Chapter 8
The weather had finally broken. The ice had been melting for a few days, the sun had been shining, and a warm wind was blowing from the south, bringing with it the first real taste of spring. It hadn’t rained again in almost a week, the mud had finally dried . . . and it was time to run again. Outside.
Spring had sprung.
I’d been dying, dying to run outside, sick to death of the treadmill and the inside air. And this morning was finally my chance to get out there and tear it up a bit. I’d been poring over the trail maps, plotting out a course, and chatting with a few of the recreation guys to see what paths would be best this time of year.
I scrambled out of bed, the sun not even yawning yet, and pulled on a pair of leggings, a Dri-FIT shirt, and a thin Gore-Tex pullover. Spring had sprung, but it was still chilly. I filled my water bottle, laced up my shoes, and literally bounced down the stairs.
I’d been here long enough now to have established a routine. There weren’t many people up this early, but the few that were let me do my thing. I said hello to Howard, the nighttime guy at the front desk. I nodded a quick hey to Paul and Shawn, the modern-day scullery maids who were tasked with running around each morning and starting fires in the million and one fireplaces that covered this joint. The first urns of coffee were being put out in the Lakeside Lounge by Nancy, who helped out in the kitchen overnight and managed any late-night room service requests. I sniffed longingly at the scent of those heavenly roasted beans, but only after my run would I have any.
Slipping out onto the long porch, I raised one leg and then the other, stretching and feeling the good burn along the back of my quads. By now the sun had begun peeking over the tree line, the sky lightening to a soft gray rather than the charcoal it’d been when I left my room. I consulted the map I’d tucked in my jacket pocket once more, and trotted off in the direction of the trailhead.
I warmed up slowly, gradually picking up speed as my muscles relaxed and fell into their natural rhythm. The birds were chittering away by now, talking to each other and reporting their feathery news. I moved deeper into the forest, the trail twisting this way and that with a steadily increasing incline that a treadmill could mimic but never fully replicate.
My lungs filled with air, good clean mountain air that was chilly but invigorating. Chilly. That was the word to describe Archie at this point. Soooo chilly. The weather may have been thawing, but good lord, that man had icicles in his blood. Well, icicles when it came to me. When it came to the rest of the world, his beloved staff on his beloved mountain, he was all smiles. But for me? For me he reserved the iciest of everything, even when he managed to address me directly.
On at least three separate occasions he’d left the room when I’d entered. Literally left the room before I even had a chance to say a good morning or a howdy-do or a hey that bagel looks good are there more?
During the morning meetings when the entire team was required to be together he avoided asking me questions directly and when he did deign to address me personally, he did so in such a dismissive way that even his father had raised an eyebrow. And when he did argue with me about something, which was often, it wasn’t friendly fire.
“Wrong.”
“Excuse me?”
“Wrong.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m sorry too, Ms. Morgan, that I had to sit here through an entire presentation on whether or not we need to change how we make our hot chocolate. We have always had homemade hot chocolate here at Bryant Mountain House, since the original lodge was here we—”
“You had hot chocolate waiting in a kettle over a roaring fire for guests to enjoy when they came in from their horse-drawn sleigh ride, complete with jingle bells and mashed potatoes tucked into their pockets to keep their gentle little East Coast hands warm and toasty,” I interrupted, having been painted this particular picture numerous times since I’d been here. Currier and Ives might actually be buried on this property for all the nostalgia I was being fed on the daily. “And I get it, I do. But for God’s sake, Mr. Bryant, you use three different types of imported chocolate to make the stuff! It’s ridiculously expensive! Do you have any idea how much money you could be saving in just one year in imported chocolate alone? Guests barely even drink it anymore, but that damn kettle is filled to the brim with hot freaking imported chocolate every day at teatime like there are still gaggles of horse-drawn sleighs zinging all over this mountain!”
“Baked potatoes.”
“What the hell is baked potatoes?” I sputtered, looking at him like he’d had a stroke.
“They didn’t carry mashed potatoes in their pockets, Ms. Morgan, they carried baked potatoes, heated in the very ashes beneath the kettle of hot chocolate.” He took off his glasses, cleaning them on the edge of his red paisley tie. “Mashed potatoes,” he scoffed. “Where are you going?”
“I’m off to the kitchen to slam my head in the oven a few dozen times, maybe toss in a few potatoes while I’m at it,” I shouted over my shoulder as I flung the door open and walked out of the meeting.
“Make sure you prick them first or they’ll explode” was what wafted out before the door shut, his tone telling me he thought he’d won this round.
“You know what,” I started, going right back into the meeting like I’d been using a swinging door, “I’ll give you something to prick—”
“Let’s take five, everyone, shall we?” Jonathan interrupted, as eleven department heads scattered from the conference room like buckshot, Archie being the last to saunter out casually with a satisfied grin.
“Fourteen thousand, seven hundred and thirty-three,” I seethed as he walked past.
“What’s that?” he asked, looking down over the bridge of his glasses at me.
“Fourteen thousand, seven hundred and thirty-three dollars is what you spent last year on hot chocolate supplies.”
He blanched.
I stuffed my notebook in my bag and headed for the door, passing just under his nose. “I haven’t even started adding up how much this place spends on freaking lemons for your special old-timey lemonade you serve in the summer. This is the shit, Mr. Bryant, and I’m sorry for the choice of words, but this is the shit that tanks old resorts. When you’re ready to discuss the very real and practical ideas I have to keep this place afloat, and keep your hot chocolate flowing, you let me know.”
Ooh, but he made me mad! I had no idea how to break through to the guy. I’d tried to apologize, several times in fact, but he either changed the subject, talked over me, or flat out walked away.
In another world, I’d give up. I’d chalk it up to a missed opportunity, get the job done, and walk away knowing I’d been able to do my job and do it well in spite of the fact that the boss’s son hated my ever-loving guts. Sometimes people just didn’t like me, and I could deal with that.
Two things made this other world not possible. One, I was up for partner. And while Barbara technically was in charge, she did have other partners who needed to weigh in, and I didn’t think Archie would be too kind on my final report card. And two, I still really wanted to apologize. I overstepped my bounds; I’d literally pried into his personal life like a gossip and worse, was caught while I was doing the prying! But now I was being denied my chance to correct that.
My feet pounded the gravel, the terrain getting wilder as I moved higher up the mountain. I adjusted my gait, adjusted my breathing, and continued on. What could I do, how could I get the chance to talk to him, and make him listen to me? Really listen to me. No more potato fights.
Speaking of listening, over the crunch of my own feet I could hear other feet crunching. Someone else was on the trail, and not too far ahead. I saw a whisper of movement around a corner, the switchbacks up here getting shorter. Speeding up a bit, I saw a bright yellow windbreaker moving steadily along the trail, attached to long, strong legs, and a shock of auburn hair.
Archie. Up on his mountain. Alone.
And he wouldn’t be able to get away from me.
I put my head down, took a deep breath, and began to give chase.
Now, I realize the optics of this, a perfect grade school scenario. Girl chases boy, literally chases boy, as he runs away.
I ran faster. As he rounded another corner, he glanced over his shoulder and saw me barreling up the mountainside toward him, hell-bent for leather. I was close enough that I could see his expression. He was surprised, but then he scowled and proceeded to run faster.
For fuck’s sake.
So I ran faster too, because see . . . right before he scowled, there was the briefest flash of something else.
Challenge.
Come on, Bryant. Show me what you’ve got.
We both increased our pace. I gained five feet, then lost three when he put on a burst of speed around a boulder. He lost his footing on a loose patch of gravel and I pulled to within slapping distance, but then I lost my own footing on the same patch and slipped behind once more.
I was breathing hard, but I was close enough now that I could hear him too. The switchbacks were almost a ninety-degree incline by now, and the landscape was blurring by. I scrambled over a downed tree he’d touched just seconds before; he whirred around a puddle. The trees thinned for a moment and I caught the briefest glimpse of the lake, now far, far below us.
I saw the end of the trail—we were nearly at the top. I dug deep, and willed my feet to move faster, all out sprinting to the top. Our legs moved together now, pumping fast, mud and gravel splashing and spitting up between us. I was groaning, panting; he was grunting with every step. My chest burned, my feet ached, my legs trembled, and there was no way this motherfucker was going to beat me to the top.
I pushed harder than I’d ever done before. I willed my legs to become pistons, my muscles cramping but pushing me higher and higher and higher. We were even now, both of us flying, perpetual motion, limbs a muddy blur of mixing color.
With one last grunt and groan, and a triumphant grin on my face, we rounded the last corner and raced onto an open field, tied at the top. No winner. No loser.
But kind of me, winner.
I ran a few more paces, slowing down now, gulping air, my lungs grateful. I could feel the sweat pouring down my back, my hair plastered to my face as I turned it skyward, feeling the morning sun. Here, on top of a mountain, with nothing around but trees and sky and dirt and grass, I could feel that high creeping in, dulling the cramps and the pain that would most assuredly creep back later on. But for right now, bliss was settling in.
I ran another twenty feet or so, toward a stacked stone tower at the edge, the observatory. I could hear him behind me, just a few feet away, his feet as heavy as mine. As I neared the tower, the world stretched out before me, farms and streams and beautiful red barns marching away into an almost endless horizon. On a clear day you really could see forever.
I peered back at him to offer a congratulatory grin and, when I could speak again, thank him for such a great race, but when I saw his face, I froze.
“You,” he grunted, reaching me quickly since I had frozen solid. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Me?”
“Who chases someone up a mountain?”
“Who runs away from someone chasing them up a mountain?” I fired back. “I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Talk to me? You want to talk to me, you ask me. You request a meeting, you send me an email, hell, you pass me a note while I’m sitting next to you at a meeting for Pete’s sake, you don’t chase me up a mountain!”
“I request a meeting?” I shouted back, incredulous. “What the hell is wrong with you, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! I want to talk to you, I’ll talk to you.”
He got close, really close, in my face. I took a step back, then another, backing up until I was against the tower.
“Don’t you get it? Whatever it is you want to say, whatever it is you seem to need to tell me, I don’t want to hear it.”
“But if I could just—”
I couldn’t say anything else. Because his mouth was on mine, fire and heat and burning searing against my lips.
Shocked, my eyes stared into his, which were swirling with anger.
I bit down on his lip, then pushed him away. “The fuck?” I said, frowning, brow crinkling as he panted in front of me.
And then my hands were filled with his jacket as I yanked him back against me, fingernails digging into his chest, pulling his face to mine and kissing him again, hard and insistent.
I slapped at his shoulder as he groaned against my lips, slanting, as my tongue pushed inside his mouth. I moaned, growling as he nipped at my skin, his hands now rough, slipping around to the small of my back, pushing everything together. I could feel the stone digging into my back, my hips bumping into his as I scrambled to get my legs under me, but after that run they were jelly.
“You’re a fucking lunatic, you know that?” he asked, tugging me into him hard, everything hard, everywhere hard.
“I’m the lunatic?” I asked, biting down on his lower lip again, this time hard enough I tasted blood.
He dipped his head down, his eyes level with mine. “Don’t do that again,” he warned.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I warned back, digging my hands into his hair and pulling it back, tilting his neck and allowing me to nip at his skin there. It was warm, and sweaty, and sticky, and I could taste salt on my tongue.
One hand shot up and slapped at the stone behind me, while the other tugged me closer, circling his hips against mine and pressing himself farther between my thighs.
“You’re infuriating,” he said, his voice heated steel. “And you’re too short.” And with that, he picked me up against him, my legs wrapping clumsily around his hips as he held me against the tower.
Now eye level with him, I glared. “I’m exactly the right height.” And as he pressed his lips against my neck, his tongue darting out to lick and suck at my skin, I let my head fall back against the stone with a thud. “And you’re an asshole.”
His hips surged forward, my legs spread wider, and as he ground into me I held his head, his mouth trailing down, pushing under the edge of my jacket, his lips dropping hot wet kisses along my collarbone. I kissed the very tip of his ear softly, then whispered, “And I’m sorry.”
He froze. Then his head snapped up, his eyes, which had been filled with lust, began to be crowded by confusion and sadness and . . . fear.
The moment was over and he set me down, gently unwrapping my legs from his waist and, as I tried to tilt his face back up to mine to tell him again that I was sorry, he shook his head.
“I’m . . . Jesus, I can’t do this.”
He backed away, turned, and headed down the mountain.
I didn’t chase him this time.
I stayed up there for a good thirty minutes, watching the morning take over the valley. My mind was racing, running through possibilities, calculating the risk and benefit and realizing that I needed to step down, step away. With Archie, I’d scratched at something I had no business scratching at. This was bad on so many levels, and I needed to shut this down, tie it off, and forget it ever happened.
But did I want to forget this happened?
My fingers fluttered up to my lips, feeling the heat that was still there. I could still taste him, could still feel him as he pressed his mouth against mine again and again. It’d sparked something deep within me, an instant heat, an instant lust, a carnal reaction so quick and fiery, I had to admit I was surprised by the intensity. I’d never felt something like this before.
But it’s for your boss, so . . .
Right. Right! I shook my head to clear it, taking in big gulps of cold, clean mountain air. He was my boss, and I needed to straighten this out. A couple of great kisses couldn’t derail everything good I wanted to do up here, no sir.
I loved it up here, would have loved to stay up here and do everything I knew how to do to make this right. But I’d stuck my foot in it, and now my tongue, and I knew better than to get in deeper.
I wandered toward the top of the trail and saw the resort from this angle. It had been photographed from this place many times, and was really the million-dollar view. The lake, the grounds, the dock, everything was beautiful from up here, as the website, postcards, and prints in the gift shop boasted.
I took one last look, then headed down, ready to search him out, find him, and explain to him exactly why this could never ever happen again.
Waiting for me at the bottom of the trail was Archie, looking way hotter than I needed him to be.