by Gaelen Foley
She strode as quickly as she could, rounded the bend, and made it just a couple minutes later to the Sweetwater Inn’s entrance. Fashionably late. Don’t worry, she assured herself, no guy with a brain actually expects a female to be exactly on time.
When she stepped into the bed and breakfast, classical music played softly, and a stale coffee smell came from a room off the lobby to the left. “Hey, Sharon,” she nervously greeted the receptionist.
“Beatrice Palmer?” the woman exclaimed, taking off her glasses, and gaping at her. “Is that you?”
Aw geez. But unlike Mike, the receptionist wasn’t joking. “It sure is,” she said with a self-conscious smile. “Um, I’m here to meet Harrison Riley.”
A.k.a. Mr. Cutie.
“Wowza!” Sharon said. “You’re going out with Harry?”
Bea hid her wince. “Yeah…”
“He told me he was expecting a guest around seven, but I had no idea…” Sharon’s words trailed off, and Bea could almost hear the town gossip mill firing up. “He’s up in room five, hon. Up the steps, to your left, end of the hallway.”
“Thanks, Sharon. Nice seein’ ya.”
“You too, Bea. Have a nice night. I sure would,” Sharon added under her breath, but Bea pretended not to hear that.
Instead, she focused on making sure her feet actually propelled her up the white-carpeted staircase in these heels. With a deep breath, it was all coming back to her. High heels and party dresses, fine cocktails and glamorous nights out.
Though years in the past, apparently it was all still in there. Just like riding a bicycle, she told herself. More nervous by the minute but determined to stay cool, she knocked on the door marked Room 5.
After a few painfully long seconds, it swung open. Harrison Riley was talking on the phone—trying to end the conversation, it sounded like—but he took one look at her and stopped mid-sentence.
Damn! he mouthed at her, then opened the door wider, nodding for her to come in. “Get in here, gorgeous. You look amazing,” he whispered to her, his mouth curving into a big, sexy smile as he pulled the phone away from his cheek.
Bea blushed at his flattery and the open admiration in his stare as she stepped warily into his hotel room.
“Curt, I gotta go,” he said into the phone. “There’s a beautiful woman at my door.”
Still nervous and feeling slightly bashful at his praise, she tingled from head to toe just being near him, but she tried not to stare; he was looking pretty darn fantastic himself.
He was freshly shaved, his black hair just recently moussed, she could tell. He wore a smart white shirt, the first few buttons open. A dressier pair of those slim-fitting trousers hugged his lean hips, charcoal-colored this time, with barely noticeable pinstripes.
She could smell his cologne again, only this time it was a little stronger. Not overwhelming; just the right amount.
Harry mouthed the word “sorry” to her, and pointed at the phone in exasperation. A voice crackled through the other end, but she couldn’t make out the words.
She arched a brow at him, having heard him call the person on the other end of the line Curt. She remembered quite well that was his boss’s name.
Though she was intensely curious about what they’d been discussing, she didn’t want to seem like a snoop, so she just waited for him to finish, wandering a few steps into the room to check out what sort of accommodations the Sweetwater Inn had to offer. She’d never stayed there herself.
It was nice. Classic Victorian. Seafoam-green walls with white trim, high ceilings, a bay window, and a good view of the mountains. A garment bag hung from a coat rack in the closet, and the ambient beat of some electronica song Bea didn’t recognize played from tiny speakers on a dresser.
“Just have Dana send me a PDF. All I need to see is a list of transactions,” he said. “Sir, I really gotta go.”
Mr. Culpeper apparently refused to take the hint.
“Right. Good. Okay. I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Sure, I won’t forget. I’m hanging up on you now, sir. Now…” He sounded like Gregory Peck or some other esteemed, measured film star, Bea thought, laughing as Harry patiently scolded his boss. “Sir, we’re going to be late for our reservation, okay? Gotta run. Have a good evening. Hanging up now…goodbye!” he said at last, and tapped the phone off.
She chuckled, gazing at him in amusement.
“Some people,” Harry said, shaking his head with an irresistible grin. “Hello there,” he added, finally greeted her properly. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem.”
“Except—I’m sorry, Miss…? I think you’ve got the wrong room. I’m supposed to be having dinner with a farmer, not a supermodel.”
Tongue-tied but beaming, she clutched the ridiculous little purse with both hands.
“Phew! I’m going to be fighting them off tonight. You look incredible.” He leaned down and gave her a peck on the cheek in greeting.
Bea didn’t mind a bit. “Thanks.” So do you, she thought, wondering if there was any grownup way to ask such a sophisticated man if they could take a couple of selfies together. The girls were so going to want to see this, and after all their work, they deserved it. Reg and Jules hadn’t even seen Harry yet.
But, on second thought, Bea abandoned the idea, at least for now. Oh, she’d get some pictures, but though she might be feeling as giddy as a teenager around him, he didn’t need to know that.
He was scanning her face in concern. “Well, you look great, but how are you feeling? You still up to this, after your ordeal today?”
What, you want to stay in here tonight and put that bed to use, instead? she wondered, biting her lip against a wicked smile. Chief Mike, my dear, you give me too much credit. But she shook off the fleeting temptation.
Going out with Harrison Riley was risky enough; staying in with him would be playing with fire.
“You must feel pretty beat up,” he added, apparently with no such ulterior motive.
“I’m fine, thanks,” she said politely, touched by his solicitude. “I got to nap this afternoon. That and a hot shower helped a lot.”
“All right, then. I’ll get my jacket.” Harry turned away, eyeing her with a smile. After smoothly slipping on a sharp sports coat, he grabbed his keys and wallet off the dresser, then got the door for her again.
And their date officially began.
CHAPTER 8
Listen, Harry, if you don’t seal the deal soon, I’m gonna have to come out there and settle matters m’self… Curt’s words were still ringing in Harry’s ears as he got out of his Porsche under the portico at Apex.
Leaving Ruby’s keys in the ignition for the valet, he went around to the passenger side, opened the door for Bea, and offered her his hand.
What a knockout, he thought, trying not to salivate. His boss’s latest tirade dissolved into nothing as the enchantress emerged, one smooth, tanned, sexy leg at a time. His mouth watered—and not for the fine French cuisine in this place.
When she stood up fully from the car, her high-heeled sandals put her closer to eye level with him. He ran his gaze appreciatively over her, her hair styled with charming elegance, the sexy, dark red dress skimming her curves.
He liked the sleeves baring so much of her toned arms, the pretty neckline, and as his stare traveled back up to her face, he wanted to kiss the spot where wispy tendrils of her hair had escaped from the low, fetching knot to tickle her neck.
The transformation was frankly astonishing, though. If he’d thought she was sexy in her Daisy Duke cutoffs—and during this morning’s wet t-shirt contest whitewater rafting—tonight, she was simply ravishing, and he was ridiculously proud to be seen with such a prize on his arm.
To be honest, Harry had surprised himself when he’d asked her out to dinner after their brush with death. Curt had assigned him to drop by Monty’s resort, but the decision to take Beatrice Palmer with him had been spontaneous.
Even he wasn’t sure what his heart was up to.
He told himself it was a matter of two birds, one stone. But the truth was deeper. He preferred not to examine it too much, because he sensed that if he wasn’t careful, he could end up siding with the enemy in this.
Seeing this beautiful woman nearly drown had been a bucket of cold water in the face, one hell of a rude awakening about his priorities. As for this dinner, he wasn’t sure himself if this was part of the campaign or a real date.
Maybe a little of both. It didn’t really matter. All he knew was that he needed to find out more about this woman, and that need had nothing to do with Curt’s goals.
Harry kept hold of her hand rather than giving it back after he’d helped her out of the car. He tucked her dainty fingers into the crook of his elbow with a discreet sideways smile. Bea smiled back, and he led her inside.
While the maître d’ prepared their table at Silver Oaks’ top-rated restaurant, Harry guided Bea into the lounge for an aperitif.
Unsurprisingly, he bumped into some colleagues at the bar, some old clients, some prospective ones. As he introduced them to his date, he stood back, happy to gloat over the envious glances from the men. She handled herself tonight like a perfectly polished lady; Harry watched her with awe and no small measure of confusion.
The way she greeted his acquaintances so confidently, how she maneuvered in those heels across the granite floor, how she kept her back as straight as an iron fence as she sat in the stuffed leather chairs, crossed those delicate ankles, so prim and proper…was this even the same woman?
It all left him wondering if this was Bea’s sophisticated twin sister, and the sassy tomboy he’d spent the last day and a half defending himself against wasn’t back at the farm, plowing fields in her work boots.
Soon, they were seated at a candlelit dining table near a window, and Harry was still gazing at her, mystified. The pull of intrigue tugged at him from somewhere deep inside as he studied her covertly.
Their conversation ranged over many different topics. Considering the assumptions he had made about her that first day at the fruit stand, he could only listen in veiled astonishment as this fascinating brunette proceeded to explain to him the subtle differences between abstract expressionism and postmodern art.
And soon thereafter, if he had thought the extravagant French menu might trip her up, he was wrong once again.
“Pourrais-je avoir les noix de Saint Jacques?” she asked the waiter.
Harry sat in baffled admiration, studying her as she held her wineglass delicately by its stem, skillfully navigated the superfluous flatware surrounding her dinner plate like it was all second nature.
Who is this woman? he wondered, amused at his own confusion. He could only attribute her sophistication to her supposed “social climber” of a mom, but damn, wasn’t he the guy who made his living figuring people out, getting into their heads, discovering their motivations? And here she was, dancing all over his expectations.
“And that,” she finished with a smile long after the waiter had left them, “is why I’ve always been partial to Matisse. Do you have a favorite artist?”
Harry shrugged. “I kind of like Warhol.”
She scrunched up her nose, eyes twinkling. “Ew.”
Harry laughed at her reaction. “But he’s from Pittsburgh!”
“Still. All right, all right. I like his Marilyn Monroe. His work with other celebrities was good, too. I’ll give him that.”
“Sheesh,” Harry said in amusement.
“Do you know how many self-portraits that guy did?” she teased. “Every other picture was of himself! Okay, I’m exaggerating. Still. That annoys me.”
They chatted a while longer until the staff delivered their meals: for her, three plump sea scallops swimming in a bath of cream, a buttery bed of greens and a dollop of risotto on the side. Harry had opted for the vol-au-vent, a delicate puff pastry filled with tender bits of veal and a creamy mushroom ragout.
When the waiter withdrew, Harry proposed a toast. “To new acquaintances—and surviving Finn’s thrilling tour.”
She grinned. “I’ll drink to that, and overcoming all our fears and phobias. Thanks again for saving my life today, Harrison Riley.”
“The honor’s mine, Beatrice Palmer.” He tapped her wineglass with his, smiling.
They drank, then she glanced at him, her eyes sparkling. “But I must say, now you’ve got me wondering. Are there really people who are afraid of jellybeans?”
He chuckled. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“How is it?” he asked, nodding at her plate after she had taken a few ladylike bites.
“Mm, divine. Yours?”
But the look of bliss on her face as she tasted the fine French food made Harry forget the question for a moment. “Huh? Oh—great. Delicious.” He wolfed down another bite of veal to preoccupy his baser instincts.
“So,” he said after he’d washed down a couple more bites with a swallow of red, “you told me how your dad had talked you out of majoring in art history. How you switched to pre-law and hated it. But I’ve been wondering…”
“Yes?”
“How exactly did you wind up in Harmony Falls as a farmer?”
Bea narrowed her eyes and seemed to be considering how to formulate an answer.
Harry waited patiently for as long as it took her to come up with one, savoring his meal, though, truthfully, just watching her was pleasure enough.
“Things came to a point for me where I just needed to take a step back,” she finally said, toying with an earring. “Life had become, shall we say, complicated.”
A lousy ex? Tragedy in the family? Intensely curious, Harry waited to see if she’d elaborate. Bea set down her fork and ran her fingers up and down the stem of her wineglass. Then she gazed off over Harry’s shoulder through the big picture windows, staring out beyond the terrace.
The view went on for miles in every direction, since Apex sat atop a mountain.
She seemed to be debating with herself on how much to share, but after a heartbeat, the quick, impatient flick of her eyebrows suggested she’d decided just to tell the tale and get it over with. “There was this Christmas party a few years ago. It was a work thing for a guy I was seeing at the time. Todd.”
Harry stabbed a cube of veal, hiding his burning desire to hear the story she seemed reluctant to share.
“It took place at a fancy restaurant not unlike this one.” She shifted her gaze around the dining room. “Sort of a double date. My roommate Stephanie and I worked together at a corporate law firm downtown. I was a secretary, part-time, because I was also going to college. I worked the front desk, answered phones, set appointments, and so forth. Steph was a paralegal. Full disclosure: my father got me the job—of course. The senior partner there was one of his golfing buddies.”
“Uh-huh.” Harry took another bite. Sounded like old Farmer Ed’s son had done quite well for himself in the big city.
“Steph and I were always going out after work to the clubs downtown.”
Harry smiled. “Party girls, eh?”
“To some extent, I guess,” she said with a shrug. “I had no use for the college boys. Steph and I preferred the men downtown. You know—guys with jobs.”
He chuckled and took a sip of wine.
“Anyway, a couple of young execs from a company that shall remain nameless asked us out one night at a club downtown. One of them was Todd. We started seeing each other.” She frowned, looking a little disgusted. “It was nothing too serious, really. My mom loved him, though—I swear, it was only because he drove a BMW. She’s the one who got me all mixed up about the relationship. She wanted us to get married, move to the burbs, have kids, the whole deal. And for a little while there, I kind of convinced myself that maybe she was right. Maybe he was ‘the one.’ Even though, in my gut, I knew he was a jerk. Anyway.” She waved off her train of thought. “Todd and his coworker invited me and Steph to their company’s annual winter gala.”
“Go on,” Harry said, topping off her
glass for her.
“We were all too eager to join them. We thought we were the hottest items in town, you know? Just so fierce and independent,” Bea said wryly. “But at that age…I don’t know. At twenty-two, we cared more about getting the right little black dress than having any real regard for the future.”
Harry smiled, listening.
She shrugged. “We were just living it up. How I passed my classes, I don’t even know. I was really busy and having too much fun. I mean, don’t get me wrong—no drugs or anything really stupid. I was just sowing my wild oats, I guess.” She shook her head, as if to scold her younger self.
“That’s what being twenty-two is all about, as I recall,” he offered.
She tilted her head in agreement, then savored a bite of risotto while a passing waiter topped off their waters and asked if they needed anything else. They declined.
“So, anyway, the night of the winter gala. Steph and I get all glammed up and go out to this big fancy party up on Mt. Washington. Amazing views of the city lights. Great food, the whole nine yards.”
“Love Mt. Washington,” Harry chimed in.
“Yeah, so did I. Until that night. There was an open bar, a posh dinner, then music and dancing. And, of course, by the night’s end, everyone was pretty loaded. Except for me. It was finals week, and I had an exam at eight the next morning—and believe me, I was not happy about that. But I was determined to be responsible and do well on the test.
“So when it was time to go,” she continued, “that meant I was the only one capable of driving everybody home. At first, I’m all excited, thinking, ‘I get to drive the Bimmer!’”
Harry was impressed that she knew not to call it a Beamer. It was a car guy thing.
“What none of us realized was that there had been freezing rain coming down while we were in the restaurant. It had stopped by the time we walked out, but patches of road were frozen solid—a fact I only learned when the car full of people with me driving started sliding about thirty miles an hour sideways down McArdle, that big, scary hill.”