Dutton
Chapter
One
PRESENT DAY
“Quick. I need water.”
The bride-to-be sitting in front of me places her hand at the bottom of her slender neck and then taps it as if she’s choking.
Considering she’s eating food supplied by the lodge my family owns, this is not a good sign.
I quickly grab the water glass in front of her and force it into her hand.
She starts to chug while her fiancé just spits his food out onto the plate sitting in front of him.
Well, this is fucking great feedback.
We recently hired a new pastry chef—the last one left because she met her husband and moved to another state—and today was his first day.
It’s looking to be his last, too.
“Are these my only options?” The bride points to the tray of desserts in front of her. Two kinds of cookies, two kinds of cupcakes, and three cakes.
All of which she has not enjoyed.
Neither the bride nor the groom has. Usually, the groom is easier to sell, but not today.
I sit up straight and think over my words carefully.
This part of owning a lodge is my least favorite. I prefer to be behind the scenes for everything, handling the financial side of business, but as long as my family owns this place, that’s not how it works.
My grandfather started Lovers Lodge decades ago, building it to the name and reputation it has to this day.
He then passed it down to his son Henry—who is also known as my father, but he lost the privilege of me calling him that long ago—the only heir, who maintained the image.
Now, my brother Gavin, sister Grace, and I assist in running it under Henry’s guidance.
My youngest sister, Wren, will more than likely take her place here once she returns from college, whenever that may be.
Being the baby of the family, the pressure of this place will most likely never be on her.
Until then, it’s a rule that Grace, Gavin, and I all work together to run and make a presence in all areas of the lodge.
The months I spent in housekeeping were the worst, but we’ve all done it.
Thankfully, some areas were eventually taken off our list once we experienced them long enough to understand how they work most efficiently.
However, when it comes to weddings and other events, we all fill in.
Mostly known as being a wedding venue for some of the rich and famous, Lovers Lodge is also one of Forbes’s top-three vacation destinations.
Per their latest article, we are an elegant lodge that sits on a lake tucked away in the small town of Lovers, Wyoming, surrounded by lush mountains.
Between the four-story main lodge and the dozens of surrounding cabins, Lovers Lodge is the best place for families to get away, celebrities to hide out, and the perfect place for the wedding of your dreams. A true vacation that will make you feel right at home.
I threw up in my mouth a little when I first read that article. They weren’t wrong, per se, but my favorite line might have been when they said that the townspeople’s kindness will make you feel like you’ve lived there a thousand years.
Ha, they clearly didn’t meet Mrs. Whittaker, who takes gossiping as if she’s paid for it.
Or Barty, Marty, and Phill, who sit on the bench in the middle of Main Street and people-watch all day long.
And they sure as hell didn’t meet Brooke Sloan when they were at the bakery, because if they had held the kind of conversations I have with her, they wouldn’t be calling her treats delectable.
Fuck.
Sadly, they’re right about that, too.
If only the new chef had half of Brooke’s skills, I wouldn’t be sitting here worried that one more bite might cause our client to choke to death.
Magazines would just love that. They’ll ruin the reputation of our business quicker than we can build it.
“We can certainly take note of different flavors you’d prefer and schedule another tasting,” I say when words finally come to me.
The bride nods, floating a hesitant look at her groom.
“Will they be made by the same person?” he asks.
Shit. If my chef can’t meet their standards, I’ll be left with only one other option, and trust me, it’s the last thing I want.
“Our pastry chef is a new staff member and has a full schedule. Perhaps rescheduling another tasting would give him time to become more comfortable in our kitchen and deliver the preferred cake of choice.”
“I …” the bride starts and then groans. “I don’t know if you do this or are open to the idea, but since we arrived two days ago, we have been…”
No.
“... to the best …”
Please don’t say it.
“... little bakery in town named...”
No. No. No.
“B’s Bakery, and we’d love for them to make our cake.”
I keep a smile on my face.
There’s a hopeful gleam in her eye that I’m going to say yes.
Which, of course, I am, because that’s how this works. Whatever the guest wants, they get.
“Of course,” I nod. “The lodge is familiar with working with B’s Bakery.”
“Oh, wonderful!” She beams and then starts talking a mile a minute over who contacts who and what flavors she'd like and if I can set up a tasting.
“We take care of it all here,” I tell her. “Don’t worry about anything.”
We part ways, and I head for my office, tugging the collar of my crew neck that I swear is trying to suffocate me.
I close my office door, drop into my chair, and let out a groan.
During the time it took to find a new pastry chef, Brooke, the owner of the B’s bakery, helped us out. An agreement she made with my sister, who just happens to be one of her best friends.
Of course she says yes to helping my sister, and Gavin if he needs it.
Helping me, though—that won’t go down as easily.
But the bride wants Brooke to bake their cake, and because they are clients of the lodge, I’m going to do whatever it takes to make that happen.
Even if the owner of the bakery is a light-haired, blue-eyed vixen who hates my guts.
The last thing I want to be doing is heading out of the lodge in the middle of a workday to talk to Brooke, yet here I am doing just that.
I grab my jacket off the back of my chair and flip the light off as I stride out of my office. I slide each arm into a sleeve and fix the collar as I move down the hall, passing both Grace’s and Gavin’s office doors. Then I turn the corner and nod toward the front desk.
“I’ll be out for a couple of hours,” I tell Mason. He’s our reception manager. If anything needs to be done around here, or we need information on a guest, he’s our guy.
“I’ll hold your messages.” He nods and goes back to whatever he’s doing.
Mason is here for one thing and one thing only. To do his job, which he excels at, and make a check.
Exactly how it should be.
He keeps to himself and he doesn’t gossip, unlike other employees here. I get it. I do. You form relationships at work and build trust, but from the things I’ve witnessed, that only leads to trouble.
If the lodge ever falls under my sole management, the first thing I’m doing is banning inner office relationships. Especially between upper management and other employees.
Nothing but a fucking problem there.
A few other employees pass me in the lobby, but they keep their heads down, avoiding me.
I’ll admit, I’m not the chattiest guy around this place.
Again, exactly as it should be.
The late summer heat of August in Wyoming warms my skin as soon as I step outside.
“Shall I have your truck brought around?” Eddy, the head of valet, asks when he spots me.
I wave and head for the lot. “I’ve got it.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Richford."
My steps falter for only a split moment.
Mr. Richford is how people refer to Henry, and yet, it’s my name, too.
How unfortunate for me.
I reach my truck and shrug off my coat, regretting grabbing it in the first place. I hop into the driver’s seat, turn on the ignition, and roll my window down immediately to let the heat out.
Then I head straight to B’s Bakery.
Being in a small town means I make it in less than five minutes.
Since it’s later in the afternoon and nearing closing time for baker’s hours, I’m able to snag a spot right in the front.
Considering most of the main businesses in Lovers are on Main Street, the storefronts connected on both sides of the street, parking can be hit or miss.
Vehicle in park, I get out with one thing on my mind.
Make the bride happy.
It just pisses me off that I need Brooke’s help to do it.
As I approach the store, I spot Brooke through the front window. My feet slow, taking in the scene before me.
She’s alone, cleaning up the store, but she glides around the place as if she can’t help it. Her hips sway, and she pauses, letting her head bob to whatever song is playing. She spins, her eyes closed as her lips move, and she holds the spray bottle in her hand to her mouth, singing into it.
Her golden blonde hair is pulled into a knot on the top of her head, and the shorts she’s wearing are small, skintight, and leave little to the imagination of her flawlessly round ass.
Add in the fact that she’s wearing a sports bra only, my eyes drift to her midsection and the lines that hint at her abs.
It’s an outfit she’d never be caught in during working hours, and it feels like I’m seeing a side of her that she doesn't share with most people.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
Brooke Sloan is nothing short of beautiful.
She always has been, and if she ever catches my lingering looks, I’d be a dead man.
It’s the sass that comes out of her mouth that gets me worked up.
Her dancing continues, but I shake my head to clear my thoughts. Thinking of who Brooke is outside of who she chooses to show me isn’t something that should ever take up space in my brain.
I have a job to do.
I clear my throat, move for the door, but it’s locked.
Of course it is.
I knock, and she spins toward me.
Her gaze narrows, her icy blue eyes practically sparking, and then, as if she didn’t even need to think it over, she goes back to cleaning and singing and dancing.
I blow out a breath, heat creeping into my neck at her rejection.
I don’t have time for this.
I knock again.
Nothing.
Just more dancing and singing.
Another knock.
This time, she pauses and turns again.
I point to the handle and mouth, let me in.
She rolls her eyes and then takes her time dancing my way.
I do my best to keep my eyes on hers, but with every sway of her hips, they drift, taking in her petite frame. Taking in the fact that, as much as I hate to admit it, I’m deeply attracted to this woman. That might fuel my distaste for her even more.
She moves as if my presence does nothing to her. As if she’s not fazed in the slightest that I can see her dancing all alone and as if this attraction is one-sided.
Hell, maybe it is.
She reaches the door, and that cold stare locks onto mine.
My heart pounds.
Her lips move along to the song I cannot hear, and while I should be furious that she hasn’t let me inside yet, I'm focused on how pink and full her lips are. On how long her dark lashes are as she looks up at me. On the single freckle that sits inside her right dimple.
Her hand moves for the handle, and I let out a small breath of relief that she’s going to at least hear me out and not make this any harder than it needs to be. But then, still fucking singing, she crosses her eyes, sticks her tongue out, and flips me off.
Then she pulls the small blinds down and blocks my view.
Damn it.