by Stacy Finz
Nate shook his head. “Why? You dying?”
Rhys sailed a dart across the room and hit a bull’s-eye on the board. “Other than buying real estate with my wife, we haven’t seen too much of you lately.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“With a certain redhead?” Rhys cocked his brows.
“No. She’s no longer talking to me.”
“Why? You put gum in her hair? Why don’t you two just sleep with each other and get it over with?” Rhys nudged his head at Nate. “What’s this deal I hear about you and Lucky Rodriguez putting on barn weddings at his place?”
“Nothing set in stone,” Nate said, because he didn’t know where the deal stood without Sam. “Why? You’ve got a problem with it?”
“Not at all. I told you, I like the guy. It just seems like you’re taking on a lot, especially with Gold Mountain. Maddy says your chief event planner left.”
“Yeah. I may have to restructure things.”
“The chef working out okay?” Rhys kicked his boots up on the desk.
“Brady?” He was about the only employee working out right now. “So far, so good.”
Connie knocked and popped her head into Rhys’s office. “We’ve got a 2-11 on Freedom Ranch Road. A chicken coop.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. It’s Leonard stealing eggs again.”
“You want me to send Wyatt?” Connie asked.
“Nah, I’ll take it.” Rhys grabbed his keys off a hook behind his desk.
Nate smirked. “Glad we could have this talk.”
“I’ll catch you later.”
Nate followed his brother-in-law outside and watched him jog to a police SUV and peel off with his lights flashing. Apparently egg theft was a big emergency in Nugget. He walked back across the square to the inn and wandered down the hall to his office. Still no sign of Sam. But his flowers were still on her desk.
That night the lights were out in her house. Four or five times he started over there and pulled himself back. He wasn’t going to beg like he’d done with Kayla. That had crushed his pride, but getting rejected by Sam . . . would crush his soul.
He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep, and when dawn finally broke he got in his car and drove to San Francisco.
Worse came to worst, he’d call Maddy to fill in for Sam at the Lumber Baron. But he needed to get away, bury himself in work, and try to forget her. When he got to Sacramento, he stopped for coffee and made the dreaded call. Andy answered on about the seventh ring.
“Did Sam show up?” Nate asked, not bothering with a greeting.
“Yeah. You want to talk to her?”
Nate paused. “No. Tell her I’m in San Francisco the rest of the week.” If she wanted to talk, she could call him.
By the time he got to the Theodore there was a message from her waiting for him. Written in Lorna’s signature scrawl, it sat on top of his keyboard. He read as much as Sam’s name before stopping. It could wait. Bad news could always wait.
He took the elevator up to his suite, changed, and went to the gym. He ran six miles on the treadmill, until he dripped sweat. Then he rinsed off, jumped in the pool, and swam fifty laps. In the shower, he leaned his head against the cool tile, let the jet-spray sluice over him, hoping that the water would invigorate him to face whatever Sam had to throw at him. Instead, he felt the shower stall closing in on him. Like he was suffocating.
How had everything gotten so screwed up? Correction: How had he let himself get suckered in? Because he’d known from the get-go that anything between him and Sam was fated to fail. Only this time it felt different than with Kayla, like maybe he’d been the one to screw up. He just didn’t get why telling Fifi that Sam was a Dunsbury was so terrible. Should he have lied to Fifi and told her Sam’s last name was Smith? And if Sam’s name had been Smith, he would’ve given her the project anyway.
He dressed, went out onto the street to buy a hotdog from the vending cart, took two bites and threw it away. When he got back to his office, he shoved the note under a paperweight and returned a few calls.
Nothing like avoidance.
Lisa had gotten engaged and wanted a long weekend to go home to Atlanta to celebrate with her and her fiancé’s parents. Great. He was already short staffed. But he left her a message that she could take the time.
“Nate?” Lorna pushed through the door. “Sam’s called three times. She needs an answer. Yes or no?”
“Tell her yes,” he said, and deliberately turned from her in a subtle—okay, not so subtle—dismissal.
When she left, he pulled out the note, worried about what he’d just said yes to. Yes, you can leave without two weeks’ notice. Yes, you can go back to Connecticut. Yes, you can stomp my heart out.
But all the note said was that Sam wanted to know if she and Brady had permission to fly to San Francisco to meet with Fifi. He read it again just to make sure he hadn’t missed any secret meaning, and picked up the phone.
“Lorna, when did Sam say she was coming?”
“She didn’t.”
“Uh, okay.” He hung up and dialed Sam. “When are you coming?”
“Saturday,” she said, her voice terse. “Right after the breakfast service.”
“I won’t be here. I have to go back to Nugget. We have a meeting with the contractor for Gold Mountain.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I planned it.”
“Why are you doing this, Sam?”
“Because it’s my job,” she said.
And it hit him like a Mack truck. Sam wasn’t anything like Kayla. She was responsible and reliable. If she said she would do something, she did it. Like the work on his house, helping to plan Emily’s wedding, overseeing her family’s trust for the arts. Even resuming being Fifi Reinhardt’s event planner when Sam thought she was being used. Because she kept her commitments.
“Look, I didn’t think it was a big deal for Fifi to know that you’re a Dunsbury. It’s who you are, right?” Why was she making such a federal case out of it?
“I’m a lot of things, Nate.” Pissed was obviously one of them. “The one thing I’m not is for show. I have to go.”
“Come on, Sam. Don’t do this.”
“Do what? Stand up for myself? Stop people from taking advantage of me? Refuse to be someone’s for-show wife?”
“Sam, honey, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He’d never asked Sam to be his wife. Though two days ago, being married to Sam was something that might’ve appealed to him . . . before she’d become so thin-skinned and difficult. “What’s this really about?”
“What it’s about is preserving my dignity. Do you know why Royce wanted to marry me?” She sounded hysterical now and he wished they were doing this in person. “For my name, Nate. The night before our wedding he told his entire wedding party that I was nothing more than a for-show wife and after the wedding we could live in separate houses for all he cared. He didn’t even want to live with me. So I’m sure you can you see why I can’t be with someone who would trade on my name.”
Nate stiffened. “He didn’t say that?” No one would say that about beautiful, generous Samantha. She was just being dramatic.
“You’re right, I made it all up, because I like degrading myself in front of the man I love . . . loved.”
“So what are you saying, you don’t love me anymore because I made one stupid mistake? Don’t compare me to Royce. This isn’t the same thing, Sam.”
“Maybe not, but you have to admit, you weren’t going to give me Fifi’s event until I suddenly became real handy for you. Until suddenly my being a Dunsbury became an asset.”
“Sam, that’s bullshit. That’s not at all what happened. You’re blowing this whole thing out of proportion. You’re just looking for an excuse to run and take the easy way out, instead of trying to make this work. And I’m telling you, you run and I won’t take you back. I’ve been down this road before and I’m not going down it again.
“On second thought, let’s ju
st forget it,” he said. “I’m your boss, it was wrong for me to get involved with you in the first place. I told you a romantic relationship would screw everything up. From here on out, we just work together—nothing more.”
He hung up before she could respond . . . before she could pulverize what was left of his heart.
Chapter 21
A week had passed and Sam had seen little of Nate. They were like two ships passing in the night, except Sam’s ship had lost three pounds. Ordinarily, she would’ve been thrilled.
Brady tried to feed her. For a tattooed alpha male with bulging biceps, he was quite motherly. “Go ahead, give it a try,” he told her over chicken and waffles.
“So people in the South actually mix the syrup with the fried chicken?” It seemed disgusting to Sam, who poked at the dish with her fork.
“Not just in the South. This is hipster food, woman.”
She pulled a face and poked some more.
“If you don’t mind me saying, he seems as miserable as you do,” Brady said.
“Who?” For the sake of being professional, she tried to play dumb.
“Ah, give me a break. You think I’m blind?”
Sam leaned her head back and let out a breath. “That obvious, huh?”
“Uh, yeah. You both walk around all day looking like you’re trying not to cry.”
“Nate looks like he’s going to cry?”
“Nah, he looks like he wants to hit someone. For a guy that’s the same thing.” He wiped down the counter and nudged her plate. “You’re not going to eat this, are you?”
“No offense. I’m sure it’s delicious, but I just can’t seem to get anything down.”
“That bad, huh?” He took her plate and ate the chicken and waffle himself.
“I didn’t even feel this bad when I found out my fiancé had been cheating on me our entire engagement.”
“Ouch. That the guy you left at the altar?”
She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised, but asked anyway. “How’d you know about that?”
He managed to appear sheepish. “The folks in this town have diarrhea of the mouth.”
“Yeah, they do. Do they know about Nate and me?”
“No, I don’t think so. Hey, what happens in the Lumber Baron, stays in the Lumber Baron.” They both laughed. “Not my business, but can’t you work it out? You seem like a good couple.”
“Why do you say that?” She was curious since they’d never actually been a couple.
“He acts like the sun rises and sets on you. And you act the same about him. I also like the way you two work together. You want something, he tells you he’ll think about it and then he gives in. It’s nice.”
“Do you know who I am?” she asked, deciding to tell him the whole story, because she could use a sounding board. Then she realized how that must’ve sounded—Do you know who I am?—and cringed a little.
“Like I said, Sam, the town has diarrhea of the mouth. Everyone knows who you are. At first I thought you’d be stuck-up, or self-entitled like that Paris Hilton chick, but you’re cool.” He grinned and it made her feel good. Well, at least better than she’d been feeling.
Sam told Brady about Royce and why she had left him. She told him about the telephone conversation she’d overheard between Nate and Fifi Reinhardt—at least Nate’s side of it. And she told him how much it felt like history repeating itself.
Brady listened quietly, shook his head and said, “Not the same. Nate was trying to sell you, not use you. There’s a difference. Clearly he believes that your unique position makes you more suitable to plan a big opera fund-raiser than most anyone else. He should’ve figured it out from the beginning, but I get the sense that he didn’t know whether you’d stick around. I can’t say I blame him, Sam. I mean this is freakin’ Nugget and you’re Samantha Dunsbury.”
“You’re here. You could be cooking at a four-star restaurant somewhere in New York, San Francisco, anywhere.”
“Extenuating circumstances.” He looked down at his plate. “Besides, I’m a good ol’ boy. This town is twice the size of the one I grew up in. I think you should talk to him.”
The truth was, Nate seemed done with her. He barely looked her in the eye when they passed each other in the hallway. Every night she stared out her window into his, hoping, praying, that he would just come over and talk. But he never ventured past his side of the split-rail fence.
“I will,” she told Brady, because it was better than saying Nate won’t give me the time of day. It was funny how quickly Nate had given up on them, when he’d always accused her of being the one with the short attention span.
Andy rushed into the kitchen. “There’s an old dude in the lobby looking for you.”
Why couldn’t Andy be like a normal receptionist and get a name? Sam hopped off her stool and followed him back to the front of the inn. It was two days early for Landon Lowery’s people to show up, so she couldn’t imagine who’d come calling without an appointment.
She craned her neck around the corner to get a better look. “Daddy?”
It was him all right, looking the worse for wear, his hair disheveled and his Nantucket Reds torn in the left knee. And was that straw sticking out of his Gucci loafers? Lucky stood next to him, holding his cowboy hat.
When George didn’t immediately answer, Lucky said, “I found him on the side of the road trying to change his tire.”
“Daddy, are you okay?” She’d never seen him this way . . . looking a little shell-shocked.
“This godforsaken place is where you live? This”—he gazed around the lobby of the inn—“is what you left home for?”
“Shush, Daddy. You’re being rude.”
Andy gawked. Brady had ventured out of the kitchen to see what the commotion was about. Lucky clutched the brim of his cowboy hat tighter. And Nate, who’d obviously heard the entire outburst, came out of his office. He took one look at the situation, moved into the fray, and stuck out his hand.
“Welcome, Mr. Dunsbury. We’ve heard a lot of great things about you.” He turned to Lucky. “Where did Mr. Dunsbury get his flat? I’ll have Griffin tow in his car.”
“Over on Highway 70, near Beckwourth, right before the twenty-four-mile marker. Let me get his luggage out of the back of my truck.”
“He has a sheep back there,” George said, and wrinkled his nose.
“That’s Bernice,” Lucky said on his way out. He returned a few minutes later with enough Louis Vuitton luggage for a trip around the world.
Nate lined the suitcases neatly against the wall as Sam stood there, paralyzed. Mortified would actually be a better description.
“Andy, call Griffin,” Nate said. “Would you like something to drink, Mr. Dunsbury?”
“I’d like a scotch, three aspirin, and a one-way ticket out of this hellhole.”
That’s when Sam burst into tears. “Why are you being so awful?”
“Sam”—Nate pulled her aside—“the man had a flat tire, he’s frustrated, maybe even a little embarrassed. Let it go.”
Her father couldn’t fix a flat tire and was taking it out on the whole world. Nate could’ve fixed it in five seconds, and was being so nice. A gentleman.
Nate walked back into the lobby and eyed George’s torn red pants. “Would you like to change, sir?”
Sam wanted to know why he’d worn those pants, of all things? In Nugget, of all places.
“Yes,” George muttered.
From behind the check-in desk, Nate grabbed a key to 212, one of the best rooms in the inn, and carried some of George’s luggage up the stairs, directing Andy to bring the rest when he got off the phone with Griffin.
George trailed behind and told Nate, “Have my scotch sent up.”
“Daddy!” Sam dried her face with the back of her hand as she followed him to the second floor. “He’s the owner of this hotel. Don’t talk to him like he’s your servant.”
Sam started to go into the room with her father, but Nate grabbed
her by the arm. “Give him time to decompress.” He reached for his wallet and handed Andy four twenties. “You call Griffin?”
“He’s picking up the car and fixing the tire,” Andy said, puffing out his chest like he was Nate’s right-hand man. “He said he’ll have it back in a couple of hours.”
“Good job,” Nate said. “Now go over to the Ponderosa and buy the best bottle of scotch they have. Tell them it’s for me.”
“Why are you doing this for him?” Sam asked. “We have wine. He can drink that.”
“Let the guy have his goddamned scotch.”
He started to walk away, and anger welled up in her. Nate had ignored her for a week and now he treated her father like he was the Sultan of Brunei. “You must be looking for an investor,” she spat.
He glared at her over his shoulder. “Get over yourself, Sam. Believe it or not, not everyone on the planet gives a rat’s ass that you’re a Dunsbury, least of all me.”
He left her standing there, feeling like the world’s biggest bitch. She sat on the step and swiped at her eyes, wishing she had a tissue. Lucky had left and she hadn’t even thanked him for rescuing her dad. The fact was, she was embarrassed for George and his high-handed behavior. These were good, hardworking people, and to call Nugget a hellhole . . . Well, it was unacceptable.
She had herself a good cry, got up, patted down her dress, and went back downstairs. Nate was right; George needed time to decompress before she dressed him down for being such an ass. Andy returned with a bottle of Bowmore and a scotch glass.
“Thank you, Andy. I’ll take it.” Sam took the bottle into the kitchen, poured some into the glass, found a tray, and carried it upstairs.
When her father opened the door he was in khakis and a polo shirt and his hair was damp. The room smelled like George, a good mixture of hot shower and cologne.
“Here’s your scotch.” She put the tray down on the coffee table and straightened.
“No hug for your old man?” George pulled her toward him and enveloped her in his big arms. “Let me have a look at you.” He pulled away without letting go, so he could examine her from head to toe. “The place agrees with you.”
