Buns

  I started to protest again, to tell him how this was a terrible idea and when I did eventually crash and burn that I’d take him with me, but just as I opened my mouth I saw the most amazing thing. Coming up on my right was the equipment counter. And then . . . the fireplace. We’d gone around the rink, all the way around, back to where we’d started.

  And I hadn’t fallen. And hey look, there was my hot chocolate. The whole world had literally gone by, and was going by again, while I was in my head worrying about what might happen.

  Point taken. I let out the breath I’d indeed been holding, and gave over.

  “There she is,” he whispered, feeling my body relax and ease into this. “You’ve totally got this.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I got this, but . . .”

  “Give yourself some credit,” he replied. “Want to go a little faster?”

  I didn’t. So I said yes. Because I knew myself well enough to know that sometimes the very best thing I could do was do the exact opposite of what I wanted.

  He pushed off just as the music changed, and I realized why it sounded familiar.

  “Is this the Dirty Dancing soundtrack?” I asked as the world began to whiz by.

  “Mm-hmm.” He brought our hands down farther, letting go for just the very splittiest of seconds before he firmly grasped my hips. “You said this place reminded you of the movie.”

  “It does.” I chanced a look down the mountain toward the hotel that stood across the dark lake, the lanterns winking along the water’s edge. “I thought you hated this movie.”

  “Everyone who lives up in the Catskills has been asked about this movie more times than I can count,” he replied, guiding me around the turn with a speed that, if I’d been alone, could have taken out the fireplace. “But it did have great music.”

  “We should have a Dirty Dancing–themed weekend up here, how is that not a thing?”

  “Because we don’t want to turn our hotel into a theme park?”

  “That won’t happen, unless there’s a Johnny Castle roller coaster, in which case I’m riding it.”

  “You see, this is how it starts.”

  “Are you going to show me your pachanga?”

  He dropped a kiss on my neck, swooshed us even faster, and whispered, “You have no idea.”

  We skated for a minute or an hour, I have no idea. But it was fast and brilliant and breathless.

  “You should take a turn on your own.”

  “But I did so well with you, shouldn’t we just chalk it up as a success and not press our luck?”

  “Once around the rink, Ms. Morgan, and then you can press anything you want.”

  “See, you think that’s going to work on me, but it won’t.”

  “You make it around the rink once on your own and I’ll lick your pussy until you black out.”

  Next Winter Olympics you’ll see me representing the good old US of A. The event? Speed skating.

  Chapter 18

  I’d been sleeping with Archie, and very much not sleeping, for three weeks, six days, fourteen hours, and thirty-two minutes. Forty-three minutes if you count the quickie in the broom closet . . . but who counts quickies, really?

  Actually, technically, we should count quickies because even with limited time and elbow room, that man can lay it the fuck down. And pick it the fuck up. And lay it back the fuck down again.

  We’d been discreet—at least I think we had. According to the rules in my head no one was the wiser that the man who stood at the bottom of the grand staircase each day welcoming guests with a kind word and hearty handshake was the same man who stood at the bottom of my bed, my legs thrown over his shoulders, AND spread me wide with his tongue until I was shaking then flipped me over like a top and thrust into me like a man possessed.

  And as someone who has been possessed by this man countless times, trust me when I say it is something to witness.

  His focus, his attention to detail, married with his absolute animal strength and wild passion, had laid me bare more times than I could count.

  But he counted. Oh, he counted. He was like the accountant of orgasms, tallying them up and filing the total away, always chasing another, always pushing me until I was shivering and wrecked, a ball of sexual energy incapable of surviving another . . . but he always got one more. He knew my body, knew what I could do even when I thought it impossible, knew exactly what I needed.

  And let me tell you a little something about Archie Bryant, the man with the buns. He loved it sideways, backways, frontways, and all ways, but what he loved most of all was when I sat astride him in one of those antique rocking chairs, taking him deep and then deeper with every thrust, every rock of that damn chair, my feet scrambling for purchase on the old Victorian carpet while he watched me fuck him wild in the grand gilded mirror that hung in the living room.

  I’m telling you, it’s always the guys with the freckles and the glasses. They’re the ones you want to set your sights on. They’re the ones who’ll make you forget your name, but get you to say the filthiest things imaginable.

  But today, I had to focus. Today, we had a visitor coming to the hotel.

  Caroline Reynolds-Parker was an interior designer from the West Coast. I’d seen some of her work in a small boutique hotel in Sausalito, and later on in a spa just outside Philadelphia. She worked for a small firm in San Francisco, but had been focusing more and more on commercial design rather than residential. Based on her portfolio and reputation, I thought she’d be the perfect candidate to take a crack at shaking things up a bit here in the Catskills.

  I waited for her in the lobby, watching as bellmen ran to and fro with luggage. We were getting close to summer now, and things were beginning to get busier. It was still pretty slow during the week, which is why I’d scheduled Caroline’s visit on a Wednesday, but weekends were creeping up to about half full. Compared with how it was when I arrived in mid-March, business was booming.

  The doors opened and a tall, slim woman with gorgeous blond hair walked in. Styled to a T with perfect California business casual, she sailed through the lobby with confidence borne by someone who was good at their job, and knew it.

  “You must be Caroline,” I said, greeting her with a smile.

  “I must be,” she said, answering my smile with one of her own. “If you’re not Clara, then color me creeped out.”

  “Don’t be creeped out,” I answered, looking over my shoulder toward the front desk. “Beverly, we don’t have Ms. Parker slated for room six-six-six, do we?”

  “No ma’am, we’ve got her in . . . let me see . . .” Beverly, caught off guard, scrambled to find the booking.

  “Never mind, Beverly, just kidding.”

  “Oh, this place is gonna be fun.” Caroline laughed, setting down her bag and taking in the three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the lobby. “And gorgeous.” She wandered over to the wallpaper, running her finger down the seam. “Linen. Expensive. A solid choice.”

  “Really?” I asked, my heart sinking. Maybe I didn’t know as much as I thought I did, maybe the look of the hotel was exactly right and on point.

  “A solid choice,” she repeated, then looked me straight in the eye, “if it were still 1982.”

  I let out my breath. “Which it is not.”

  “Nope,” she agreed, taking a few steps farther in. Looking down at the carpet, she rocked back and forth a few times, thunking her heel down. “There’s hardwood under here, you just know there is.” Her eyes danced.

  I decided at that exact moment that no matter what she wanted to do, I was going to do my damnedest to make sure she got hired. As long as I could get Archie to cough up the money.

  “I literally can’t wait to see this place, I’ve been reading up ever since you contacted my office last month,” Caroline said as I picked up her bag and led her to check-in. “I’ve already got some great ideas, although I’m sure you’ve got some of your own since you said we needed an overhaul of epic proportions.”


  “She said what?”

  Dammit. I set the bag down, looked sideways at Caroline, and we both turned with the sweetest possible grins plastered across our pretty faces.

  “Epic proportions only in the sense of the scale of the rooms, Mr. Bryant. Of course, when I emailed Jillian Designs and requested the world-renowned interior designer Caroline Reynolds—”

  “Hyphen Parker,” she chimed in.

  “—of course, hyphen Parker, she was delighted when I told her how big and grand the rooms were, how truly luxurious and exceptional this property was,” I continued, nodding at Archie.

  “Oh yes, and can you imagine how thrilled I was that I’ll be able to say that I worked in the famous Bryant Mountain House? Why, it’ll practically ensure I can work at any hotel, I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Bryant. Archie, I presume?” Caroline smiled, batting her lashes just enough that I knew he was done for.

  Archie stood there, looking back and forth between the two of us, slightly befuddled but too gracious to show it. Bless his heart. He’d never be able to go up against the two of us.

  But we’d let him think he won a few rounds.

  I spent the morning giving Caroline the grand tour and reassuring Archie repeatedly that we wouldn’t go overboard and that yes, this was necessary.

  “I just can’t get over the fact that these are all antiques, real antiques, not reproductions,” Caroline gushed. We were standing in one of the Victorian rooms in the east wing, the wing I’d suggested we close down next winter to begin the renovations. “And the fireplaces, my God! Who would ever build a hotel these days and put fireplaces in every single room? Wood burning, no less.”

  “No one, is the easy answer,” I replied, moving to the window and looking at the mountains. “No one would ever build a place like this again. It’s too big, too fancy, the raw materials alone would price any builder right out of the market, to say nothing of the liability from an insurance perspective of having wood-burning fireplaces in every single room.” I sighed. “A place like this will never be built again.”

  “I hate to say it, but you’re right,” Caroline said. She ran her fingers over the wall, tapping at the wallpaper. “There’s plaster under this, actual plaster. Laid over chicken wire, and likely three layers of lath. That plaster is held together by lime, sand, possibly seashells, and almost definitely mixed with horsehair to bind it together. Can you imagine?” She pointed up at the ceiling where pictures hung by wire from the molding. “That’s why there’s almost always a picture rail in everything constructed before the turn of the last century, sometimes even through the twenties. That plaster is strong, almost like cement, but you drive a nail through it, something that was never supposed to be done, and it’ll crumble like sand. But taken care of? You almost never need to repair it.” She smoothed her hand over the wall. “Not even a ripple. They literally built this place to last.”

  I smiled. She got it.

  “The interior design, however,” she said briskly, grabbing her camera and beginning to work. “That was not meant to last. This we can change.”

  “Change?” Archie asked, standing just inside the door. He’d excused himself for a bit to finish up some work before rejoining us for the room inspection.

  “Easy, Mr. Bryant,” I cautioned. “Nothing crazy, just a face-lift, right, Caroline?”

  “Exactly,” she answered, moving around the room as she took several pictures. “Here’s the thing, Archie, do you know why so many houses from the 1920s have white-painted woodwork? Wood paneling, floor to ceiling in some cases, like in a dining room, but it’s been painted over, do you know why?”

  Archie looked at me, then back at Caroline, his face draining of color by the second. “You’re not planning on painting over any wood paneling, are you? Because when I mention the words ‘heart attack’ and ‘myself’ in the same sentence, I can assure you it is not an exaggeration.”

  Caroline ignored the question. I couldn’t ignore the way his freckles stood out against his imaginary heart attack face in the cutest way.

  “The wood paneling got painted over, Archie, usually in the forties, because housewives then didn’t want a house that looked like their mother’s. When those homes were built, everything was beautiful wood paneling. Now we look at it as gorgeous, beautiful, exquisite craftsmanship and timeless detail. Right?”

  “Right.” Archie stood firm.

  “But those new wives looked at it and saw dark, dark, dark. And, they saw their mother’s house. No one wants to live in their mother’s house, they wanted light and bright and new. They wanted something different. And it didn’t stop there. Those same women who painted over their woodwork had families, raised them, and those daughters moved to the suburbs and wanted new and different. The ranch was born. Wall-to-wall shag carpet. Rec rooms, oddly enough with wall paneling, although this time it was thin veneer designed to be glued to the existing wall. Then those women had kids and their kids ushered in the age of mauve and my personal favorite, the wallpaper border. I can’t tell you how many homes I’ve redone covered in wallpaper border. You should’ve seen my kitchen in Sausalito when we first bought that house, good God. My point is, Archie, that every generation changes things. Right now, you’re in luck, because everything old is new again and there’s such an honoring of history right now. It’s hip to have old things, repurposed and reimagined, but old. So we’re going to make some changes, but they’re changes you’ll be able to live with. Changes that’ll be so seamless with the original design of this hotel, changes that will honor the integrity and inherent beauty of a place like this, changes that, when I’m done, you’ll swear you couldn’t have imagined it any other way.”

  Damn. She was good.

  “Damn. You’re good,” Archie breathed. He looked back and forth between the two of us. “Good God, if you two ever got together you could take over the world.”

  “Oooh,” Caroline and I both breathed at the same time, and Archie threw up his hands in defeat.

  “Forget I mentioned it.” He laughed, but then looked serious again. “Everything you’ve said up until now has been very impressive, but I’ll need to see examples of what you’ve done, and what you’re planning to do, before I approve anything. I’m sure that’s something we can all agree on, yes?”

  “Of course,” Caroline said, and walked over to shake on it.

  He looked at her a moment, assessing, then at me, then shook her hand. “I look forward to it.” Shifting his gaze from Caroline to me, he said, “Ms. Morgan, a word?”

  “Of course, Mr. Bryant.” I nodded, walking over. “Caroline, don’t start the taking over the world plan before I get back.”

  “Of course! I’ll need a dirty martini before I can start planning that.”

  I grinned and followed Archie out into the hall. He waited until I closed the door before rolling his eyes. “Where the hell did you find her?”

  “San Francisco,” I replied.

  “She’s going to be able to bring this in under budget?” he asked, looking over my shoulder.

  “She says she can,” I answered, looking over my shoulder as well. No one there.

  “And she isn’t allowed anywhere near my wood paneling.”

  “You got that right,” I breathed, taking a step closer to him. Instead of stepping closer to me, though, he looked over his shoulder. “Is Walter stalking you or something, what the hell?”

  “Don’t mention Walter to me right now,” he muttered, pulling a key from his pocket and slipping it into the lock of the room next door.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, as he whisked me inside quickly. “Where did you get that key?”

  “Skeleton key, I can get into anything in this hotel anytime I want,” he said, shutting the door behind me. In an instant, I was up against the wall just inside the door. “And right now the only thing I want to get into is you.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding, we can’t—fucking hell, Archie,” I moaned, as he flipped up my skirt with o
ne hand and covered my mouth with the other.

  “You’ve got to keep your voice down,” he warned, his voice muffled, his head being under my skirt and all. “You don’t want your new friend to hear you.”

  I stepped out of the room, smoothed down my skirt and my hair, and headed back into the room where I’d left Caroline. She was measuring the inside of the windows, and stacks of blinds were strewn across the bed.

  “Sorry about that, little crisis that blew up out of the blue.”

  “Oh, no trouble at all,” Caroline said, calmly handing me the measuring tape, then walking over to the opposite wall. “You get everything worked out?”

  “Hmm? Oh yes, yes, crisis solved, everyone was satisfied.”

  She smiled. “That’s good. You know, I was thinking, even though I’m pretty sure that the plaster is fairly thick, you might want to have some insulation blown in, you know, just to pad the walls a bit? They’ve done wonders with insulation these days, we can have it added through a small hole down in the base, wouldn’t cost nearly as much as it would’ve even ten years ago, and you’d be amazed what it can do not only for helping to regulate the temperature, but also how it can cut down on the noise.” She looked me dead in the eye on that last part.

  “Noise?” I asked, my voice higher than normal.

  “Mm-hmm,” she said, making a fist and thumping on the wall. The wall I’d just been on the other side of. “Thin walls, you know.”

  Mortified. I was. Mortified. Trying hard to keep my voice level, I stammered. “Oh. Y-Yes, I can see how that could be . . .”

  “Clara?” she said, snapping her tape measure back open.

  “Yes?” My voice had climbed three octaves. Mariah would be so proud.

  “Don’t worry about it.” She extended the measuring tape about ten inches or so. “I’ve got one just like him back at home.”

  “I don’t understand, what are you telling me?”