Chapter 3 #3
She supposed she was fortunate there was no avocado-green shag carpeting under her feet because she most certainly would have taken it for a spin.
She took a few steps backward until she ran directly into the wall that others had probably avoided over the previous four hundred years.
Then again, maybe there had been others who’d been equally overcome by the sight of a man exiting his conveyance.
The man in question straightened, rubbed his hands over his face, then shook his head sharply, as if he might have traveled a very long way to get to their current locale and needed to shake off his weariness.
And that was as far as she got before she lost her train of thought and simply stared at the most adorably gorgeous male she had ever laid eyes on.
Maybe those adjectives could have been considered two different assessments of male handsomeness by someone more discerning, but she was going to put them right next to each other.
If the guy didn’t have a dimple, she was going to be complaining to someone.
She was half tempted to retrieve her notebook and pen to jot down a more detailed description of him, but she wasn’t entirely certain she wasn’t having a full-blown hallucination so perhaps it was best not to interrupt it. Good mental notes would be, as they often were, the order of the day.
The man was tall, undeniably fit, and had the most amazing blond hair she’d ever seen.
She was certain her mother could have assessed the color quite capably, but she was simply out of words for that kind of perfection.
It was as if the sun itself had decided to choose the most handsome of all the Greek deities available, crown him with wind-blown golden locks, then set him free to leave the population of Bradford-Next-the-Stow feeling as if they’d stared directly into the sun for several minutes too many.
She understood. She was starting to feel a little sun blind herself.
He rubbed his hands over his face again, then rounded the back of his car and popped open his trunk. She heard him click the locks of his car, then watched him toss everything he was holding into that trunk. That seemed a little final to her mind, but she was suspicious by nature.
He shut the lid firmly.
He froze.
It occurred to her, perhaps immediately after it had occurred to him, that he had locked his keys in his trunk.
She knew this was a good assumption because he had just looked at his hands, patted all his pockets, then uttered a string of somethings in a language that sounded quite a bit like French.
At the moment, she deeply regretted having paid so little attention during her high school French classes.
She might have been better prepared to understand what he was saying otherwise.
She was tormented briefly by a wave of altruism, but she forced herself to let it continue on. She had her future to secure and no time to rescue men who could likely figure things out for themselves.
She had one last look at absolute male perfection, committed the sight to memory on the off-chance she needed material for a cover model, then forced herself to continue on into the hotel.
Finding the conference reception area was done easily enough and things were definitely going her way because she managed to catch one of the staff just as she was closing up an important-looking binder.
“Harriet Brewster,” she said quickly, hoping she sounded professional yet approachable. “I’m here for the conference.”
The woman frowned, looked over the two remaining nametags there on the table, then held one out.
“You’re late.”
“Jetlag.”
The woman pursed her lips. “Not a good excuse. You’ll have to get your room assignment from the concierge. You were the last attendee permitted to register, so I’ve no idea where they’ll put you.”
Harriet forced herself not to indulge in a shiver over just how close she’d come not to being where she was.
“I would sleep on the floor,” she admitted.
The woman almost smiled, Harriet was almost sure of it. She looked around, then beckoned for Harriet to lean closer.
“If you want my advice,” she whispered, “leave your room for later and go stake out a good spot to survey the mixer now. There’s someone at the front desk all night so you won’t be sleeping on the sofa down here.”
Harriet would have settled for that, but she also wouldn’t argue with a real bed and a lock on the door.
“Thank you,” she whispered back, then she hesitated. “I’m new at this.”
“Never would have known,” the woman said with a smile. “Break a leg, darlin’.”
Harriet sincerely hoped not, but she wasn’t going to shun any possible good luck being offered. She took name tag and vowed to slip her benefactress some very nice chocolate at her first opportunity.
She walked back into the lobby proper, then paused at the end of the long hallway that led to her future.
It was true that she was wrinkled, sans make up, and not entirely certain that the kid sitting in the row behind her on the plane hadn’t dumped his juice box down her back while she’d been snoozing.
It was also true was true that she was in a country where the fêtes might be fatal, thugs might be lurking in tiny alleyways, and historic ruins quite possibly contained ghosts. Heaven only knew what perfectly preserved castles might be hiding behind their substantial walls.
But surely everything weird that was going to happen to her had been crammed into a single day, what with her suitcase having run off to the north, her parents’ trunk showing her things she hadn’t wanted to see, and the village green shamelessly displaying its attendant horrors.
From that moment on, things would surely march right along a possibly challenging but definitely not unsettling path that led directly to her perfect life.
All she had to do was walk into the conference room set aside for the reception and find a place to park herself where she could observe TD Piaget in his natural habitat.
That would be the start of something wonderful, of that she was absolutely certain.
She took a deep breath, put her shoulders back, and started off with her best foot forward.
Her future lay at the end of that hallway and she wasn’t about to let it get away.