9. Bailey
Bailey
Ireally needed to solidify the festival’s marketing plans this week, but I was struggling to get anyone to email me back.
Maybe this was some sort of hazing the new girl initiation?
If no one knew about the festival, no one would come, and then it didn’t matter how many twinkle lights I strung or goody bags I made.
It was a two-part plan: print and digital efforts to diversify my reach and hit a wide range of attendees. Print for my older folks who sat outside and waited for the postman to show up, and digital, targeted ads for the millennial moms who were constantly looking up how to gentle parent.
But to do literally any of that, I needed help getting advertising creative made, and the hotshot firm in Nashville was giving me crickets.
I groaned and dropped my head on my desk.
“You know, they say if you do that too often, you’ll permanently flatten your forehead.”
I looked up and saw Grant grinning over me.
“Good. Maybe if I commit bodily harm, someone will take notice and finally help me,” I replied.
“Scoot over and tell me what you need. Maybe I can help,” he offered.
I slid my chair over, turning to face him.
“While I appreciate the offer, unless you’re secretly Picasso, you can’t fix my problems,” I said.
“What if I was like a knockoff Picasso…?”
I stared back at him. “Are you fucking with me? Can you seriously draw?” I teased.
“Could you say that any louder?” he muttered. “I don’t need to lose my man card around here.”
“Oh, that’s long gone. Maybe since birth,” I deadpanned.
“Hardy, har, har,” he retorted. “Do you want my help or not?”
Two hours later, Grant presented me with a rough sketch for poster printouts and design help for the digital ads. He was actually extremely talented and artistic, and I didn’t know why more people didn’t know this about him.
“Not to be rude—”
“Excellent start to your statement, Bailey,” Grant interjected.
“But why are you slinging around drinks when you are so freaking creative? How did you even get into this?” I asked.
He reclined in his chair and folded his arms.
“I was four when our dad left. Which was young enough to not really remember much about him and old enough to know that I was missing something that everyone else had.”
I furrowed my brows and closed my laptop, the conversation taking on a slightly more serious tone than I was expecting.
“I wasn’t the oldest like Noah or the son who was always eager to please like Eli, or even able to get away with shit like Theo for being the youngest. I was just there, loitering somewhere in the middle and desperate for attention or connection, I don’t know.” He ran a hand through his hair.
“I was a menace in school, and I’m sure my teachers had all but given up on me. But, uh, I had an art teacher in middle school who took me under her wing, and I guess was able to see some talent through the bullshit. She probably helped change the course of my life and didn’t even know it.”
“Did you ever go back and tell her?” I asked.
“Nah,” he said. “My tough guy card, remember? And as for all of this?” He gestured toward the inn. “This is family. This is stability. I wouldn’t know who I am if I wasn’t here.”
“But I’m sure if you talked to Noah, he’d love to find a more creative role for you,” I suggested.
“Yeah, maybe. He’d have to trust me not to screw something up first,” he replied.
I looked at Grant and thought about how much he was hiding from everyone around him. Yeah, he could crack a joke or pull out the charm, but he was still figuring himself out just like the rest of us. Just like me.
I didn’t think before I moved. I leaned over and gave him a tight hug, patting the top of his head as I pulled away.
“Your artistic secret is safe with me, so long as you keep helping with my marketing requests,” I said with a smile.
“You’ve got a deal, B.”
Noah chose that moment to wander into the lobby, taking in the sight of Grant and me hunched over my desk. His eyes darted between the two of us before he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Do I even want to ask?” he said.
Grant and I looked at each other before we burst out laughing.
Yeah, maybe the inn was worth sticking around for.
The rest of the week, I focused on getting the flyers printed, coordinating the food offerings with our head chef, Matt, and nailing down what the plan would be if a summer rainstorm rolled in. My current plan was “don’t freak the fuck out,” but I still had time to think of a plan B.
I waddled through the lobby, arms full of rolled posters and a staple gun precariously balanced against my cheek and right shoulder, when I ran into someone on my way out the door. God, I hoped it wasn’t a guest.
“You know attacking someone with a stapler is considered a crime, right?”
I heard Noah’s voice before I saw him, given that my line of sight was blocked by objects half my size.
“Not if they never find the body,” I called out.
Noah grabbed the posters out of my arms, and I blew a curl out of my face. He wore a short-sleeved polo today, exposing his bulging biceps, and had a couple of days’ stubble forming, which made him look stupidly handsome.
I didn’t deserve this kind of torture. I was a good person. I let people over in rush hour traffic, I tipped my hairdresser even if I hated my cut, and I always returned my buggy to its designated area at the grocery store.
But despite all of my good deeds, the universe had still decided to torture me by having me run into the very person I was hoping to avoid.
I was in a pink sundress today, my hair a chaotic mess of curls that could probably suffocate someone if they stood too close to me, and I regretted not even putting on a touch of tinted ChapStick before I stepped out the door this morning.
Noah eyed me before looking back at the pile of paper in his arms.
“And all of this was going where, exactly?” he asked.
I fiddled with the stapler.
“I was going to hang the larger posters across the town’s newsboards and then drop some of the smaller flyers in people’s mailboxes on my way back,” I said.
“You were going to do all that by yourself?” he asked.
“I don’t see anyone else around here wielding a staple gun,” I joked.
I blinked, and he stalked toward his office, still holding my posters hostage.
“Noah, what are you—”
“You’re not walking all around town by yourself, in that dress, and with a staple gun. I’m coming with you. Just let me grab my keys,” he huffed.
I stood in shock, unable to decide whether this was a good or bad development.
Pros: I got to watch my hot boss hang posters for me without having to lift a finger.
Cons: I had to spend time with my hot boss and remind myself why kissing him again would be a bad idea.
Noah walked back out, somehow able to hold the posters and his belongings, before heading out the front doors. I peeked at his ass in his slacks, and damn, it looked good today.
“Bailey, are you coming, or are you just going to keep staring at my ass?” he called out.
“Wha—” I sputtered. “That’s ridiculous.”
Ridiculously accurate, but I scurried after him anyway.
“Could you lift it about three inches higher?” I called out.
Noah balanced on a particularly wobbly chair as he lifted the poster up and attempted to staple it. We were on Bexley Main, next to the town hall, adding posters to the newsboards around town.
“And, sorry, maybe an inch to the left?” I asked.
“You’re about to have none of these hung if you keep it up,” he huffed.
“Extra grumpy today, I see,” I teased.
He stretched another inch on his toes, his shirt riding up to expose the lower portion of his abs and the light dusting of hair there. I glanced around, making sure no one saw me drool—but I mean, the town could cut me some slack; I was just a girl. What was I supposed to do, not look?
He pressed the gun in three quick staples and hopped down gracefully. A bead of sweat ran down his neck, the summer sun in full force, and I couldn’t help but stare as it dripped to his collarbone.
Jesus Christ, what was wrong with me? I must have been ovulating or something; this was fucking ridiculous.
“Happy with it?” he asked, gesturing toward the board with his head.
“Bexley Summer Social” was in all caps, with a bulleted list of participating vendors underneath. Grant had helped me stylize the more enticing aspects of the design, like free food and a raffle giveaway. It looked professionally made, and I really hoped we would have a strong turnout.
“What if I wasn’t? Happy with it, I mean,” I said.
He grunted. “Then I’d move it until you were.”
I looked down to hide my smile and felt my cheeks warm.
“Where to next, boss?” he asked.
“Ooo, I like that title. Do I get a corner office, too?” I quipped.
“I’m about to put you on front desk duty for the next month,” he deadpanned.
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” I replied.
“And make you teach Grant how to use the booking system,” he said.
I grimaced. “Okay, okay, no need to jump to cruel and unusual punishments! You like me too much to subject me to that form of torture,” I reminded him.
He took a long stare at me, his eyes lingering on my lips much longer than was socially acceptable.
“Yeah, peaches, I do,” he replied softly.
We both paused as the seriousness of his statement settled between us. I fiddled with the edge of my dress and prayed the blush on my cheeks hadn’t completely taken over my face.
“Let’s, uh, keep going,” I said. “Lots more posters to harass people with.”
His mouth twitched like he knew exactly what I was doing. Avoiding this thing between us.
“Lead the way, peaches,” he said, and the grin he shot me nearly made me walk straight into a parking meter.