Buns (Hudson Valley #3)
Alice Clayton
To Mohonk Mountain House, where inspiration became reality
Acknowledgments
As I sit writing this, I’m staring out a hotel window, gazing at the Sydney Opera House. How is this my life? How did I get here? How in the world did a woman managing a day spa in St. Louis, Missouri, end up on the other side of the world at a book signing (signing books she herself actually wrote, but you knew that)?
The answer is you. Simply put, it’s you, you gorgeous reader you. You came along with me on this wild ride from the moment I hit publish on the first chapter of The Unidentified Redhead, back when it was nothing more than a little-known piece of fan fiction.
I love this community more than I can ever say. There’s something so magical about women reading romance, and recommending romance, and loving romance as much as we all do. And as grateful as I am as an author who gets to participate, I’m even more grateful as a reader for the genre itself. In this very strange world we’re living in right now, to be able to spend the last few moments of my day, every single day by the way, in bed with an incredible piece of romantic fiction is exactly what we all need.
But now specifically about this book, the Buns that you’re currently squeezing. This book was inspired entirely by a trip I took to Mohonk Mountain House in New Paltz, New York. This hotel is like a peek into a different world. It’s beautiful, it’s peaceful, it’s like a giant hug on top of a mountain. I can’t say enough about this piece of heaven on earth except to say that while Bryant Mountain House was inspired by Mohonk, creative license was required to invent this fictional world because there is nothing, NOT A THING, about the real resort that would ever require someone like Clara to come along and update it. Mohonk is, quite literally, perfection. It’s become one of my favorite places on the planet. And to anyone who lives a train ride away from the Hudson Valley, figure out a way to go spend a weekend up there. And if you don’t live close by, go anyway. Make the trip. It will change your life.
I must thank my usual suspects, Nina Bocci, Jessica Royer-Ocken, Marla Daniels, and while she is my new editor I’ve admired her for years now, Lauren McKenna. Thank you all for always pushing and expecting better. I couldn’t have done it without you.
And thank you again to everyone who came along on this journey with me. I’m not entirely sure where we’re going next, but I hope you’ll be along for the ride.
Alice
xoxo
Chapter 1
“Partner?”
“Partner.”
“Partner?”
“Partner.”
“Partner?”
“Not if you continue to have this newly developed comprehension problem, but yes, Clara. Partner.”
Whoa.
I sat across three feet of mahogany desk from inarguably my favorite adult in the entire world, who happened to also be my boss, and she just told me that if I was able to knock this next job out of the park, I’d be promoted to partner.
I breathed in, then out. In, then out. This was one of those moments—the kind you read about, the kind you remember later on in life when you reminisce about the good old days and you point to it as though it were a blue ribbon, plucking this day out of all the others and festooning it with colors and sparkles and maybe a unicorn. One day I’d look back and say that was the day my life changed. That all the hard work and hours and weekends spent in the office and missed dates and skipped parties and blood and sweat and tears became worth it because I’d arrived here, in this space and time, and I’d finally carved out a place in this world that was mine.
Barbara smiled, watching me take it all in, likely being able to see my wheels turning. She hired me five and a half years ago, took me under her wing and mentored me every step of the way. And now she was handing me the keys to the kingdom. Partner in one of the most well-known and well-respected branding agencies in the country. If . . .
“So Bryant Mountain House leaps into the twenty-first century, and I get to see my name on the letterhead?”
She nodded. “That’s the deal, kiddo.”
I breathed in, then out. In, then out.
I smiled. “I’ll head down there tomorrow.”
I didn’t own a car. Not that uncommon when you consider I’m on the road nearly 80 percent of the year, and when I was home in Boston I pretty much walked everywhere I needed to go. The nightmare traffic in Boston was enough to make me change the channel the few times I’d actually paused to watch a car commercial, wondering if I should part with some of my hard-earned dollars and finally bite the bullet.
I did love to drive, though, and took any excuse to head out onto the open road whenever a long-term job opened up. And let’s face it, long-term jobs basically described my entire life.
But now I was about to be, maybe, possibly, made partner in this career I loved so much. Was this real? Was this happening? Was this—
“Just make sure she’s full of gas, okay?”
I snapped back into the present at the Hertz rental car lot on the edge of town. I’d been daydreaming while this kid had been lecturing me on my full-tank options.
“Sure, sure, gas. Full of it. You got it.” I patted the roof of my rental, a beige four-door Corolla. Solid. Safe. Dependable. Utterly boring. “Am I good to go?” I was anxious to get on the road. It was only four hours to Bryant Mountain House, but I wanted to make sure I had time to scope things out before dinner.
“Yep, where ya headed?”
“Catskills, upstate New York . . .” I trailed off as a car inched forward out of the car wash, catching my eye. Early spring in the Northeast, when everything was sullen and gray, muddy and cold, was one of the earth’s uglier moments. But when this beautiful convertible, shiny and red and all kinds of pretty, rolled out and reminded the world what summer looked like, I couldn’t stop staring. It was bold, brash, braggy, and wholly unnecessary.
And eight kinds of fun.
The kid followed my gaze, raising an eyebrow in appreciation.
I pointed. “How much is that one?”
“Niiiiice,” he replied, his estimation of me going up a few notches. Born seven weeks premature, I’ve always been on the teeny side. Dressed in black leggings, black wellies that practically swallowed me whole even though they were the smallest size in stock, and a black rain slicker to keep the intermittent drizzle off me, I looked like I belonged in a beige four-door Corolla.
But underneath that rain slicker was a cherry-red clingy T-shirt. And underneath the leggings were cherry-red silk panties. And as I took off my ball cap and ran my hands through my hair, turning my pixie cut into short little blond spikes, I spoke through cherry-red painted lips.