By the time they walked back out to the truck forty minutes later, the wind had picked up a bit, whipping awnings and signs around. Nell looked up at the sky. “My weather app didn’t say anything about rain, but those clouds over there…”
“I’ve got good tires on my truck,” Eamonn said, “and four-wheel drive. Even if it rained hard, we’d be fine. Probably just a summer shower coming, though.”
“I wasn’t worried,” she told him.
This time, when he popped the passenger door open for her, she just gave him a nod and got in. I won’t thank him. I didn’t ask him to open it for me. But I won’t complain.
She settled herself into the seat and buckled up.
“I’m going to stop and get another coffee for the drive,” he told her. “Want anything?”
“Not me. I’m pretty full, and caffeine keeps me up at night.”
“That’s kind of the idea.” Once they’d been through the Starbucks drive-thru and were back on Highway 97, he plugged his phone into the truck’s sound system — but instead of loading up the classic rock playlist he’d been running earlier, he chose jazz.
“You like jazz music?” she asked. It was just so unexpected, so incongruous with his rock-and-roll persona and the country-boy truck he drove.
“Don’t look so surprised,” he said, with a wry twist to his mouth. “If you don’t like it, we can go back to rock, or I’ve got a classical playlist or some country. Your choice.”
Oops. “No, jazz is nice. I just didn’t expect…”
“No one does. I’m just Easy, Smidge’s bastard ex-bassist. Why would I listen to jazz?”
Crap. “I didn’t mean—”
“Sure you did. Just look out the window and go to sleep, babe. We’ve got a long drive ahead and I don’t want to debate public personas and musical taste with you.”
“Rude, much?” she muttered, but turned her head to stare at the passing countryside. Great, what a way to start off the next few days being stuck together at Champagne. The clouds had completely filled the sky now and the dry gravel and scrubby bushes on the side of the highway were being blown about by the wind. When the first few drops of rain splattered on the windshield, Nell resigned herself to a miserable and frustrating site visit. Even with rain and Eamonn being a bear, it was better than being stuck in the office.
The buttery smooth jazz music soothed her. Just the right thing for a road trip and rain. Eamonn’s big truck was comfortable and well-insulated, keeping out the engine and traffic noise. As the windshield wipers began to swish away the rain, she found herself nodding off. She’d had no intention of falling asleep, especially after he’d suggested twice that she might, but the glass of wine with dinner had taken the edge off her resolve and the jazz music and rain were doing the rest.
I’m just Easy, Smidge’s bastard ex-bassist. His voice echoed in her half-asleep mind. Ex-bassist? She wondered, remembering that she’d asked him about what he was doing at Wildforest. If you have to ask, do you think we could talk about it somewhere more private? He’d sounded bitter, troubled, and she hadn’t pried. Had he quit, or been kicked out? The temptation to search the internet for answers warred with a conviction that she ought to grant him the respect of privacy. And she slept.
He woke her on the outskirts of Winthrop. “Sorry to wake you, Nell. Where now?”
“Agh. What time is it?” She rubbed her eyes and looked out the window. Dusk had fallen, and through the rain, she could see that they were in a parking lot in front of something called Pardner’s Mini Market that had gas pumps and looked like a general store.
“Just after ten.”
“Right.” Sleepily, she dug out the sheet of printed directions from her pocket — she always took printed travel directions with her in case cell service was a problem — and unfolded it. He switched on the truck’s cabin light for her. “North on Chewuch River Road,” she read. “Should be less than ten minutes away, I think. I wrote down seven miles? Then we should turn onto a private road called Bereche Avenue, and we’re there.”
“Might be a little more than ten minutes. Road conditions aren’t great.”
“Yeah.”
Eamonn reached up to switch off the cabin light, then put the big truck into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. Visibility wasn’t great, even with high beam headlights on, and it was closer to fifteen minutes before they saw the turn sign for Bereche Avenue and a billboard showing the delights of Champagne Cascades — Romantic Cottages at the Prettiest Falls In The Northwest. A smaller sign said Private Road: Guests Only and an ornate metal gate stood open but could clearly be used to close the road. Lucky that’s not closed.
Eamonn didn’t turn into the lot marked Guest Parking, but continued along the grand circular driveway to pull right up under the portico of the building with the carved wooden sign reading Site Office. Being in the Pacific Northwest, presumably it rained a fair bit of the time even at the Prettiest Falls Ever, so a drive-up portico had been a clever and necessary part of the building’s design. “Come on,” said Nell. “Let’s go in and see what we can find.”
The office was locked, naturally, but she’d brought keys with her. Inside, it was tidy and looked normal — a few papers in the in and out trays, the computer in sleep mode, a pink fluffy sweater over the back of the desk chair, and a half-full mug of stone-cold coffee with pink lipstick on the rim sitting on the desk. Concern prickled in her mind more strongly than before. Whatever had happened to Jessalyn, she hadn’t meant to abandon the office. She’d started a cup of coffee and had expected to drink the rest of it.
Nell noticed an insulated lunch bag tucked under the counter, and when she peeked inside, she saw a sandwich and muffin. “Well, I think we can say for sure that Jessalyn didn’t just bail on the job because she got another one she liked better. It looks like she was here at some point relatively recently — maybe early this morning?”
“Are there guests who might have seen her? Seen what happened to her?” Eamonn asked.
“Maybe. Let me look at the guest register — and we can also pick where we’re going to stay.”
“I assumed there’d be staff sleeping accommodations,” Eamonn said.
“There’s a bunk room for staff behind the store, and the site manager has an apartment upstairs in this building. But we’re management; we’re supposed to act like bosses. We get cottage accommodation if they’re not fully booked, and meals in the dining room.”
“The lap of luxury,” he said, his tone dry, and she thought about the five-star hotels he’d undoubtedly stayed in and how much of a come-down even the nicest of Wildforest’s properties must seem to him.
“You know, we should probably go up and have a look at the apartment, in case…” She didn’t want to voice the horrible thought she’d had, that Jessalyn might be up there, injured and trapped somehow, in a coma or dead.
But he knew what she meant without her having to spell it out. “You want me to go up and look around? You can get on with the computer stuff here.”
“Thanks. That would be helpful. Here’s the key, the one with the purple cap.” She held out her key ring, which had all the keys identified with stretchy silicone caps in different colors.
As he headed down the staff-only passage to find the way upstairs, she woke the computer and logged on with her administrator password. By the time he got back, she’d checked Jessalyn’s email and browser history for any information about where the woman might have gone, with no luck, and called up the booking program. “Anything?” she asked.
“Nothing. There’s milk in the fridge, a few dirty dishes in the sink, and laundry in the hamper. It doesn’t look like she expected to be away.”
“Hmm. Well, maybe one of the guests will have seen or heard something. We’ve got three occupied cottages: Annie and Michael Prince are in Veuve Clicquot, Pauline Morton and Jason Butcher are in Krug, Jude Leith and Finn Halliday are in Dom Perignon. Pol Roger is closed for plum
bing issues, Bollinger and Gallimard haven’t been cleaned—” She scrolled down the screen— “Oh, and nor has Taittinger, or Pommery… or Moet & Chandon. Why is the cleaning so far behind? Half the cottages shouldn’t be sitting dirty…” Crap. The cleaning service ought to have been brought in as soon as each cottage was vacated; why hadn’t that happened? She’d need to call them first thing in the morning. “It, uh, looks like only Cristal is available.”
“We can make it work.” Eamonn shrugged. “I can sleep anywhere — bonus if it’s soft and there’s a pillow, but I’ve slept on floors and in the backs of vans.”
“And in top hotels with actual champagne flowing like water,” Nell pointed out.
“True.”
“If I’m reading this right, Cristal should have a daybed as well as a king. I know you said you’re fine sleeping anywhere, but I’m betting you’d rather not sleep on the floor if there’s a choice, and I’m not sharing a bed with you.”
The cottages at Champagne Cascades were spread out in the woods along the river for as much romantic privacy as possible, with neat gravel paths winding through the trees and ferns and salal bushes leading to each one. Although none of the cabins were far from the main area where the office building and the main dining room and laundry were located, the artful illusion of distance and privacy seemed very real in the rainy night, even with the strings of white fairy lights along the paths.
After a quick search, Nell found a couple of heavy-duty flashlights in a box in the office and handed one to Eamonn. “These will help. There are supposed to be umbrellas, too, but I have no idea where, so we’ll just have to get wet. Let’s go.”
“Which one is ours?” he asked, looking at the pouring rain and the faintly twinkling strands of lights leading off between the trees.
She locked the office behind her and turned. “Far end,” she told him, pointing to the right. “I’ve got a copy of the site map in my bag, just in case, but I’m pretty sure it’s the last cabin to the north.”
“Can we drive closer?” He unlocked his truck and reached to open the passenger door for her.
“No such luck,” she said. “Guest parking is on the south side, and the staff spots are behind the office. Just leave your truck under the portico for the night and we’ll move it in the morning.”
“All right.” He opened the door to the crew cab’s second row instead, handed Nell her bag, then grabbed his backpack. “We’re going to get soaked. Want to run?”
“On gravel paths, in the rain, in the dark. Great idea.” Nell laughed. “But sure. Why not?” She waited for him to lock his truck, then took off, her bag bouncing on her shoulder, getting wetter in the rain with every step she took. She didn’t think he’d meant it as a race, but his footsteps close behind her triggered a competitive burst of speed and she pulled ahead for a moment before he caught on and upped his pace. With his longer legs, he caught up with her quickly, though she thought — hoped? — he had to put more effort into it than he might have expected. She pushed herself for more speed and he matched her, their flashlight beams swinging wildly. Then one of her feet skidded on a slick patch of gravel and she instinctively braced herself to roll and break her fall safely.
“Hey,” he said, and he grabbed her just in time, saving her from a nasty tumble. “You okay?” He steadied her back onto her feet, his hands still curled protectively around her upper arms. She could feel the heat of his palms through her wet shirt.
“Thanks.” He stood there, ignoring the rain, looking down with admiring eyes at the front of her shirt, which had become rather transparent. When he didn’t move, didn’t let go, she snapped, “Okay, I’m not falling anymore. Hands off.”
He dropped his hands and marched away from her down the path, reaching the end of it before he remembered that she had the key and he couldn’t get in without her. A carved wooden sign over the door read Cristal. “Are you coming?”
Slowly, almost grudgingly, she caught up with him. They were both soaked through at this point and speed didn’t seem to matter anymore. Sharing a cottage is a bad idea if he’s going to look at me like that. Separate beds were beside the point. But they couldn’t stand outside in the rain all night, so she got the key out of her pocket and closed the distance between them.
A light by the door came on automatically as they stepped inside, and Nell smiled for the clever idea — a motion sensor light would always make sure that guests were greeted with a friendly glow, no matter what time it was. No fumbling around for a light switch in an unknown position or trying to find a lamp. The door light was enough to show her where the main light switches were, and she flipped on the overhead lights in the open living space and kitchenette area. Everything was decorated in shades of champagne and gold. Any wood she could see — the legs of the high stools at the breakfast bar, the coffee table, some bookshelves, a piano — was pale, maybe birch or maple, polished to a high gloss. The kitchenette’s granite countertop sparkled white.
She shuffled forward to make room as Eamonn came through the door behind her, but she didn’t want to leave the tiled door well and drip all over the hardwood floor and area rugs. She kicked off her shoes. “I’m going to find the bathroom and get dry,” she said. “Unless you want to go first?”
“You go ahead, baby.”
“Don’t call me baby,” she muttered as she jogged to the door that presumably led to the bedroom and its en suite bathroom. “Wow!”
The bed was enormous, a king-size four-poster in pale birchwood, with pale gold satin sheets and pillows and a darker gold comforter, plus a patchwork quilt in shades of cream and champagne folded over the end of the bed. It looked spectacular, warm and inviting. And massive. More than enough room for two, and whatever acrobatic activity they wanted to engage in. Nope. Not going to happen. She took a quick look around for the daybed the office description had mentioned and was ridiculously glad to see it under the window — more of a chaise longue, but there’d be enough room to stretch out. She’d take the quilt from the bed and leave Eamonn the comforter. She noticed with pleasure that the gas fireplace was a two-sided one so they could enjoy its warmth in the bedroom as well as the living area. Sad to need a fireplace in summer, but it would be nice with this rain. Oh, Pacific Northwest, how I love you. This last thought was accompanied by a bit of sarcasm, but in truth, she didn’t mind the rain. It kept things green and fresh.
The bathroom was every bit as luxurious as the rest of the cottage. As she skinned out of her wet things, she eyed the deep whirlpool bathtub and separate glass-walled shower stall that filled one side of the room. On the opposite side, the toilet was tucked behind a half-wall for semi-privacy, and it had what looked like a bidet attachment. Nell wasn’t about to mess with that, at least until she had more of a chance to inspect the operating instructions, but she appreciated the heated seat. She put on her sleepwear, a girly set she hated — a gag gift from Amy, frilly pale pink with little hearts for a woman who wouldn’t be caught dead in something like that, just so Amy could see the expression on her face when she opened it — but they’d been the only clean set in the drawer when she’d had to pack so quickly. She covered herself with one of the fluffy cream-colored bathrobes hanging on the bathroom door and hung her wet clothes over the glass wall of the shower to dry.
With a sigh, she headed back out through the bedroom to the living area. “Your turn,” she said to Eamonn, then stifled a gasp.
He stood in the kitchenette area, next to the electric kettle, poking through a basket of what Nell guessed to be packets of tea, hot chocolate mix, and instant coffee. “Want some tea or something?” he asked. Just as if he weren’t standing there shirtless and barefoot, nothing keeping him decent except for a pair of very snug wet jeans. When he’d been fully dressed, she hadn’t noticed his jeans. They were jeans, unobtrusively blending with his hoodie and boots, the rock-and-roll man on a road trip. Now, she could see how the sodden denim molded itself to him, outlining every muscle an
d… everything.
“I hope you’re wearing underwear under those,” she blurted out before she could censor herself.
He stared at her in amused disbelief. “You’re asking me if I’m going commando?”
She could feel herself blushing. Ugh. How did he do that to her? She didn’t blurt things out without thinking. She didn’t blush. And yet, when she was around him, these things kept happening. “Yeah, no. I don’t want to know. That was a rhetorical statement, not a question, Eamonn Yarrow. Based on the fact that you’re half-naked, and I’m your co-worker and supervisor.”
“Don’t be prickly,” he said mildly. “My hoodie and t-shirt were soaked, so I took them off. You’ve seen a man shirtless before, yeah? So it’s not a big deal. Cup of tea? There are a bunch of flavors here — white vanilla grapefruit, pomegranate oolong, mint verbena, English Breakfast, something called Paris, rooibos chai…” He poked through the basket again. “I think that’s it. Or hot chocolate.”
Thoughtful. She hadn’t expected that of him. Because rock stars aren’t supposed to be thoughtful. Still a sexist pig, though. “I’ll have mint verbena, please. Paris is my favorite, but I don’t need the caffeine right now,” she said, then after a moment, she added, “Thank you.”
She crossed the room to turn on the fireplace. Pleasant flames leapt up behind the glass, and soon a glow of warmth began to fill the room. Two overstuffed cream-colored loveseats faced each other across a coffee table by the fire. She sank into the corner of one of them, tucking her feet up and snugging the ends of the bathrobe around herself.
“Milk and sugar?” Eamonn asked, and Nell shook her head.
“Just black, please.” When he brought the mug to her, she looked up at him and gave him a rueful grimace as she accepted it. “I don’t mean to be prickly, you know? I’ve just never worked with someone like you. I know how to shut down flirty guys in bars and I know how to train and compete with all kinds of people, but work? It’s weird.”
Rock God in Exile (Smidge Book 2) Page 5