He thought about the inn, about Kirby. And maybe it wasn’t that place, either, specifically, though his feelings about the inn itself were definitely filled with real affection. Maybe it was Kirby. Thinking of her, wanting to return to her, wherever she was. That’s what felt like the haven he’d always thought a home should be. A place where the world dropped away and he could relax, be completely and utterly himself. And, more importantly, would know, without a doubt, that that was exactly who he was supposed to be.
Being with Kirby wasn’t hiding, not like Vanetta’s had become. He’d been seeking serenity, he realized, which was something rare in his profession, given both the intensity of the game itself and the actual location of the events. Bright lights and endless noise was life inside a casino.
But it was a serenity that went deeper than creating a peaceful environment. It was serenity of the soul. Where he could discover a completely different kind of fulfillment. Where all sorts of needs that had nothing to do with money and repayment of debts, real or imagined, existed. It was about feeding into something entirely different. And he knew that all of those things existed for him, or could exist for him, wherever Kirby Farrell happened to be.
He took the next curve a bit more deeply, enjoying the thump of adrenaline that pumped into his veins as he leaned into the turn, unsure if the cause was the tight curve or the thoughts of Kirby, or both.
These past few weeks, since the two of them had decided on launching the charitable event, had been a new form of chaos for him, and not a little frustrating. He hadn’t gotten to spend much time with her as the demands of putting together the event as quickly as humanly possible had kept him at the resort almost full time, and on the phone more often than not the rest of the time. Kirby, meanwhile, had been more than a little busy herself, preparing for her onslaught of guests, all slated to arrive in just a few short days now.
Though the temperatures in the evening were dipping lower and lower, the daytime temps had remained unseasonably warm, and yet that hadn’t curbed the enthusiasm of the guests wanting to come out and be part of the event. He was thrilled for her, as that had been the goal all along, but, personally, selfishly, he was missing her, missing their alone time in the seclusion of her empty inn.
And yet, that same passage of time had been grounding, and illuminating, for the precise reason that it had frustrated him. He wanted to be with her. Needed to be. More. Often. All the damn time. And not just for the sex, or even the conversation, though he had swiftly come to wanting and needing both all the damn time, too. He wanted to play house with Kirby Farrell. Cooking dinner, doing odd chores around the inn, reading the paper over the breakfast table, hauling mounds of bed linens down the basement stairs to the industrial-size washer and dryer.
Sitting next to her on the porch in the evening, sipping a glass of wine, enjoying the crisp bite in the air as the sun finally ducked behind the surrounding peaks. Talking about what she was going to plant in her spring garden and the final improvements she wanted to make to the inn, watching her face as she listened to some of his ideas, seeing the light enter her eyes as she realized he was as invigorated by the architecture and character of the old place as she was. Like spirits, crossing paths by chance or divine design, now moving forward, with barely restrained anticipation, on a newly created path of their own.
Yes, he wanted to play house with Kirby Farrell. And not just for the next few weeks, either. A good-size part of him couldn’t wait for the damn event to be over so he could go back to…what, exactly?
Hanging out with Kirby? Sleeping with Kirby? Living with Kirby? He didn’t rightly know. He didn’t know where her head was at, regarding him, her future, or any possibility of their future.
Hence the spontaneous road trip this morning.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it all, about what was going to happen when the event was over. He had people waiting for him back in Vegas. Family, at least to him. But now he also had Kirby. And with all these thoughts and emotions swirling through him, he wasn’t sure he could face her without blurting it all out. And when he did that, he wanted all those thoughts and emotions to be a bit more cohesive than they were at that moment. Because this time, when he went all in, the stakes were going to be the biggest of his life.
And then there was that other part, too. The rest-of-his-life part. And what the hell he wanted to do with that. And if there was any way that rest-of-his-life part could find a place here in the mountains of Vermont. A place that would give him the chance to see what could come of a future with Kirby. A place far, far away from flashing lights, endless noise, and playing cards. But also far, far away from the only other people on the planet he loved and cared for.
His gut knotted—or more precisely the knot already in his gut tightened—at the thought of actually playing again. Not the game itself. In some odd way, when he was playing, at least against a good table, the world shrunk down to that green baize surface, the cards in front of him, the stacks of chips being flipped, toyed with, shoved in, raked out. Everything else fell away.
He slowed his bike as it hit him, that it was that feeling, that solitude among chaos, that, in and of itself, was the bigger draw for him. Not of winning, or involving himself mentally in the challenge of the game itself. He wondered when that shift had actually happened. A long time back, that much he knew now. When money had ceased to be the reason for playing. When there was no real need to win, other than to keep all those folks who had given him a shot in the first place happy. He slowed down further as another realization sunk in. That place out of time was exactly what he felt when he was with Kirby.
Did that mean she was simply another escape hatch from the real world? Was that feeling he had when he was with her merely one of…what, relief?
Partly. He had to admit that was partly it. There were two places in the world where he absolutely knew who he was. Sitting at a poker table…and sitting across from Kirby Farrell. But there was more to it. Nothing in his life had ever stimulated him on so many simultaneous levels as playing in a high stakes game did. Until Kirby.
She reached all kinds of places that no game could. There were simply no other stakes that could climb that high…or penetrate that deep.
But what did that say? Was he merely trading one fixation for another? Was that healthy? Would it make him any happier in the long run?
He honestly didn’t know.
He just knew he wanted the chance to find out.
Brett sped up and took the next turn at a scream. Then he slowed as a glint of sun off glass from somewhere deep in the trees on the slopes high above caught his eye. He slowed further, but after a quick flash of a building—a home, the prominent structure of which made it appear as if it were thrusting out beyond trees, soaring, almost—vanished as the road took another turn.
He couldn’t have said why it mattered, or why he suddenly had to see more of it, but if it blessedly took him out of his own head for a few minutes, then he welcomed the distraction. On the next curve, he spied another road, a narrow, roughly paved track, snaking up the hill, in the direction of where the house had to be. He took the turn without asking himself why. Thinking wasn’t getting him anywhere. So, for the next hour or so, he planned to just go, follow his gut, turn off his brain, and the hell with what came next.
It was early afternoon by the time he rolled back into Pennydash. His brain wasn’t going any slower than it had when he’d taken off that morning, but the thoughts running through it right now had taken on a decidedly new slant. One that might lead to a few answers. And probably a whole lot more questions, too. But he was excited about that part this time.
He discovered he’d had a call as he’d descended back into cell range, leaving him with a voice mail. It was from the resort, telling him there was a guest there, impatiently waiting for his return. Brett knew Maksimov was due into town shortly, and he had purposely put off thinking about the conversation he was sure to be having with the stubborn Russian. But Brett
hadn’t been in any mood to contemplate. Too many other, far more tantalizing thoughts crowding his brain. He’d known he would handle whatever the hell Maks wanted when he finally saw him face to face. No point in dwelling on it.
And now it appeared that the happy event was imminent. Lovely. Kirby had shifted Maksimov’s reservation from the inn to the resort after all, telling Maks after the fact. She said the transition had been smooth and he had seemed fine with her apology for over-booking. A light fib at the time, but she’d filled that room since, so all was okay. At least until he had to talk to the man himself.
He sighed. As much as he wanted to race back to the inn, back to Kirby, share with her the million new thoughts racing around inside his head, get her feedback…he decided he’d get this out of the way first.
So he leaned into the turn heading up to the main resort hotel and conference center and gunned it up the steep, winding entrance into the ski resort. Winterhaven wasn’t nearly as fancy or over the top in design as the resorts he’d grown up prowling around, but it definitely had an inviting air about it. It was styled to look like an extended series of Swiss chalets, all curved in a giant arc along the base of the slopes, allowing guests to ski right from their rooms to the slopes. The main resort building containing registration, shops, restaurants, and other guest services was tucked into the center of the chalets. It was designed to look like a larger, more complex version of the rest. This unique concept offered a rather intimate, more casual-slash-village feel to the place, while at the same time making guests feel they were staying somewhere special.
His thoughts drifted immediately to Kirby and he found himself trying to picture her running a resort the size of Winterhaven. Very likely the one she’d helped manage in Colorado had been decidedly bigger than this one. And though he was well aware she was competent enough to handle whatever she was thrown…he thought the small, quaint inn atmosphere suited her personality better. Like its owner, Pennydash Inn was an openly warm and welcoming establishment that made you feel instantly at home…yet housed in a quietly elegant, beautifully detailed structure.
He’d never really thought about all the elements that went into running a successful hotel, whether it be resort, chain, inn, or even boarding house for that matter. Not that he hadn’t realized how hard Vanetta worked to keep her place going, but there were all kinds of elements that he’d never considered.
Over the past few weeks, he’d gotten a true glimpse of what Kirby’s life would be like if the inn was operating as it was supposed to be. He selfishly and unapologetically wanted more time with her, before the true insanity descended upon her little adopted burg.
And that was going to add another layer of complexity to all the thoughts swirling inside his head, but at that moment, he had to switch mental gears and focus on dealing with Maksimov. Then Brett could work on getting the hell back out of the resort before someone else sidelined him with a myriad of new details that needed his immediate attention.
He missed her, dammit.
He was thinking about stopping by the Food Mart on the way back to the inn and showing up with a couple of steaks, maybe an assortment of local cheeses, a decent bottle of wine—Kirby had introduced him to some very nice local labels there, too—and negotiate a stop-work measure where they both turned off their cell phones and locked themselves inside his top-floor bedroom for the rest of the day and night. Surely everything wouldn’t fall apart if they went AWOL for a few hours.
He was quite happily playing out that delightful scenario as he tooled around the loop that led to the main lobby. So he missed the doors sliding open.
“Well, it’s about time, buddy.”
Brett almost laid the bike on its side as the familiar voice—one without any Russian accent whatsoever—reached through the carnal haze that had swiftly been clouding his brain and clicked his synapses back to reality.
He managed to steady the bike until he brought it under control and stopped it. Then quickly parked and climbed off as he saw, quite clearly, that he hadn’t been hallucinating.
“Dan?” His face split into a wide grin. “What the hell?” Then he immediately sobered. “Wait, is everything okay? Your dad, Vanetta—”
Dan lifted his hand to stall Brett’s concern. “Fine, fine. Though Dad is threatening to come back from Palm Springs to take over the company again.” He chuckled; however, his expression was anything but lighthearted. “But then, you know he never did believe I could do the job he did with it.”
Brett didn’t chuckle along with him. “Is there something going on? I mean, with the company? Why the hell are you all the way out here, anyway?”
Dan lifted a shoulder. “If Muhammad won’t come to the mountain…”
“So, something is wrong.”
“No, no,” he said, but it wasn’t entirely convincing. And when Brett merely folded his arms, Dan relented. “Okay, so two of my higher end clients lost their financing. And, with that, things are a bit tight. But that’s the deal these days, with the economy the way it is, what can you do? I’ll make it through; I always do.”
Brett knew better than to offer his financial assistance. Dan had made it clear years back, when Brett had really moved into a realm of income that most folks simply couldn’t wrap their heads around, that he never wanted to be one of Brett’s charity cases. Brett had argued that it wasn’t charity, simply what family did for one another. Like what he’d done for Vanetta. Brett understood pride; he had his own. Which was why he’d handled Vanetta’s situation discreetly, as he would any assistance he sent Dan’s direction.
But that conversation had been definitively closed some time ago. Dan wouldn’t take handouts, as he called them, no matter how much Brett tried to explain that it would make him feel good to do something to repay the kindnesses Dan and his father had extended him throughout his teenage years.
And knowing that it was a dead issue, he was loathe to bring it up again now. But he could do something, he could help. It was hard not to offer. “Dan—”
“That’s not why I’m here, Brett,” he warned. “I’m fine.”
“Okay,” Brett said, though he thought it was anything but. “So, why are you here?”
“To talk some sense into my closest friend’s thick skull.”
Brett understood Dan’s frustration there, too. Dan wasn’t big on change, which was partly why his business didn’t thrive as much as it had under his father’s hand. Brett had tried to get him to be a bit more of a risk taker, to think bigger, see farther, but Dan was traditional in his approach to building his business. The problem was, Vegas wasn’t a traditional town. “You supported my decision to get out,” he said.
“Out of casinos, out of playing cards for a living, out from under the pressure the promoters were putting on you. But not out of Dodge all together.”
Brett sighed. Dan had been a part of his life for the entire duration of his poker-playing career, from the early rise, to the continued rise, to finally the retirement before he fell apart. But while his good friend had consistently told him that if he was miserable he should get out and find something else to do with his life, especially if his to do list included working for his good buddy, Dan had never really understood, not really, what it was about Brett’s career that had made him so stressed out, much less feel unfulfilled.
Of course, Dan would have taken full advantage of the perks, namely the ones who came with perky assets, which had been another bit of a friction between them. More than once Dan had tried to goad him into “sharing the wealth” as he termed it. Brett would have handed them all over to his buddy, gladly, but he wasn’t about to pimp for the guy and he wasn’t interested in double dating.
Not that Dan was hurting for female companionship, at least when he could make time for it. He was a bit shorter than Brett and stockier, but in that muscular, beefhead linebacker kind of way that women who wanted a big strong man to protect them really went for. And Dan was more than willing to give shelter. The shelter o
f his bed, anyway. He wasn’t exactly the go-to guy for long-term commitments. A holiday weekend would be considered a long relationship for him.
But while Dan might not have always been a stand-up guy where the opposite sex was concerned, he’d been absolutely loyal to Brett, even if they didn’t always see eye to eye. Brett always hoped Dan would find “the one” and jump off the merry-go-round of women he kept circling around him all the time, just as Brett had hoped “the one” would enter his own orbit at some point. At least when Brett did go out, it was with the hope it would last. He wasn’t sure Dan was interested in anything long term that didn’t come with dollar signs attached.
“I had to leave,” Brett said, retreading ground they’d been over many, many times. “You know that.”
“No, you know that. Or you think you do. A few spots of bad luck, and you freak out and think the Mafia or something is after you.”
“I didn’t freak out. And it wasn’t just a string of bad luck.”
“How the hell would you know? You don’t have bad luck.”
Brett felt his own temper edge up and worked to quell it. “I think I’ve had my share in my day, enough to know when it’s just fate and when someone has their hand in it. I did what I thought I had to do to protect the people I care about.” He lifted his hand to stop Dan’s rebuttal. “And even if those things hadn’t happened, I might have taken off anyway. I had a lot of thinking to do.”
“And you couldn’t have done that while swinging a hammer?”
“I tried that,” he reminded his friend. “And you have always known that my future was not down that path. Not full time. I respect what you do, Dan, what you and your father built, but that’s your future. It’s not mine.”
“Says the guy with the fancy architectural and design degrees. Too good for us? You’ve got the money, the education—”
Here Comes Trouble Page 21