Starting Over (Nugget Romance 4) (2 page)

Nate got his usual: two fried eggs, hash browns, bacon, and toast.

When the waitress left, Nate said, “She’s doing fine, Owen.”

True to form, Owen actually expected Nate to share personnel information with him. Not a lot of professional decorum—or boundaries of any kind—in this town.

“Why do you ask?” Nate asked, curious. Sometimes Owen’s nosiness paid off. The man usually had the best intel in Nugget.

“Just curious. You gotta admit she’s a hottie.”

She was that. She was also a fickle, spoiled, trust-fund baby. Something Nate didn’t plan to lose sight of.

“Why do ya think she left that fiancé of hers?” Owen continued.

“How would I know?”

Nate’s food came and he prayed Owen would let him eat in peace. No such luck. Owen was a man born to loiter. “Don’t you have hair to cut?”

“It’s Darla’s day,” Owen said.

Darla was Owen’s daughter, who’d taken over the barbershop so the old man could retire. Nate, however, doubted that would ever happen. Owen liked being at the center of it all, and the barbershop was practically town hall. That’s why the old geezer held on to a few longtime customers, mostly members of the Nugget Mafia.

“You think he might’ve been one of those Bernie Madoff characters?”

“Who?” Nate asked, flagging over the waitress for more coffee.

“Sam’s ex.”

“I don’t know, Owen. I don’t know anything about the guy.” Just that Nate felt an affinity for the dupe.

“Well, why else would she have left him? Unless he beat her. You think he beat her?”

Nate blew out a breath. “You watch too much daytime television, Owen. But if you’re so curious, ask Darla. She probably knows.”

“Beautician-client privilege,” Owen said.

But Nate doubted that even Darla knew the truth. From what he’d heard, the runaway bride had kept the secret of her failed nuptials pretty close to her Versace vest.

All anyone knew about Samantha Dunsbury was that she’d shown up in Nugget with a head of hacked hair and 2,700 miles of road stuck to her tires. According to her story, she’d gone scissor happy on her hair the morning of her wedding, got in her car, and kept driving until she landed here, the middle of nowhere. Then she holed up at the Lumber Baron until Darla fixed her hair and Maddy gave her a job.

None of her story sounded very credible to Nate. But then again, how could he know the mind of an airhead? He figured she’d eventually get bored living in a small town, working at a country inn, and would hightail it home to Wall Street Boy and her rich family.

Vaya con Dios
.

Except for when she walked into the Ponderosa five minutes later in a stretchy nude dress that clung to her body like a second skin, he wasn’t thinking about God.

“T
hank goodness you’re here.” Sam rushed to Nate’s table. “Your cell’s not working.”

“Yes, it is.” Annoyed, he pulled it from his pocket, played with it for a second or two, then pulled a face. “I must’ve inadvertently shut it off. What’s the crisis?” he asked, intimating that if she had her hand in it, it must be a catastrophe.

Why the man had to be so boorish, Sam didn’t know. For some reason he’d taken an instant dislike to her.

“No crisis,” she said, and noticed the barber sitting on the other side of Nate’s banquette. “Hi, Owen.”

“How you doing there, missy?” He flashed his dentures and started to squeeze out of the booth. “I best be getting over to the bowling alley. Me and the fellows have a standing game.”

Once Owen was out of earshot, Sam said, “A businessman from San Francisco may want to book the entire inn for a family reunion in July, but two of the rooms have already been spoken for on the dates he wants.”

“Get him to take another date,” Nate said, and drained his coffee before calling the waitress over to pay his bill.

“That’s the problem. He only wants that one week and made a big deal that I should Google him. Can you imagine the audacity? I had half a mind to tell him to go elsewhere.”

“Who is he?”

“Some guy named Landon Lowery. Owns a company called Zergy. I never heard of it.”

Nate’s eyes grew wide. “It’s only the largest video gaming company in the world. Tell me you didn’t tell him to go elsewhere.”

“Of course I didn’t. I’ve been around high-handed rich and famous people my whole life. I know how to handle them.”

“Yet you didn’t know who Landon Lowery was.” Nate, obviously tired of waiting for the server to return with his credit card, stomped over to the cash register to complete his transaction, grabbed his sports coat off the rack, and shrugged it on.

“I’ll take care of it,” he told Sam, dismissing her like she had a feather duster for a brain. It reminded her of all those years of living with her dictatorial father. Well, she didn’t plan to put up with it anymore.

“What do you mean, you’ll take care of it?” She practically chased him across the square. But with those long legs of his, she didn’t stand a chance of catching up. “It’s my account.”

He stopped at the stairs of the Lumber Baron, turned and squinted his chocolaty-brown eyes at her. “It’s my hotel.”

“Mr. Lowery and I already have a rapport.”

“You all but said he was an asshole. What kind of rapport is that?”

“Enough of a rapport that he’s coming to check the place out next week and wants me to show him around.”

“Great.” He rolled his eyes. “You’ve been here all of four months. What do you know about the Sierra Nevada?”

“Nate, Maddy put me in charge of event planning,” she said, intending to hold her ground. This was her first job and she desperately wanted to show that she could do it. “Mr. Lowery wants his family reunion to have activities—organized tours, a meal program, shopping excursions. Basically, he wants a week-long party. I may not have hotel experience, but I know how to throw a party.” It was the only skillset she had, and Sam wanted to put it to use—as a vocation, not a hobby.

Nate turned his back on her, went inside the inn, and disappeared into his office, shutting the door behind him. Conversation over. The man was truly insufferable—a complete jackass. Why couldn’t he at least be ugly? A troll with a hunchback. But no, even that was too much to ask. Physically speaking, Nathaniel Breyer was a Roman god sent down from the heavens. A full head of thick, brown hair that made you want to run your fingers through it. An angular face, too sharp to be pretty but breathtaking just the same. And a lean, hard body that would make a weaker woman quiver.

The only thing lacking in Nate’s road to perfection was a personality.

Sam stood at his door, wondering whether she should burst in and demand that he let her do her job, or give him a little time to come to his senses. Settling on the latter, she went into Maddy’s office, which she had commandeered as her own, and returned three calls—brides inquiring about using the inn for their weddings. Her own had been an unmitigated disaster. Or at least it would’ve been if she’d bothered to show up. The marriage, however, would’ve been even worse. The four months she’d lived in Nugget, Royce had only called twice—once to scream at her for “making me look like a goddamned fool,” and the second time to demand his ring back. He’d insisted that one of his ancestors had brought it with her on the
Mayflower
, when Sam knew for a fact that he’d purchased it on West Forty-Seventh Street, Manhattan’s Diamond District.

Well, she was here now, away from Royce, and never before had each day seemed so filled with possibility. Like yesterday afternoon. It had been her day off, before Mrs. Abernathy had gotten sick, and she’d driven across state lines to Nevada’s Washoe Lake to see the wildflowers. She’d been told that April was still a little early, but even so, the land was awash in color—greens and purples and yellows. No stranger to travel—Sam had been all over the world, but mostly to plush resorts and big cities—she’d never seen anything like the desert, where a person could see forever. It was solitary, but not lonely; silent, but so alive. It seemed freer than any place on earth. Not just the land, but the people. They didn’t seem to care who you were or what you did or where you came from, only that you were a decent person.

People here even talked differently than they did on the East Coast. Not just the accent, a barely detectable twang, but they used odd expressions, like “airin’ the lungs” for cursing or someone with a “leaky mouth” gossiped too much. Just the other day she’d heard Owen describe Portia Cane, the lady who owned Nugget’s tour-guide company, as a “Montgomery Ward woman.” Sam had thought he’d meant that Portia shopped at the department store, but Owen corrected her.
It means she’s U-G-L-Y.

She supposed Westerners were all around more colorful people. Here, the fact that she’d run out on her wedding made her a minor celebrity. Not a day went by when Donna Thurston, proprietor of the Bun Boy burger shack, didn’t shout across the square, “You go, girl.”

Back in Connecticut it had made her a laughing stock. But leaving that day had been the best thing she’d ever done, even if Daddy was threatening to cut her off. The truth was he could shut down her Dunsbury bank accounts and she’d still be wealthier than anyone had a right to be. Her mother, an Astor, had left her a fortune when she died, and Daddy couldn’t touch that money. Oddly enough, she did miss him, though. George Dunsbury IV might be domineering, demanding, and detached, but she loved him. And she knew that he loved her too, even if he’d tried to “wrangle” (local rancher Clay McCreedy’s word for forcing cattle to do things they didn’t want to do) her into a loveless marriage.

Unlike Royce, he called every day, pleading for her to come home. And when that didn’t work, he threw out harsh ultimatums. But she wasn’t going anywhere until she figured out her future, which included carving out a real profession for herself. Life as the hostess with the mostest had become terminally dull—and meaningless. Samantha would never find a cure for cancer or balance the economy or stop global warming, but at least she could make a difference in people’s lives, even if it was only to plan them the perfect weekend getaway.

A tapping at the door shook Samantha from her reverie. “Come in.”

Nate pushed open the door and stuck his head in. “I’m having Tracy Cohen from corporate take over with Landon Lowery. Send me his contact info and the dates he wants.”

“You’re kidding me.” Sam stood up and folded her arms over her chest. “Tracy has never even been here. When we talk on the phone she acts like Nugget’s in a foreign country.”

“Sam, this is too important to let you play at being an event planner. Lowery could mean big business for Breyer Hotels—not only this reunion, but corporate events. The man’s a legend in the tech world.”

Sam glared at him and Nate said, “Let me boil it down for you: It would be like having a Kennedy show up at one of your fund-raisers.”

“Kennedys regularly show up at my fund-raisers.” She pointed her chin at him in challenge. “That’s why I’m perfect for this job.”

He looked up at the ceiling, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Look, if this were an old blueblood looking to book a family reunion at the inn, I’d probably give you a crack at it. But this is Silicon Valley. It’s a different breed than New England old money. They’re like rock stars, and Tracy knows how to handle these people. Hell, she and Marissa Mayer went to Stanford together.”

“So that automatically makes her more capable than me?” Sam had gone to Vassar with lots of successful people. At least she didn’t go around bragging about it. Not like Nate.
I’m so great, I went to Harvard.
Whoop-de-do.

“She’s more capable because unlike you”—he jabbed his finger at her—“she actually does this for a living.” And with that he started to walk away.

“What do I do about the other guests, the ones who already booked for that week?”

“If we get the Lowery gig, we cancel them and hopefully get them to book for another time slot.”

“We can’t do that,” Sam said in disgust. “Some of them may have already bought plane tickets or at the very least gotten the time off of work.”

“Yes, we can. Read the fine print. Any reservation can be canceled for a conference, event, or large group.”

Sam was aghast. “That’s an awful way of doing business.”

“That’s the only way to do business.” Nate propped his shoulder against the doorjamb. He looked so arrogant that Sam wanted to smack him. “Again, let me remind you, we’re a for-profit company. Emphasis on profit. If you don’t believe me, ask your father. Doesn’t he manage one of the largest hedge funds in the country?”

It was clearly a rhetorical question, since they both knew that George Dunsbury’s financial prowess was legendary. Her father had once been short-listed to be chairman of the Federal Reserve Board, but he’d declined and Ben Bernanke got the position.

Nate walked away before she could answer and shut his door a little louder than usual.

She had half a mind to barge into his office and quit. But if she wanted to launch this new life of hers, she needed the job. The only reason she’d gotten it in the first place was that Maddy believed in her. That, and Maddy had been desperate to find a replacement during her maternity leave. Otherwise, Sam wasn’t the least bit employable. Not unless you counted her bulging résumé of lunching with the ladies and throwing charity galas as a prerequisite for a job. But in a way, it was the perfect experience for planning events at a small inn. She had the fortitude to deal with difficult people—nothing was more challenging than planning a charity auction or cotillion with a group of insanely rich, narcissistic women. Hello, Judith Forsyth, the biggest bitch in Connecticut, who wanted to take credit just for breathing. And there was Muffy Vandertilten, whose husband would threaten to sue the committee if the Muffmeister didn’t get her way. But the biggest takeaway was that Samantha knew how to make every detail, from the color of the napkins to the party favors, blend seamlessly with the theme of every event.

And no one knew better how to fix a last-minute catastrophe than Samantha. And believe it or not, large-scale society events were rife with catastrophes. When Tony Bennett came down with pharyngitis six hours before performing a charity concert in New Canaan, Sam had managed to rope Billy Joel into doing the show. She went over to Long Island and drove him back to Connecticut herself. She had a contact list filled with florists, caterers, and celebrities who would come to her rescue at a moment’s notice. Sure, having the Dunsbury name helped, but even without it, Sam had an aptitude for creating memorable parties.

People were still talking about her Snow Ball. She’d put the entire affair under a glass dome, used nothing but diamond white as her theme color, and created a winter wonderland complete with a machine that dropped fake flurries from the sky to make the event look like a giant snow globe.

She might not be a cutthroat business person like Nate or her father, but she knew that if given the chance she could increase sales tenfold at the Lumber Baron. For that reason, she gritted her teeth and got back to work. She’d just gotten off the phone with a linen vendor when she heard a fuss coming from the lobby and went out to investigate. Maddy had come in to show off baby Emma to the housekeeping staff.

“Look who’s here.” Sam gave Maddy a hug and kissed Emma on the forehead, getting a sweet whiff of baby smell. “You look fantastic, by the way.” Sam had only known Maddy since the tail end of her second trimester, but now she looked slender and glowing.

“Thanks. You too. Love that dress.”

“You here to put in a few hours, or just visiting?” Sam asked.

“Just visiting. I’m meeting Emily and Pam at the Ponderosa in a bit, but is there anything I can do?”

Yeah, tell your bother he’s a colossal jerk
. “I think we have everything under control.”

“Nate told me about the Abernathys,” Maddy said. “I’ve never had a guest with appendicitis before. But it sounds like you handled it perfectly.”

“Thank you.” Now why couldn’t Nate throw a little praise around every once in a while? “I called the hospital earlier and she’s doing much better.”

“Good,” Maddy said. “Poor thing. Anything else going on?”

“Landon Lowery’s interested in the inn for a family reunion.”

“The gaming guy? He wants to stay here?”

Why was it that everyone knew who Landon Lowery was except Sam? “He’s thinking of booking the entire inn for a week in July.”

They were still standing in the lobby, near the reservation desk, where Andy pretended not to be eavesdropping. Maddy motioned that they should move the conversation to someplace more private, parked the stroller in a corner, and carried Emma into her old office. “You’re kidding. That would be huge, not just because it’s a guaranteed full house for a week, but it’s . . . uh . . . Landon Lowery. Wow!”