“Dilapidated house in the middle of nowhere. Nice barn though.” She lifted a shoulder and sipped her coffee.
“Hmm. The boondocks don’t work for me.”
“Didn’t you check out a place in Chicago last weekend? How’d that go?”
“I can tell you in the car. We should go,” he said, standing. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t like being fashionably late.”
Layla rolled her garbage into a ball. “Me neither. I like having my choice of dark corners to stand in as I watch the crowd filter in.”
He laughed. “Like a true social butterfly.”
Walking ahead of him, she glanced over her shoulder and he caught the scent of her perfume, something floral and fresh. “I agreed to come so you can teach me your networking ways,” she said. There was a teasing lilt in her tone.
“So you’re using me.”
“Basically, yes.” Layla held the door open for him to follow.
“As long as we’re on the same page,” he said, which elicited a giggle. He liked how her eyes almost disappeared above the fullness of her smile.
He glanced above the door as they left. A mistletoe twirled in lazy circles from a thin, red ribbon. Brant shuddered, eyeing Layla as she looked back at him, waiting for him as she continued to hold the door open. Either she didn’t notice or chose to ignore it. Good. Revisiting the mistletoe mistake from a year ago wasn’t how he wanted to start the weekend.
For the next ninety minutes they talked about his company, their childhoods, and spent an inordinate amount of time debating the merits of city life versus country life. As a Minnesota transplant, she preferred living in a small town like Copper Creek instead of a sprawling area like her native Mesa.
“I get a little itchy when I have to drive into the city,” she admitted.
“You mean the Twin Cities?” Up ahead, the towering chimneys of Blueberry Point Lodge stretched above the treeline, aglow with his lights display blazing into the night sky like thousands of little klieg lights. The drive from Copper Creek seemed like it took no longer than a trip across town. He put on his signal to turn.
“Yes. After living in three drastically different cities, I realized I prefer small-town life most of all,” she said.
“I guess I never considered the Twin Cities an urban area. Chicago, yes. New York City, definitely. But I can drive twenty minutes south on Highway 10 and be in the middle of the country.” He understood her affection for small towns though. He literally felt the drop in his blood pressure once the landscape changed from city streets and office buildings to the communities in the midst of farm fields. “You can’t do that in New York City.”
“True.” She let out a sigh as they pulled into a parking space near the carriage house. Cocktail hour didn’t officially begin for another thirty minutes, but cars snaked along Highway 61 behind them, turning into the drive.
“This is magical, Brant,” she said, staring through the window. “It looks like a gingerbread house come to life—a nighttime version.”
He leaned forward to get the full view of Blueberry Point Lodge, from its foundation to its copper chimney caps.
“You know what the hardest part was about decorating this place?”
She looked at him, eyes wide. “What?”
“You glowering at me at all points throughout the day.”
Her expression was neutral as she looked at him, her lips slightly parted as if she meant to say something but thought better of it. She turned her attention back to the house.
He’d meant it as a joke, but as the words came out of his mouth, he realized how self-centered it sounded. It wasn’t the most thoughtful comment, especially now that he understood her feelings about what happened that night in the Rennselaer ballroom. Inwardly cringing, he waited for her to pounce on him. He had it coming.
The light on the carriage house cast a soft glow inside the cab of the truck. The only sound was the crunch of gravel as vehicles crawled up the drive, pulling into empty spaces. If what he’d said made her angry, she didn’t show it.
“It’s not my nature, you know. Holding grudges,” she said finally.
“I know. I didn’t mean how it sounded. I’m sorry for bringing—”
She placed her hand on his and that stopped him cold. He stared dumbly at it, his thoughts scrambled like a plate of eggs.
“It’s all right. I forgive you. People say and do things they don’t mean. I do too.”
“Okay.” The word came out garbled. Layla smiled at him like she was on the verge of a giggle.
