jonah.” Izzy didn’t look up from her cutting board. “Breathe.”

He sucked in air so sharply he nearly choked. “Right. Breathing. Got it.”

The kitchen door banged open and Marlene swept in, clipboard tucked against her chest. Her heels clicked across the tile. “Clarke.”

Izzy’s shoulders tensed. “Yes?”

“You’ve got ten guests tonight. That’s ten mouths that expect perfection. And among them”—Marlene’s voice dropped, sharp as glass—“is Richard Dane. Dick. He’s one of our top spenders. When he’s here, everyone jumps. Especially you.”

Izzy set her knife down carefully. “Jump? As in, fetch slippers and wag my tail?”

Marlene’s gaze pinned her. “As in, keep him happy. If Dane’s wallet closes, this lodge bleeds money. We’re talking hundreds of thousands every year. Tonight alone, dinner and drinks will run him five grand. He’s here to be entertained—and impressed.”

“I’ll impress him with food.” Izzy forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s my job.”

Marlene leaned closer, her perfume sharp and expensive. “You don’t get it. Dick Dane doesn’t just buy meals. He buys attention. Charm. Pretty women laughing at his jokes. If he flirts, smile. If he compliments you, take it. If he offers something… don’t be stupid. Understand?”