by Stacy Finz
“Living in Nugget, working at the Lumber Baron. It’s not like you need the money.”
“I like it here, I like the job, and I think I can be good at it. That couple from before reserved the Lumber Baron for their wedding.”
“I noticed,” he said.
He could tell she wanted praise for getting the booking and when he didn’t give it, she said, “Why don’t you like me, Nate?”
“Because you’re playing, Sam. And this little game of make-believe of yours will ultimately wind up screwing my bottom line.”
“If that’s the way you feel about it, then you should fire me,” Sam said, throwing down the gauntlet. “Because I won’t quit.” She got up, went inside the inn, and slammed the screen door behind her.
Sam planned to give Nate until five o’clock to fire her. Regardless of whether he did or not, she was going to the Ponderosa for happy hour and ordering a large platter of nachos with everything on it and a glass of Chardonnay.
She reached for the cell phone on her desk and looked at her father’s text for the sixth or seventh time since he’d sent it, and shook her head.
“Well, Daddy, you may just wind up getting your way after all.” At least part of it, anyway.
No threat would get her to marry Royce. Not in this or any other lifetime. But she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that her father’s latest proviso had scared her.
He’d threatened to sell the summerhouse if she didn’t come home. The Nantucket property had been in her mother’s family since the nineteenth century when one of her ancestors, a wealthy sea captain, had built it on a Sconset bluff, overlooking the Atlantic. Over the years, relatives had added onto the mansion and modernized it. But despite the remodels, the place maintained its quirky originality—crooked ceilings and slanted floors and endless hallways that led nowhere. To Samantha, the summerhouse represented the happiest times of her life.
Every July until she turned eighteen, her mother, aunts, and cousins would open the old house and take up residence for two blissful months of nothing but swimming, playing, and lounging. It’s where she’d read Rebecca and Gone with the Wind and The Sun Also Rises. On the hottest days, she and her cousins would ride their bikes in their bathing suits to Main Street, deliberate over what flavor of ice cream to get, and walk from shop window to shop window, licking their cones.
It was at the summerhouse where she’d met her first love. The boy, the gardener’s son, had been seventeen, two years her senior. They used to steal away to the boathouse and make out for hours. On her seventeenth birthday, she lost her virginity to him, slow and sweet. To this day, they still kept in touch through Facebook and Christmas cards. He was a cop in Worcester, married with two children.
As for the summerhouse, her father bought her aunts’ shares when Sam’s mother died. The women had gotten too old to use it and Sam’s cousins had chosen to vacation with their families in more exotic locales. The bottom line was, no one wanted to pay exorbitant property taxes for an empty house. No one but Sam. So her father had rescued the house and planned to give it to Sam. She in turn intended to set up a trust to keep the property in the Astor family forever.
But George Dunsbury IV never had a problem manipulating situations when he couldn’t get his way. Sam feared that if she didn’t go home, he’d do it. He’d sell the summerhouse to the highest bidder. For some unfathomable reason George believed that Sam and Royce could still pick up where they left off. Tie the knot and merge two great families. It didn’t matter to George that Sam didn’t want to marry Royce. Family came first. And in his mind, the only thing that could improve the Dunsbury family bloodline was melding it with Royce Whitley’s. It was as if she were a racehorse, not a human being with feelings. Then again, Sam’s mother and father had shared a loveless marriage in order to unite two “great” families. Poor Mimi Astor Dunsbury had been miserable. But she’d always been faithful, despite George dangling his paramours right under her nose. Sam suspected that Mimi had gotten her revenge by only giving George one child. And a girl, no less.
The whole thing was crazy to Sam. Who married that way in the twenty-first century—or in the case of her parents, the twentieth century? Even the Kennedys did whatever they wanted and married whomever they pleased. Of course, George had always called the Kennedys bootlegging trash. Sam thought it awfully ironic that she’d had to travel to a little backwater town in the California mountains to escape the Stone Age. Here, she could be whoever she wanted and no longer had to adhere to the dictates of her “station.” Here she didn’t have Daddy controlling her every move. And here she could actually have an ordinary life.
But she couldn’t let her father sell the summerhouse. Mimi, who’d loved the place as much as Sam, would turn over in her grave. Somehow she’d hold her father off. Sam, after all, could be as stubborn as George when she put her mind to it.
She sighed and looked at the clock on the wall. Five fifteen and apparently still gainfully employed. Time for nachos. Sam gathered up her purse and jacket and headed out. Maybe she’d come back after dinner and do a little paperwork.
She passed through the hallway without seeing Nate and wondered if he too had called it a day. Andy stood at the front desk, looking put out, as usual.
“You missed the meeting,” he said.
“I had a phone appointment that couldn’t be changed,” Sam lied.
“He wrote me up, said I’m never around and that if I don’t start pulling my weight around here, he’s going to fire me. Can you believe it?”
Sam couldn’t say she blamed Nate. Andy wasn’t the most conscientious worker, but he was a sweet young man. “I’m sorry, Andy.”
“Hey, it’s not your fault. The guy’s a jack-off. It’ll be better when Maddy comes back; then he’ll stay in San Francisco.”
Sam silently agreed. “Is Denny working the night shift?”
“Yep. You want to come see my band play tonight? We’ve got a gig at Rounders in Sierraville. I could put you on the list.”
“Andy, I’d love to see your band, just not tonight. Could I have a rain check?”
“Hell yeah. We like packing the place with hot chicks. It’s good for business.”
Sam smiled, having never thought of herself as a “hot chick.” “Great. Then count me in for the next show.”
She strolled across the square, enjoying the cool breeze. Even though spring had arrived, the temperatures dropped in the evenings. Some mornings, before the sun fully came out, a thin layer of frost covered the ground. The afternoons, though, were mild, clear, and ridiculously gorgeous. Everything smelled so green and fresh.
A small crowd had already assembled at the Ponderosa. Across the room two women waved at her to join them. Harlee, owner of the Nugget Tribune, and Darla, Owen’s daughter, who’d taken over her father’s barbershop, came for happy hour most weeknights. Sometimes Colin, Harlee’s fiancé, would join them. And when Darla’s police officer boyfriend, Wyatt Lambert, wasn’t on duty, he’d come too.
“Hi,” she said, and plopped into the women’s booth like she was deadweight. Both drank frothy-looking cocktails. “Ooh, maybe I’ll have one of those.”
“You look like you could use one,” Harlee said. “Long day?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” she said. “Nate Breyer loathes me and I have no idea why.” Harlee and Darla exchanged glances.
“What?” Sam wanted to know.
“We did notice that he’s always harshing on you,” Darla said. “Maybe he has a crush on you.”
“Uh, we’re in our thirties. I’m sure if he had a crush, he’d just tell me instead of treating me like an incompetent who’s been foisted on him.”
“Maddy thinks you’re doing a great job,” Harlee said, sipping her cocktail. “I know this for a fact, because Colin was over at her house, making some repairs to the guest cottage, and she went on and on about you. How you’re booking weddings and all sorts of parties and that it’s boosting profits. I just think
Nate’s overwhelmed with the extra work of running the inn as well as his San Francisco hotels and he’s taking it out on you.”
“Maybe,” Sam said, but thought it doubtful. “But it is true. I’ve gotten a lot of events in the short time I’ve worked there. Just today, I may have landed a big tech guy for a family reunion.”
“Who’s the tech guy?” Harlee asked, obviously trying to sniff out a scoop for her website.
Sam wondered if she should’ve kept her big mouth shut. “Consider that information off the record.”
“Uh-uh.” Harlee laughed. “You have to say it’s off the record before you tell me, otherwise it’s fair game.”
“Great, you want to make Nate hate me even more?”
“Don’t worry,” Harlee said. “I won’t use it—at least not until it’s a done deal. And I’ll find another source to cover your butt. So who’s the guy? Mark Zuckerberg? Sergey Brin? Biz Stone?”
She ticked off the names like they were celebrities, and Sam supposed they were, especially here, where they were only a half day’s drive from Silicon Valley. But still, Sam wouldn’t be able to pick famous computer nerds out of photo lineup. Nate had been right, these tech gurus, probably listed on the Forbes wealthiest-people list, were not part of her old-money world.
Sam pretended to zip her lips. “Not telling.”
“Ah,” Harlee grumbled. “You suck.”
“Leave her alone, Lois Lane.” Darla came to Sam’s rescue, then reached out and finger combed Sam’s hair. “Time for a trim, unless you’re trying to grow it out?”
“No, I just haven’t found the time to come in.” Sam used to have nothing but time for haircuts, manicures, massages, shopping, and lunch with her friends. But being too busy for frivolity felt good. Honestly, it felt euphoric. Sam had never realized until now just how bored she’d been. “Could I come in on Saturday?”
Darla pulled her phone out of a big, plastic, neon-green handbag that matched her nails. Never one to shy away from bold colors and even bolder accessories, Darla sported a jet-black wig and giant hoop earrings. “I’ve got an opening at three,” she said, scrolling through a calendar. “Does that work for you?”
“That’s great,” Sam said as a server approached their table. “I’m getting nachos. Will you help me eat them?”
“Uh, yeah,” Darla said. “They’re so good here, right?”
“I’ve been craving them all day,” Sam said. The nachos—and smacking Nate in the face. Why, oh why, did the man have to be so extraordinarily good-looking and so odious at the same time? “One of our guests tried to molest me today.”
“What?” Harlee put her drink down, waiting to hear the story.
Sam attempted to make light of the creep putting his hands all over her. “It was kind of comical. Nate kicked him out of the inn.”
“Really?” Harlee turned up her lips in a sly smile. “So he rescued you.”
“Not quite.” Sam hated to crush Harlee’s romantic illusion that Nate had rushed in like an avenging hero. “He berated me for being alone with the guy.”
Harlee rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what Nate’s deal is. Usually, he’s such a nice guy. Don’t you think, Darla?”
“Yeah,” she said. “He’s always seemed pretty easygoing for a tight-ass hotel executive.”
“Speaking of Mr. Tight Ass.” Harlee nudged her chin at the door where Nate had just walked into the restaurant and up to the bar.
He’d changed into faded jeans and a long-sleeved San Francisco Giants jersey that accentuated those broad shoulders of his. The man looked good enough to eat, and if he wasn’t so hateful she might be tempted to fall for all that luscious handsomeness.
Luckily she wasn’t. And even if she was, part of Samantha’s new life included resisting bad men. Nate definitely fell into that category.
But when Sophie handed him a bulging diaper bag and laid tiny Lilly into his big, strong arms, Sam warmed just a little toward her archenemy. And when she saw Nate kiss the baby on her plump red cheek, she lost the war and melted into a big puddle right there on the floor.
Chapter 4
“We’re screwed,” Sam told Nate as he walked into the Lumber Baron kitchen the next morning to find it in complete disarray.
His so-called event planner stood at the center island, covered in flour, the phone cradled against her ear. “Carmela didn’t show up this morning.”
Nate started to say something, but Sam held up a finger, listened to someone on the other end of the line, and hung up.
“That was Clay,” she said. “He was trying to track down Emily for us. But she’s on her way to Reno with Donna and your sister to get her wedding dress fitted. I was hoping she or Donna could pinch hit. Breakfast is in less than an hour.”
“Can’t you just throw something together, like a big omelet or French toast?” Nate asked. He’d do it, but didn’t think instant oatmeal, the only dish besides grilled cheese sandwiches in his vast cooking repertoire, would cut it.
“Nate, the extent of my cooking experience is watching my family’s French chef throw things at his staff.” She looked down at the mess now covering her knit suit and at the opened cookbook on the countertop. “I tried to make biscuits. They’re in the garbage if you’re interested. And by the way, I’ve got a birthday party consultation in forty minutes.”
“Hand me the phone.” He wagged his hand at her.
Ten minutes later and a hundred bucks lighter, he’d bribed Tater, head chef at the Ponderosa, to whip up a couple of breakfast soufflés, home fried potatoes, and a batch of fresh muffins.
“Can you at least make coffee?” Nate handed her a bag of beans.
“That I can do,” she said. “And I’m very good at setting a table.” She opened cabinets and began assembling serving platters, dishes, and silverware.
He supposed she’d learned that particular skill at finishing school or in the Junior League or wherever the hell she got her education, and tried to keep his voice from dripping with disdain when he said, “Great.”
At least she’d admitted to that bit about having a French chef. A French chef. Jesus Christ.
“I think we have to prepare for the possibility that Carmela isn’t coming back.” Sam found the cloth napkins in a drawer and piled them next to the rest of the tableware. “She didn’t even bother to call out today, and looking back on it she seemed distracted this last week.”
“Yep,” he said. “I think that’s a pretty good assessment.”
“Maybe I can talk Emily into doing it until we find a replacement.”
Nate had to give Sam kudos for being a team player. And if she could actually persuade Emily to stand in until they found someone else, that would be a real coup for the inn. A few times the well-known cookbook author had held special tasting events and afternoon teas at the Lumber Baron, and they’d been big financial successes.
“See what you can do,” he said, knowing that between Emily’s wedding, her cookbook deadlines, and helping to raise her soon-to-be stepsons, she had her hands full. But if Sam could somehow convince Emily, that would be great by him.
He started to go to the Ponderosa to pick up the breakfast fare and grab a cup of coffee when Sam asked him, “Did you have a nice time with Lilly last night?”
Lilly was only four months old, incapable of doing much more than eating, sleeping, crying, and dirtying her diaper. And not necessarily in that order. Yet, he couldn’t remember when he’d had a better time.
“It was babysitting,” he said, and walked away.
As he cut through the green to get to the other side of the square, Nate wondered if Sam had asked about Lilly to kiss up after the argument they’d had yesterday. Why don’t you just fire me? she’d said. Because I won’t quit.
Yeah, right. He’d give her two more months, max.
At the Ponderosa, Nate’s brother-in-law sat on a bar stool, eating a slice of pie.
“Nice breakfast.” Nate lifted his brows as he eyed the streusel
topping and took the stool next to Rhys.
“Maddy and Emma went to Reno with Emily for some wedding stuff . . . Sammy had to be at school early.” Rhys shook his head. “I don’t need an excuse to eat pie.” He shoveled a heaping forkful into his mouth. “I can have all the pie I want.”
“Yes, you can,” Nate said, and lowered his gaze until it rested on Rhys’s gut.
“Screw you. I’m in the best shape of my life.”
Nate had to admit that his sister’s husband was pretty damned fit. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve got nothing,” Rhys said. “You?”
“It looks like we may have lost our cook. She didn’t show today. No call, no email, no nothing.”
“That sucks. But Maddy’s not coming back, Nate. She’s got five more months of maternity leave.”
It was closer to four, but Nate wouldn’t quibble. “Maddy can’t cook, anyway.” His sister knew how to microwave and make cookies from store-bought dough.
“What about Samantha?”
“Are you kidding?” Nate laughed. “I doubt the woman makes her own bed.”
Rhys lifted his shoulders. “I hear she’s doing well with the event planning. At least that’s what Maddy tells me.”
“So far, she’s only booked events. We’ll see if she lasts long enough to actually coordinate them.”
“I got the impression she was happy here.”
“For now,” Nate said.
“Look”—Rhys pinned Nate with his famous cop stare—“if you know something, come clean, because that woman is Maddy’s safety net. She’d be a nervous wreck taking this time off if not for Sam. I’ll personally chain the woman to the inn if she’s planning on quitting.”
“I’m taking care of the inn,” Nate said, a little offended.
“Who are you kidding, Nate? You’re spread so thin it’s a wonder that you haven’t dropped from exhaustion.”
Before Maddy’s maternity leave, Nate had spent the bulk of his time in the city, tending to the Lumber Baron a few weekends a month. His big hotels needed him more. But now, with Lilly, he couldn’t seem to tear himself away from Nugget, afraid he’d miss her first smile, first step, first words, and any other milestone.