“I could tell.” Beside him now, Jeff gritted his teeth. “My freezer is warmer than that reception you got.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
Jeff chuckled. “Because I like hearing you admit your charm isn’t foolproof.”
It wasn’t a stretch that Layla was here at the same time he was scheduled for the job. The Stetmans probably wanted to keep their decorating schedule tight so as not to disrupt guests. And he’d recommended her, after all. But man, seeing her was a surprise.
He glanced once more at the stairs, but Layla had long since disappeared.
Jeff caught him and smirked. “Are you sure you’re not friends?”
Brant sighed and looked away. “Nah. She hates me.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Do tell, my friend.”
“That’s a story for another day. I’m too tired to relive the drama now.” He finished the beer. There hadn’t been much left after all.
Jeff shook off his snow-dusted hat. “Fair enough. But I’m asking tomorrow. I won’t forget.”
He gave Jeff a sidelong glance before he headed to the kitchen to get rid of the empty bottle. Brant wiped a hand across his forehead. Wouldn’t you know the confrontation caused a little sheen of moisture to break out on his skin.
Geesh.
If a two-minute convo caused this kind of reaction, he couldn’t imagine how he’d get through the next couple days without making a bigger fool of himself.
Chapter Three
In her room, Layla closed the door and rested her back against it. She blew the air from her cheeks.
What miserable luck.
Getting stuck under the same roof again with Brant Johnsson was not what she envisioned for the next few days. What she thought was her most exciting job yet suddenly lost a little of its sparkle. To make matters worse, he looked as…asBrant Johnssonas ever. She was so used to seeing his dimpled chin on billboards and in those flashy television ads that it surprised her how familiar he seemed, even though they’d only met once.
And what a meeting it had been.She shuddered.
Layla crossed the room, tossing her book onto the bed. She’d been relieved when Brant hadn’t shown for dinner and heard the snow delayed his arrival. It was wishful thinking that she wouldn’t chance a face-to-face until morning.
Darcy’s words from earlier dawned on her then.
Brant Johnssonrecommendedher.
She planted her hands on either side of the sink, studying her reflection.
Why would he do that?
She turned on the faucet to let the cool water run over her fingers. She wet a washcloth and pressed it against each cheek, her forehead, against her throat. While she did this, her thoughts returned to the night she’d met Brant in the ballroom of the Rennselaer Hotel in downtown Minneapolis. As far as she knew, Brant hadn’t known she existed until that night last December. He was from the Twin Cities. She lived in Copper Creek, a small town on the outskirts. He was a big deal, a charismatic elbow-rubber who thrived in the limelight. Layla kept a low profile, the lower the better.
For a second she considered working through the night so she could avoid the man. But she couldn’t allow anyone to dictate her schedule like that. No, she’d suffer through any encounters these next few days; she was a professional, after all. And Brant definitely counted as an occupational hazard.
Layla dried her face and frowned at her reflection. Her face still looked flushed with embarrassment. She flipped off the bathroom light as she eyed her suitcase across the room. This restless energy that knotted her muscles needed an outlet or she’d go crazy. A deep breath, then another did little to ease the butterflies in her stomach. She flipped open her suitcase and frowned again. A long-sleeve T-shirt, her Wisconsin sweatshirt, and a pair of jeans met her suddenly critical eye. The only semi-nice thing she’d brought was the long honey-colored cardigan. Her wardrobe seemed so mundane, completely void of style. She chewed on her bottom lip, her mind spinning. But these were herworkclothes. She came to decorate an inn, not…not—what?
Frustrated, she unpacked while the sour details of their first meeting stirred.
It had been a fundraiser for Friendship House, a social service organization in the Twin Cities, and had attracted the heads of companies and old-money philanthropists. The ballroom of the Rennselaer Hotel had been transformed to showcase Brant’s famed lights displays. The hotel was a historic building from a bygone era. Its ballroom was all plaster moldings, ceiling frescos, and soaring balconies on four sides with polished pillars of red oak standing like silent sentinels overhead. Someone mentioned Brant had used more than 25,000 lights on the balconies alone. It could have been an exaggeration, but maybe not.
The only reason Layla got an invite from Friendship House was because she helped decorate the hotel lobby for the event. She’d been excited to go—it was a networker’s dream. But once the day arrived, Layla dreaded the night ahead of her. Socializing didn’t come naturally. Her go-to strategy for feeling less awkward was to always carry a drink, even though she rarely indulged. Scouting the nearest exit was key too. The beaded sheath she wore didn’t ease her discomfort either. She’d bought it online, and while it was stunning, she couldn’t forget that it cost more than her food bill for three months. Her hair kept catching the beads on her back too.
She’d found a semi-quiet corner between a round cocktail table and a bronze statue of a three-foot wide loon, Minnesota’s state bird, so she could people-watch. Her gaze fell on Brant more than a few times that night, the first time being when he’d walked through the room’s double doors like he expected a standing ovation. Somewhat of a celebrity in the Twin Cities, Brant was a dashing, tuxedoed mixer who was as gifted with schmoozing as he was at creating light displays.
