by Noir, Roxie
He just makes a noise. It sounds dubious, and not terribly unlike a bull. I think.
“Please don’t send me a mechanical bull,” I say, starting to panic. “Or a thousand pounds of wrapping paper. Or a ton of candy. I’ve got absolutely nowhere to put it and I really, really don’t want it.”
“Hmmm,” the new person on the phone says. “Can you hold for a moment?”
“Yes,” I say, but the hold music is already on again.
I look at the clock again. Three minutes until the meeting. I could hang up right now, but then I’d be throwing thirty minutes of wait time down the toilet, and I don’t like that possibility either.
You can be a minute late, I tell myself. You’ve never been late before, and besides, it’s an all-staff. Montgomery won’t even start the thing under five after and no one will notice when you walk in.
I get out of my chair and start pacing my office as far as the phone cord lets me, which isn’t very far.
Two minutes. I remind myself that thousands of people all over the world are late to meetings all the time and usually nothing bad happens.
At last, the line clicks on again.
“All right, ma’am, I’ve spoken with a representative at Pool Accessories On Fleek and apprised them that you do not want the mechanical bull,” he finally says.
I sigh in relief, leaning against my desk and slump over.
“Thank you,” I say, looking at the clock. If I power-walk, I’ll still be exactly on time.
“However, they asked me to tell you that if you do receive a mechanical bull, you can just ship it back at no cost. Just give them a call and they’ll pick up the tab.”
“No!” I say, too loudly.
“I’m sorry?” he asks.
They’re going to send me the damn bull. I know it. I know, deep down in my bones, that there has been some sort of deep rift in communication in the depths of this particular financial institution, and I’m going to get a floating mechanical bull in the mail. With bonus accessory drink floats.
Also, I have one minute to get clear across the building to the wedding season kick off all-staff meeting, and I’m going to have to run.
“Listen,” I said, standing up straight. “I would very much appreciate it if you could make it clear to the bull company that I do not want a mechanical bull. I don’t have a pool. I don’t like bull riding. I have absolutely no use for a mechanical bull and if you send me one, I’m not going to send it back. I’m going to keep it, put lipstick on it, name it Martha, and never ever pay for it, is that clear?”
I may have gone slightly off the rails there at the end.
There’s a long, long pause, and I start to wonder if he’s hung up on me for being a lunatic.
“Yes, ma’am,” he finally says.
Another pause.
“Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
I thank him, get off the phone as quickly as I can, grab my notepad and pen, and book it out of my office.
The biggest conference room, where the all-staff is taking place, is clear on the other side of two former dairy barns. Sometime in the 1970s, when Bramblebush went from being a working farm to the venue and inn that it is now, the space between the two was enclosed and the whole thing turned into one big building that houses staff offices, store rooms, and the kitchen.
I break into a half-walk, half-jog, my heels clicking on the tile floor. Every office I pass is empty. It doesn’t help the anxiety slowly blossoming in my chest, so I pick up a little speed, rounding a corner.
Right into a brick wall.
I bounce, then flail backward, stumbling several steps before finally landing on my ass, my notebook and pen flying in opposite directions.
“Are you okay?” the brick wall asks.
It’s not a literal brick wall.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I say, already collecting myself, grabbing my notebook and pen from where they flew, my face red hot with embarrassment already. “Sorry, I was in—”
Hold on.
I look up. I’d heard that voice recently, like last weekend recently.
“No,” I say, my gaze crashing into his.
Eli’s mouth hitches up on one side, both eyebrows rising.
I wish for the thousandth time that he hadn’t turned out so damn handsome, because I definitely feel that smirk somewhere deep inside me that Eli isn’t supposed to have access to. Somewhere personal.
“Yes,” he says after a moment.
“What are you doing here?”
“Well, I was having a leisurely walk down a hallway, when —”
“I mean here here. At Bramblebush.”
“I work here. What are you doing here?”
I’m still on the floor, butt still throbbing. I’ve managed to sit up cross-legged while I stare up at Eli Loveless, who’s claiming that he works here after showing up in my life for the second time in four days.
Also, he still has that expression on his face. The obnoxious one that gives me some funny tingles that I do not approve of.
“No, you don’t,” I say, ignoring his question.
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
Eli leans down, offering me one hand. I look at it. He rolls his eyes.
“It’s my hand, not a cobra,” he says.
I put both my hands to the floor and push myself up, ignoring Eli’s outstretched hand out of sheer pettiness, brushing the floor dust off my black pants.
I silently offer a quick prayer of thanks to whichever deity oversaw my wardrobe decisions that morning. I wore pants and not a skirt. If Eli ever saw my panties I’d probably have to murder him, and then I’d have to spend the rest of my life in jail because I’m not the kind of person who could get away with a murder. The police would look at me sideways and I’d break down in tears and confess, I’m sure.
“What do you mean, you work here?” I say, ignoring my now-sore butt in favor of the uneasiness crawling into my chest.
“I’d have thought it was self-evident,” he says, crossing his arms. “But if you’d like, I can really break it down for you. See, I’ve got what’s colloquially known as a job, where I come in to a place of business and exchange my services for money —”
“You don’t have to be a dick about it.”
“I’m being a dick about it? You just crashed into me and then told me I was wrong about working here before you’d even gotten off the floor,” he says.
“Why were you standing in such a weird place?” I snap back. I’m losing the argument and I know it, and that annoys me more than almost anything else.
I hate losing. I hate being wrong, I hate being late, and I definitely hate literally running into my former nemesis when I thought I was safe.
Also, if we’re listing things that I hate: his smirk, the way his forest-green eyes feel like they’re looking straight through me, the way his button-down shirt is an iota too tight, the fact that Eli clearly works out and isn’t at all bad to look at.
Too bad about the personality, though.
“You mean, why was I walking through the halls of my workplace in a perfectly normal manner?” he says, still sounding calm. “I’m going to a meeting. Though now I’m going to be late.”
Tell him it’s in another building, I thought, suddenly feeling devious. Then he won’t show up at all and maybe his boss will realize he’s not there and then he’ll get fired and you’ll never have to see him again.
I take a deep breath, exhale, and remind myself that I’m twenty-nine, not fourteen.
“The all-staff meeting is the other way,” I say. “You’re staff?”
“That’s what I meant when I said I work here, yes,” he says. “I’m the new Executive Chef. And I thought the meeting was in the Cumberland conference room, over that way.”
I decide to be an adult and bite back a retort to the first part, even though every fiber of my being is itching to further the fight.
“It’s in the other b
uilding, but they have the exact same layout. It’s confusing,” I offer. “Come on, I’m going there too.”
I walk ahead of him, quickly, because I don’t want to look at Eli any more than I have to. He follows me down the hall, through the glassed-in atrium, and to the other barn-turned-offices.
Mercifully, he doesn’t say a word, and neither do I.
You’re adults now, I remind myself over and over. He’s not going to call you names or tell anyone about your farts.
No one is asking you to be friends. Just do your job, Eli will do his, and it’ll all be fine.
Right?
I’m a grown-ass woman. How hard can it be?
Chapter Six
Eli
“ — Third floor is currently being renovated, adding a state-of-the-art spa and two new hot tubs, so if any guests wander into the gated off area, please redirect them,” a voice inside the room says. “Bramblebush currently has a zero-fatality record, and we’d like to keep it that way.”
Polite laughter ripples through the room just as Violet pauses in the doorway. I pause behind her. I’d walked behind her for the length of two barns now, and I’d been staring at her ass for an unspecified percentage of that time.
It was above fifty percent.
Okay, it was above eighty percent. Maybe around ninety. It’s a good ass, and it looks good in those pants, even if the fact that it belongs to Violet Tulane is kind of a boner-killer.
Somehow, she grew up to be attractive, which still blows my mind even though I’ve had two days to get used to the idea. It just doesn’t jive at all with my memories of her, all elbows and glasses and crooked teeth that her mom couldn’t afford to have fixed, usually telling me why I was wrong about something.
At least that last part hasn’t changed. If it had, I’d wonder if she’d had a lobotomy.
I glance down at her ass again just for good measure. She shoots me an annoyed look over her shoulder, obviously annoyed that we’re late.
Those shark-gray eyes send a quick shock through me.
Fine, make that very attractive. Physically, at least.
Personality wise, she’s still Violet Tulane, as evidenced by our interaction when she headbutted me in the hallway and then interrogated me about my presence at my own job.
She steps into the room and I step in after her, standing against the back wall, behind a few other rows of people, also standing. Violet shoots me another annoyed look, craning her neck to see Montgomery Tanner, our boss, as he goes on about the renovations currently being done at the Bramblebush Inn. Even in heels she’s too short to see over the people in front of us.
Don’t, I tell myself. You’re at work. Be a goddamn professional, Eli.
Violet cranes her neck harder, still trying to see over the people in front of her.
I lean down, knowing full well that I should keep my mouth shut.
“Want a boost?” I ask, keeping my voice low, my lips closer to her ear than they should be. Her hair just barely whispers along my cheek, a tingle echoing down my back. It smells nice.
Violet jumps, then shoots me yet another look from her arsenal of glares.
“I can put you on my shoulders,” I whisper, leaning in even closer, her hair tickling my cheek even more. “You seem to be having some trouble.”
I wouldn’t mind that at all, wrapping her legs around my head. Just as long as she didn’t talk.
“Shut up,” she hisses as another woman glanced over. I give her a quick, professional nod, and she looks away.
“I’ll take a look and tell you what you’re missing,” I tell Violet. She pretends to ignore me, but a muscle twitches in her jaw.
I grin. I can’t help it. If she’s going to be obnoxious to me, I’m going to be obnoxious right back.
“And finally, John wants me to remind you all that the golf carts are not for guest use,” Montgomery says, standing up front. “Make sure to take the keys with you when you get out, we all know what happened last year.”
More polite laughter.
“Don’t let guests use the golf carts,” I quickly whisper to Violet.
She glares daggers. Poisoned daggers, with barbs in the tips. It sends a vicious thrill through me.
“Just trying to help,” I say.
“Shut. Up,” she whispers through her teeth.
She’s still standing on her tiptoes, inside her heels, craning her neck like there she’s missing out on a glance at the Hope Diamond.
She’s not. It’s just Montgomery, my boss and, I assume, also hers; a sixty-something Southern man with an accent and personal style that’s much more Gone With the Wind than Duck Dynasty.
It’s fitting, given that he runs Bramblebush Farm and has apparently done so for about twenty years. The whole place is also much more Gone With the Wind than Duck Dynasty, even though it’s at odds with everything else in Sprucevale.
When it was founded, Sprucevale was a coal mining town. Or, at least, it was until the coal ran out. Ever since then it’s been trying to recover.
Bramblebush is beautiful. It’s opulent. It’s luxurious. It’s exclusive, an escape for the upper class, where they can come and have their every whim catered to without ever having to see any of those poor people they’ve heard so much about.
Sprucevale, on the other hand, isn’t opulent or luxurious or exclusive. It’s a working-class town filled with working class people who figured out how to survive once the mines shut down. It’s small. It’s tight-knit. Everyone feels like family, for better or for worse.
Admittedly, Bramblebush Farm’s existence probably helps. A beautiful, secluded retreat for the one percent, it mostly functions as a wedding venue. Despite having a price tag of $150,000 — just to use the space, nothing else — I learned that morning that it was currently booked almost every weekend at least two years in advance.
Four years for summer wedding dates. I can’t imagine either of those things: paying that much for a wedding or wanting to wait four years to get hitched once I decide to do it.
Not that I’m in any danger of deciding to get married. Not that I particularly suspect I ever will be, given that I’m nearly thirty and I’ve never gotten remotely close.
Marriage seems nice, but it also seems like it’s for other people.
“All right. John, you got anything else?” Montgomery asks, looking off to one side.
I resist to urge to tell Violet what he just said, because I think she might actually strangle me if I do. Besides, sooner or later I should remember that I’m at work.
“Nothing here, Montgomery,” said a voice I assume is John in an old-school, charming, laid-back southern accent.
“I guess we’re on to the main event,” Montgomery said.
The assembled staff members — fifty or so — all go perfectly silent and still. Even Violet stands up straighter.
I slip my hands into my pockets, wondering what the main event is.
“This year we’ve got quite a slate of weddings on our hands,” Montgomery says, his aristocratic voice flowing out over the audience. “In fact, I daresay this is going to be our biggest wedding season ever.”
He pauses. You could hear a pin drop in the silence.
It’s obvious that something big is happening, and I’ve got no idea what.
“Among other guests, we’ll be hosting the wedding of the tech billionaire Sergei Volkov’s son, and the heir to the Pillsbury flour fortune.”
The room shifts impatiently. I wonder what kind of appetizers the Pillsbury heiress will order. If you’re heir to a flour fortune, do you love baked goods, or are you tired of them?
“And of course, as many of you already know,” he goes on, “this August, Bramblebush will be hosting its first-ever royal wedding.”
Gasps arise from the crowd. Violet doesn’t seem to react at all. I wonder what kind of royalty is getting married in an out-of-the-way spot in southwestern Virginia. Probably one of those tiny countries in Europe — San Marino or Luxembourg or somewhe
re inconsequential that still has a royal family by accident.
“Now, I can’t tell you all who the royal wedding is for until we get a little closer, but I can tell you that this year the bonus for the MVP staff member is a little bit higher than it’s been in the past,” he says, still in absolutely no rush to get to the point. “This summer is going to be a whole lot of hard work, but maybe this’ll spice things up a little.”
The room practically hums with anticipation.
“This year’s,” he says, giving his words the weight of an announcement. “Most Valuable Player Bramblebush Staff Star Award. Will be. In the amount of.”
Everyone holds their breath. I hold my breath.
“Twenty thousand dollars!”
Everyone gasps. The room is instantly in an uproar. The guy next to me whistles. Violet claps both her hands to her mouth. The woman next to her turns and asks Violet if Montgomery really said twenty thousand, and Violet just nods.
“Okay, everyone!” Montgomery calls from the front of the room, waving his hands like that could calm us down from the revelation that twenty big ones were up for grabs. “You’ve all got a royal wedding to thank, they’re very interested in maintaining their privacy. All right, folks, there’s pie and coffee along the back wall. Here’s to wedding season!”
I don’t move. I’m too stunned. Twenty grand is a whole lot of money: enough to move out of my mom’s place. Enough to buy a new car.
Enough to fund at least six months of travel to somewhere that isn’t Sprucevale. Enough to start my own business if I feel like it.
Shit. Twenty thousand dollars.
This is a hell of a first day on the job.
The people around me start talking to each other excitedly, drifting toward the pie and coffee, but before I could go anywhere Violet turns. She catches my eye.
And gives me a look. A look I’d know anywhere, any time, in any country and on any continent. I’d know it because I used to stay up late studying or practicing or honing my debate skills, fantasizing about finally wiping that look off of Violet’s face.