“It’ll be perfect. Might need a rope line to follow back and forth if this storm keeps up.”
Sean chuckled. “I’ll see what I can rig up.”
Minutes later, Sean opened the cottage door for Brant. Sean told him to meet downstairs near the kitchen and he’d have ice-cold beers ready and waiting.
“Unless you’d prefer something hot,” Sean offered, his hand on the door, ready to leave.
Brant set his bag on the cedar chest at the foot of the four-poster bed, eyeing the window. The curtains hadn’t yet been drawn. Outdoor lights illuminated the falling snow.
“After driving through that, a beer would be perfect.”
Sean paused again. “I can’t tell you how happy Darcy and I are to have you here. I thought for sure you’d be booked when I called in July.”
“Thank you. That’s nice to hear. I’ll admit that we’ve grown so much over the last few years I hardly book homes anymore. It’s mostly office buildings and shopping centers now.” He unzipped his bag to set his keys inside. “But it’s nice to work on a building like this. Lights really enhance a building’s personality, and this place has it in spades.”
Brant spent some time unpacking. He changed his shirt, ran his fingers through his hair, and locked the cottage as he left. Inside the inn, he spotted the aforementioned bucket of beer on a rolling cart outside the kitchen and cracked open a bottle. Jeff would be down soon enough; he was probably decompressing in his room. Brant didn’t blame him. It had been a hard week. October was a hardmonth,but November would be even busier. Then December went pretty quiet until business ticked up again after the holidays when it was time to undo the work they did, dismantling decorations and storing equipment until next season.
He walked along a long hallway displaying paintings of the lake shore and lighthouses and cutter ships with billowing white sails. At the end of the hallway where it intersected with the foyer, he paused to sip the beer.
Movement on the stairs caught his attention as he tilted the bottle to drink.
A dark-haired woman came down the stairs, her hand gliding along the polished rail. The cold beer flowed into his mouth, but he forgot to swallow. He coughed, spewing droplets down the front of his shirt, and did a double take toward the figure now frozen on the steps as she became aware that she wasn’t alone. Puzzled, she looked around for the source of the noise.
It washer.
Once you met Layla Dean, you didn’t forget. She especially didn’t slip from your mind if your lips happened to meet hers by mistake. A slow spread of warmth overcame his face, a Pavlovian response to an awkward memory. Stupidly, he glanced around for the nearest escape route to regain his composure, but that only caused him to lose his balance momentarily. He crashed into the door trim when he tried to retrace his steps. The bottle, slick with condensation, tumbled out of his hand and onto the floor, beer foam seeping onto the Persian rug underneath his feet.
Silently, he cursed his clumsiness as he grabbed the bottle so it didn’t empty completely. He took off his flannel shirt before anyone noticed and pressed the fabric into the carpet, soaking up as much as he could. Ahead of him, thudding footsteps rushed toward him until he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
She’d witnessed the whole embarrassing incident.
“Yes, I’m fine. Just clumsy.” He sopped up the last little puddle, retrieved his bottle, and stood.
And came eye to eye with Layla.
“Oh,” she said flatly. She stumbled back a step. Her expression morphed from genuine concern to mild contempt. Her fingers flew to her lips, lingering there until she scowled and brushed them on her shirt like she’d touched something offensive. She definitely recognized him.
Brant whipped up a smile. “How are you? Layla Dean, right?”
Inwardly, he cringed. It was a canned question. His tone was nothing short of chirpy. It’d been a year since they’d last seen each other. And judging by her slight recoil, their unfortunate encounter hadn’t faded from her memory either.
“I’m fine. Yourself?”
“Good, good,” he said, swallowing hard. There was a sudden dryness in his throat. “I take it you’re here on the job?” Brant folded his beer-soaked shirt over his arm. He was acutely aware that he only wore a thin, white T-shirt.
She nodded slowly. “You too?”
“Yes.” Words were failing him. It didn’t happen often. But her evil eye had apparently worked some kind of voodoo magic on his vocal cords.
They stood there for a few long seconds. She looked great despite the downward curve of her mouth. Her hair had grown longer since the party. It was knotted at the back of her head but a few wispy tendrils fell well past her shoulders. She must have realized he was checking her out, because Layla’s eyes sparked. Her frown deepened too.
“I’d better get back to work,” she said. “Glad you’re okay.” She gave him a perfunctory nod and retraced her steps to the stairs, disappearing in a hurry.
“Truck’s in the garage.” Jeff had come up behind him. “Friend of yours?”
“Not really.” He stared up toward the balcony as her shadow retreated. A door closed sharply a few seconds later.
