Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley, #2)(41)
If I could capture that feeling, I’d be able to sell this place to even the most cynical.
While I was woolgathering, Chad had waved someone over and was waiting to introduce me.
“Natalie Grayson, this is Archie Bryant, of the Bryant Mountain House.”
“Ms. Grayson, nice to meet you. I’m sorry I missed the beginning of your presentation, but I’d love to talk to you about your plans for bringing additional tourist revenue into the town, and hopefully up to our mountain, as well.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Bryant. I’ve heard wonderful things about your resort; I can’t wait to come for a tour.” I shook his hand, looking up into deep indigo eyes. Paired with wavy auburn hair and a handsome face, Archie Bryant was good-looking in an almost old-fashioned way. “I’ve done a bit of research already on your hotel. It’s been in your family for five generations, right?”
“I’m the fifth,” he replied, an expression of pride crossing his strong, elegant features. “Call my office anytime; I’m happy to arrange a tour for you when you’re able to come up.”
“That’d be wonderful,” I agreed, thanking him for coming and wondering again what the hell was in the water that made these men so damn good-looking.
“I hope you can drive some traffic up there,” Chad said as Archie began shaking hands and chatting with some of the other business owners from town. He seemed to know everyone, seemed friendly enough, but there was something a bit reserved about him. Not quite chilly, but certainly on the cool side.
“Oh, have they been slow?”
“Yep, my niece works the phones in their reservations department, and they’re having some trouble keeping the rooms filled.”
“Are you kidding? The pictures I’ve seen are gorgeous!” I’d Googled Bryant Mountain House while doing my initial information gathering on tourist destinations in and around Bailey Falls, and this place was stunning. Perched on a glacial lake and cut into the side of a mountain, it was epic.
And built in a different time, for a different era, when people vacationed differently.
Hmm . . . I wondered if I could bring in my friend Clara to consult . . .
The meeting went on for another hour or so, with me fielding questions about this and that, me asking questions about this and that, getting a feel for the pulse of this town and its DNA. And as things finally wound down and Trudy began ushering everyone out so she could get going on the lunch service, I felt the air change in the room. Every molecule in my body froze, then turned toward the front door.
Oscar had arrived.
I’d wondered if he was going to show up. He was a business owner, he had a stake in how things went in this town, and he was a responsible and upstanding, if somewhat grouchy, member of this community, so it made sense that he should be here.
Plus I’d worn a pencil skirt just for him. And since he’d been inside me only a week before and chanting my name, wasn’t it only natural he’d want to show up and see how cute I looked?
People waved when they saw him, others slapped him on the back as they left. His eyes never left mine. It was unlike any other feeling, having those deep gray-blue eyes fixated solely on me. I could tell he appreciated the heels and the way they shaped my calves. The skirt alone earned a tick from that scarred eyebrow. His nostrils flared as I knew they would when he spied the carefully unbuttoned button-down, and I could feel down to my toes how much he was thinking about popping the rest of those buttons and going to town.
He walked toward me, and the diner disappeared. I couldn’t hear the waitresses cackling with Roxie’s mom, I couldn’t hear the orders being called out. I was vaguely aware of “I Can’t Get Next to You” playing on the jukebox, and my brain granted me exactly one second of mental clarity to acknowledge that the song was perfect for this moment before slipping back into appreciation for a slow-walking Oscar.
He walked like he was in a Michael Bay film, striding across the tarmac to save the world from a rogue asteroid or kamikaze fighter planes. I could only stop and watch and admire the pretty.
Wearing faded jeans, scuffed work boots, a holey old off-white Irish sweater with big cable knits, just the edge of a white T-shirt peeking out of the collar, he was right off the pages of Fuck Off He’s Beautiful monthly. He could have been wearing clown shoes and a sandwich board that said Eat at Joe’s for all I cared, because what really made me gulp in air faster than I could actually breathe it was his face.
He might be the best-looking man on the planet. On any planet. His hair was tied back in his usual leather wrap, which accentuated the cheekbones, the jaw, the strong brow, the full, kissable lips. But what was most striking today was the measured joy. He was obviously happy to see me, but he was working to hide it somewhat, allowing only bits and pieces of it to show through. Wanting to hold something back, perhaps? I could understand that. It was early in whatever this was, to be showing every card. But I enjoyed the fact that he was happy to see me.
And once more, he surprised me. Before I could say hello or ask what he thought of the meeting, he slung one big arm around my shoulder, grabbed my bag and put it over his other shoulder, and said, “Let’s go make some cheese.”
In the history of romantic opening lines, it probably wouldn’t make anyone’s top-ten list, but it was music to my ears.
Chapter 13