by Moriah Jovan
She sighed.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “Vanessa sees what she wants. She goes after it. She works out the one and only route she wants to take, and if things don’t fall exactly into place right when she thinks they should how they should, she gets pissy.”
“What?!”
“You had it all mapped out,” Knox murmured, gesturing vaguely into the night. “You thought he would stay in town and you’d grow up and go get him. Your grand plan went to pot because he left . . . But, all these years, you haven’t been able to let go of him.
“And okay,” he went on, ignoring Vanessa’s squeak of protest, “so you have him now, but you don’t know what to do with him because it’s fifteen years later and life happened and he suddenly dropped in your lap, and not only wasn’t it part of your original plan, he’s got his own plans.”
“That’s not fair!”
“Truth is rarely fair.” He paused. “I had a plan once, but I abandoned it. If I’d stuck to the original script, my uncle would never have tried to kill us. My wife wouldn’t have had the nerves in her feet cut to shreds, my daughter wouldn’t be deaf, I wouldn’t have opened my eyes in a morgue to see a scalpel about to cut me open.”
“That makes my point, not yours.”
“Shut up and let me finish. What I should’ve done, since I was too stupid to stick to Plan A, was tell Justice I loved her and wanted to marry her. If I’d told her who I was, if I’d laid my situation out for her, she would’ve married me in a heartbeat, but I was afraid she’d say no. I didn’t have to jump any of the hoops I jumped through, and worse—what I did was pure evil. I can’t ever atone for that, especially when all I needed was a little courage to tell her how I felt, instead of doing what I did. It would have been that easy. So . . . think about that for a while.”
He rose then, dropped a kiss on the top of her head, patted her shoulder, and left.
By the time she went back to her cottage, it was two in the morning and Eric was asleep. She dropped her clothes where she stood, climbed in beside him, and wrapped herself around him.
She fell asleep to the sweet rhythm of Eric’s heartbeat.
* * * * *
27: The Last Sleigh Ride
Vanessa awoke to the feeling of a hard naked chest half underneath her and a large arm wrapped around her. Eric’s breathing was shallow and regular; he was still asleep and she was sprawled on top of him, her knee barely brushing his morning arousal.
Just tell him.
She had been following Knox’s advice for years and he had never led her astray. She was well educated. She was very well off by some standards and downright rich by Mansfield standards. Knox was not a man who gave bad advice, so why shouldn’t she take this advice?
Because she was afraid. She was afraid of what wouldn’t happen more than she had ever feared anything in her life.
Please come stay with me at Whittaker House forever. Her heart broke because she hadn’t the courage to say it.
Vanessa felt Eric’s hand begin to caress her upper arm and shoulder, and his breathing changed a bit.
“I have a chubby.”
That was so unexpected it surprised a laugh out of Vanessa. “I couldn’t tell,” she drawled.
He drew her toward him so that her mouth barely brushed his and they kissed lightly. “I want to do something about that today, Vanessa,” he murmured against her lips, his eyes open and watching her watch him. “Preferably now.”
“I can’t right now,” she breathed. “Much as I’d like to. Knox and I have a meeting with my architects this morning in—” She looked at the clock. “—an hour and it’ll take me a while to get ready. That’s why he’s here.”
His forehead wrinkled. “On Sunday? For what?”
“The golf course. This was the only time we could all get together. Now that we have our zoning, we can finalize the plans.”
Eric’s eyes narrowed and she smiled when he murmured, “I can’t tell you how ballsy I think that is, but now that I’ve been here, I don’t see why you need one.”
“In case you didn’t notice, most of my regular guests are elderly.”
“I did, as a matter of fact.”
“Elderly people die and then they don’t come to my place to spend their children’s inheritances. Their children sure aren’t going to come here to soak up the nostalgia.”
He began to laugh and then he was laughing so hard he was choking and coughing.
“A few years ago when we were just starting out, I hosted a couple of corporate retreats to have some mid-week off-season income. I really liked that experience and I knew I wanted to make that my main source of revenue, become known for that. Go after the deep corporate pockets. But then . . . nobody ever booked a corporate retreat here again no matter what I did, so I had a research firm see if they could find out why.”
“No golf course.”
“We haven’t been in a financial position to build one until OKH bought Knox’s share. The corporate guests didn’t—don’t—care about me or my food. They came here for a complete ‘respite from the information age,’ but when it came right down to it, they couldn’t go without a golf course.”
“What do you mean, ‘respite from the information age’? You’ve made two counties a hotspot all by yourself.”
“Well, I have to be. This is where I work. The people who are foolish enough to come here and crack their laptops find out the whole place is wired, but then they get mad at me because they didn’t have a restful vacation.”
“What do you say?”
“I say, ‘It states very clearly on the website and in my brochure that Whittaker House is not responsible for the quality of your stay if you insist on bringing your work with you.’”
“Does it really say that?”
“It most definitely does. It’s part of the waiver or disclaimer or whatever it is that they sign to stay here. It’s not in fine print.”
“What do they say when you tell them that?”
“I can guarantee you there’ll be at least one that does it to me today, so you can watch. I tell them to go to hell, but only in the nicest way.”
“What about this afternoon?”
She shook her head. “I fired my bartender last week and I have two interviews coming today. Shelly’s not here and it’s a month and a half before the new concierge shows up. I have six guests checking out today and four checking in. I might have butchering to do today; I don’t know if Vachel bagged anything last night. I still have to arm wrestle Alain over next Saturday’s dish and I need to make about ten dozen chocolate chip cookies for the county commissioners as a thank you. It’s going to be nasty busy today.”
With that, she rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Eric left her alone to shower, which was rather disappointing, but it was necessary because she needed that time to prepare for her meeting.
He was still in bed but on his phone when she turned off the shower and came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her body.
“He did what?” he snapped, and Vanessa got a sharp, tingling sensation of dread behind her breastbone.
“No. Have Connelly take it . . . Dammit, can’t I leave for one fucking weekend without something happening?”
Vanessa swallowed and went into her closet. Shuffled blindly through her clothes while she listened.
“You all couldn’t possibly have let me know this when I was spending the last month running around trying to get my schedule cleared? . . . No, he didn’t tell me . . . Yeah, okay, whatever. It’s going to have to wait until tomorrow morning . . . Yes, tomorrow! . . . I don’t give a shit! Go to Wilson and get a continuance . . . Whaddaya mean, out of continuances? He said that? . . . All right, fine. Nine o’clock. I get it.”
She winced when she heard the phone hit the wall hard enough to possibly put a hole in it, then pieces clattering to the wood floor. When she emerged from the closet, she saw Eric lying on his back, an arm thrown over his eyes.
Sitting on the bed beside him, she didn’t say anything. She just began dressing, and suddenly, she wished Eric were dressing her. She didn’t dare ask.
“You’re welcome to come to the meeting with me, Eric,” she murmured when he still hadn’t said anything.
“I have to go home today.”
Vanessa’s heart broke.
“I heard.”
Vanessa got up and Eric grabbed her arm, pulling her down on top of him. He wrapped his other arm around her shoulders and held her to him to kiss her urgently, deeply so that she lost herself somewhere in him.
“I will come back to you, Vanessa,” he rasped as he kissed her harshly and she met each stroke of his tongue, each shift of his mouth on hers. “Don’t doubt that.”
Oh, she doubted that very much.
She walked down to the mansion attempting to pull herself together. This was important and would cost millions of dollars. She couldn’t afford to be thinking of anything but this, but that was difficult while the thought of Eric going home a week earlier than expected looped in her head.
The morning kitchen staff greeted her and she nodded as she walked up the back stairs into her office. Knox lazed in his chair at the conference table reading Twilight as fast as he could turn the pages, his open laptop ignored.
Once the architects arrived, they would all be served breakfast.
She took a seat across from Knox and opened her laptop, but saw nothing.
“You don’t look any happier now than you did last night.”
She pursed her lips. “He has to be in court tomorrow morning,” she finally murmured without looking up from the screen she stared at.
Knox sighed.
Eric showed up just before eight dressed as sharply as ever and sat down beside Vanessa. “May I?” he asked politely, and Vanessa slid her computer to him.
“What happened?” Knox rumbled.
Eric didn’t look up from whatever he was doing. “One of my new hires decided to quit. Unfortunately, he told everyone but me two weeks ago. And—get this—nobody saw fit to mention it to me until today. Davidson decided he ought to double check with me since he went into the office this morning and the dude’s crap was gone. He was in the middle of a trial and everybody else is stacked up to their eyeballs in their own cases.”
Knox pulled out his cell and punched a couple of numbers. “Hey . . . Oh, sorry. Can you come to the office for a minute?”
Vanessa could feel her heart begin to lighten, but she didn’t dare look at Eric in case it didn’t pan out.
Soon a very rumpled Justice appeared in an oversized black bathrobe, a very crabby toddler tucked under her arm like a football. She sat and the baby decided she wanted her daddy.
“Am I late for something?” she asked warily, casting a suspicious glance at Knox, who rolled his eyes. As Mercy played with his lips and his ears, he said,
“Would you be willing to go up to Chouteau City this afternoon and catch a case midstream tomorrow morning?”
Her brow wrinkled. “Why?”
“Romeo and Juliet here are two days into their week-long fuckfest and there’s already a crisis.” He speared Eric with a glance. “You need to get yourself an executive. You’re the reason I could actually have a life.”
Justice yawned and shrugged. “Okay.” She looked at Eric. “Do I have to be reinstated as an employee first or can we get away with backdating the paperwork?”
“Really?” Vanessa squeaked. “You’d do that for us?”
“You have no idea how bored I’ve been since we moved to Utah and back again.”
“The forms are in the big filing cabinet in my office, top drawer,” Eric murmured as he dug in his pocket for his keys. He took one off and gave it to her. “You know the drill. Davidson will probably be there until late tonight and can let you in, but go ahead and get that key duplicated.”
She looked at Knox. “Are you going to take me to Springfield to catch a plane?”
Knox snorted. “Of course.”
Justice rose and she looked at Eric and said, “You already said you’d hire me back so now you’re stuck with me.”
He laughed, and it was the most wonderful sound Vanessa had heard since she’d come out of the shower. “Thank you, Justice. I owe you. Just try not to terrify the new people, please.”
Justice yawned while reaching out to take Mercy, but the child protested vehemently. “Too bad, my wee faery princess. Daddy’s got business and Mama wants to go back to bed.” Knox handed her over with a loud smack on her chubby little cheek. Mercy squalled and kicked all the way back to the elevator.
Both Vanessa and Eric opened their mouths to thank him and Knox held up a hand. “Don’t.” He looked at his watch. “I’m now officially annoyed.”
* * * * *
28: Busman’s Holiday
Nia Desmond, the architect who had built Whittaker House and painted it in oils, and Corey Leonard, the landscape architect who had designed the grounds and determined the placement of the cottages, shops, and outbuildings, rolled into the office twenty min-
utes late, which was about twenty-one minutes past Knox’s patience for tardiness.
“And this is Eric Cipriani, my, uh . . . ” Vanessa stumbled over her introduction.
Lover.
Eric shook their hands and said, “Here helping out for the week.” Knox coughed and Vanessa flashed Eric a grateful smile.
“Vanessa,” said Leonard while he unrolled golf course blueprints, “These plans are by four of the country’s leading golf course designers. Out of all the ones we got, these are the ones I felt best suited your land. Everything’s ready to go as soon as you choose the blueprint and we get them finalized.”
Then he launched into the plans. Eric watched Vanessa and Knox attempt to follow along gamely, but they both grew more and more bewildered by the features, the jargon that explained each, and why one plan’s feature was better than another’s. Leonard was so obviously in love with Whittaker House and the chance to build its golf course, that he completely missed the fact that the owners were lost—so lost they didn’t even know what questions to ask.
“Okay, hold up,” Eric finally said, when Vanessa and Knox’s confusion got too painful to watch. “Stop. We’re going to start over again. Slowly, this time.”
Both architects and Vanessa and Knox stared at him, surprised.
“This,” Eric said, pointing to a blue spot on the plans, “is a water trap. I don’t like its placement.” Then he shuffled through the plans to another with the water trap in a place he liked. “I do like it here because it makes the course more difficult.” He flipped back to a different plan. “This,” he said, pointing to a yellow spot, “is a false front. My partner is really good at spotting those and it’s one reason his handicap is so high. This is the only plan that has one.”
Warming to his topic, he took the plans and spread them out on the floor. “I’m a golfer,” Eric began. “Not as good as Bryce, but I haven’t been playing as long as he has. If you want a course that will attract a prestigious tournament, you have to make it difficult or winning won’t mean anything.”
The landscape architect arose to stand by Eric and look down at the plans.
“Knox, hand me that pencil, will you?” Eric looked at Leonard and said, “Do you mind?”
“Uh—” Leonard looked to Vanessa whose mouth quirked. “Um, okay. Sure.”
The morning flew into afternoon as Eric, on his knees, very lightly drew arrows and connected the different plans by the features he liked and didn’t like, ones he knew his various golf partners liked and struggled with. Eric felt Knox looking on, interested in what he had to say, and felt Vanessa watching him. He glanced up at her once, saw her intense focus, and knew she had no interest in the architecture of her golf course.
Her interest was in him. She trusted him with her plans, trusted that he knew what he was talking about and wouldn’t let her spend millions building a crap course out of ignorance. Her expression
held no lust, no desire or longing.
Trust.
A little heartbreak. He knew that expression only too well, and felt himself responding to it.
But then she relaxed back into her chair with a smile, and Eric turned back to the plans with a deep satisfaction that he had pleased her.
At 1:30, Knox’s phone buzzed and he looked at the text message. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said as he rose. The architects followed his lead, and shook his hand. “I need to take my wife to Springfield. You don’t need me here anyway. You and Vanessa always work together well, and apparently Eric has an eye for good golf.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Vanessa said softly, and Knox’s mouth twitched.
“You’re welcome.” He looked at Eric, snorted and shook his head as he walked toward the door. “Pot. Kettle,” he called over his shoulder and Eric laughed, then, more lighthearted than he remembered being in a long while.
*
As promised, one of Vanessa’s guests did indeed fault her and Whittaker House for his lack of rest.
“I apologize for whatever we did,” Vanessa replied to his pronouncement that he wanted his money back. “Could you be more specific as to our shortcomings so I can address them with the staff?”
“Well, for one thing, this place is one big hotspot.”
“That’s absolutely true. We need it to be in order to do business. Of course, the only way one would know that we’re wired would be to open one’s laptop to work, and I’m quite sure you wouldn’t do something like that.”
