Chapter 37
37
Natalie
T he week flies. I spend almost every waking moment working on our festival offerings, which also means getting them ready to offer at the resort. It’s a lot of work and a lot of fun. Preston and I drive all over creation retrieving materials, like a big white tent and a plastic shower curtain that will jointly form a splatter room, an even bigger kiddie pool for Jell-O wrestling than we used at the party, a few additional sets of football flags, and more Nerf blasters and darts. We talk to Amanda about catering snacks for our booth next weekend, then recruit her kids and a bunch of other Wilder kids to letter signs for us. When the kids turn out to be fantastic workers, we ask them to help us out on festival day.
There are a few hairy moments, like when we realize that there’s a roof leak in the corner of the stable where we’ve stored the Jell-O powder and have to order more, shipped overnight. Another one when the company we subcontracted horseback rides from bails out on us for a kid’s birthday party in the ritziest part of Bend. But we chip away at the problems.
Meanwhile, whenever he’s not needed, Preston is on work conferences. Or in something he calls a virtual data room , supervising due diligence . Or working on spreadsheets, tap-tap-tapping away on his computer. And except when we’re doing heavy lifting, he’s mostly wearing his fine, expensive button-downs with the sleeves rolled, exposing the loveliest typing porn this side of the Mississippi. I could watch him make spreadsheets all day, those long, blunt fingers, whose strength and agility I am well-acquainted with…those distinctly male wrists…the sinewy muscle in his forearms, that extra bulge of strength right below his elbow…
Often, Preston gets interrupted mid-spreadsheet.
I ask him a lot if things are going okay with work, the deal, and the promotion, and he assures me they are. His client, a company called MegaStar, is almost done studying the company they want to gobble up, called PowerFun and so far, everything’s gone smoothly. No surprises. In fact, he might be able to stick around Rush Creek for a little longer, wrap up due diligence remotely, then go back to New York to finish negotiations.
I let myself lean into that “a little longer.” The open-endedness of it. It probably shouldn’t, but it gives me hope.
And then, suddenly, it’s Friday night, the night before the festival. Preston is in his room, doing something complicated requiring Asian market hours, while Hanna and I close and lock the door on the Hott Springs Eternal barn stall, where all tomorrow’s materials are stored. Hanna has had a lot of questions for me, which is a little weird because she’s been pretty hands off with all this stuff so far. But tonight she wants to know a slew of details about how the programming will work, exactly when it will start, and so on.
It takes me a while to extricate myself, and when I do, when I head back to the lodge, I’m as weary as I can ever remember being. I want food and sleep. And I feel a little grumpy because there’s nothing in my mini fridge except moldy leftovers I keep meaning to throw away, and I’m tired of all the Hott Springs Eternal room service options. I guess I’ll get another Bleu Hott Burger—calories are good—but it doesn’t sound appealing.
I’m so tired and hungry that I lean my head against the elevator wall while it rises and have to make myself step out and plod down the hall to my room.
I swipe my key card and jump back with a shriek, because there’s someone in my room.
Then I realize it’s Preston, and?—
“Oh, wow,” I say. “Wow. Wow .”
I’m frozen in the doorway, mouth open.
He’s borrowed a table from somewhere else in the hotel, covered it with a tablecloth, set it with china and candles and?—
“Preston—” I’m still at a loss for words. There are two platters and three big bowls of food, everything family style—chicken parm, manicotti, Bolognese, rigatoni and broccoli, something that looks like penne alla vodka. “Where is this from ?”
He hesitates.
“Bella Italia?” I name a place in Bend.
“Carmine’s,” he says.
“In Bend?”
“In New York.” He looks a little sheepish. “It’s my favorite takeout in New York. It’s my pump-up takeout. What I eat the night before a big presentation or meeting or deal.”
“Holy—”
Tears fill my eyes.
“Nat—” he says helplessly.
“No, it’s good crying. It’s—I was so hungry and tired, and this is—better than sex.”
He laughs. “Don’t say that.”
“Better than sex with men other than you,” I correct myself, and he laughs again and kisses me.
“Sit.” He sweeps my chair out.
“How did you get me takeout from New York?” I sit and spread my napkin out as he does the same across from me.
“Franklin.”
I recognize the name of his assistant from work conversations I’ve partially overheard. “He flew it out. And Hanna kept you busy for a while.”
Oh. Hence all the questions.
“You—” I’m still having trouble with full sentences.
“I’ve always wanted to do something like this. Ridiculous. Extravagant. Just because . On impulse. For fun,” he says and the corners of his eyes crinkle, and the last vestiges of me, the last parts I was holding back from him, give themselves up.
“I love this,” I say, because I won’t say what I really mean.
He points with his fork. “Dig in.”
I do and moan into the first bite.
“Nat,” he warns.
We’ve been over this a few times this week; he really likes how much I love food. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m too hungry to do anything except eat.”
“You’ve said that before,” he says.
Pretty much before every meal this week.
But we do eat. We eat and eat, until he says, “Save a little room.”
“What for?” I ask.
He opens the closet and pulls down a box. A white box with red writing on the top, tied with red-and-white string.
“That’s—”
My mouth is hanging open again, my brain frozen on the sight.
“Lucibello’s,” he confirms.
He pulls the string free, opens the box, and shows me the contents. Flaky tube-shaped pastry, thick custard cream—I’m flooded with memories of sitting in my sister’s dorm room, licking my fingers clean, and my mouth waters.
“You got me…?”
I get up, take the box out of his hands, set it aside, and smother him in a bear hug. He laughs and kisses me.
“You got me Lucibello’s. Oh my God, Pres, are you trying to destroy me? What am I supposed to do when you leave? You’ve ruined me for other men.”
“Good,” he says. His eyes are dark and serious on mine. “That was my plan.”
“But—”
He holds me tighter. “If I could get Carmine’s and Lucibello’s here, don’t you think I could get myself here any time I wanted?”
It takes me a minute to understand what he’s saying. Asking. “You mean—long distance?”
His gaze probes mine. “If you’re willing to give it a shot.”
“Yeah,” I say, breathless, not giving myself time to think about it, just—wanting what he’s offering. “Yeah.”
“I couldn’t be here all the time, but look how much I was able to do remotely, right? And no crises that called me back into the office or anything.”
“And I could fly sometimes, too. You could send the private jet for me.”
His eyes crinkle with laughter. “I could.”
We stare at each other, and I’m so full of him, of what I feel for him that I don’t know how to put it into words. I’m going to need another way to show him.
And maybe he can see because he smiles down at me. “Do you—um—” His smile gets deeper. “Want to take a little break before dessert and—mmm,” he says, as I answer with my mouth on his, pulling him toward the bed.