Wondering which wealthy donor had passed away and willed this to the cause, I shrugged and stepped up. And into some of that fully inside nature. Stretched out before me through an enormous picture window was the entire property, including an unobstructed view of the Catskills. I spent my time on the treadmill gazing out at the bare trees and sparkling blue sky above.
What I already loved about Bryant Mountain House was that up here, it was like time had literally stood still. This forest and the hills surrounding it were as gorgeous as they were when the Bryant brothers came here that very first time, looked at it and knew this was where they’d build what would become their legacy. This place was purposefully pristine and a guest could so easily imagine a Jennifer Grey scampering up a woodland path in her jean shorts and Keds ready to cha-cha with the Bailey Falls version of Patrick Swayze. Sigh.
But what I already loved about this place was also what I was going to work very hard to tweak. I’m all for traditions, maybe even more than your average girl, but there were definitely some things that needed to be brought into this century. The rooms, the palette, the furniture, most certainly the gym. And it was going to be fun finding that balance between new and old, traditions but with a twist.
I increased the incline slightly, raising the speed by one. My brain was beginning to puzzle out a plan for Bryant Mountain House and I needed to clear the mental decks.
By six forty-five, I’d finished my run, wrapped a towel around my neck, and was leaving the gym when I ran smack into one very tall, very polished, very surprised Archie Bryant.
Not seeing who it was initially, I pulled out my earbuds and tried to apologize. “Sorry! I’m so sorry, I—”
“Careful, watch where you’re—”
Speaking over each other, we both stopped short, our words hanging in the air as I tried again. “Mr. Bryant, I’m sorry about that, I didn’t think anyone else would be up this early.”
“Early bird gets the worm, Ms. Bixby,” he replied, untangling his paperwork from my gym bag. Dressed impeccably in a dark gray suit, pale green tie, and paisley pocket square, he looked every inch to the manor born. He looked down at his suit now with distaste, as though I’d left a sweaty-girl imprint for him to wear on his chest all day. I gave it a quick once-over just to make sure that had in fact not happened, which of course it hadn’t. I was sweaty, but I wasn’t dripping wet for goodness’ sake. But it was time to bite this particular bullet.
“Don’t you think we can drop the whole Ms. Bixby stuff?”
“Oh, until you’re able to explain to my father and the rest of our team why the fancy expert he brought in from Boston is running around crashing into people while using a pseudonym, I’ll refer to you as any other guest who’s checked in to our beautiful hotel.” He leaned down a bit closer, and once more I could see the spray of freckles across his nose, this time against a significantly redder background. Angry, he was angry with me. And this clearly went beyond just an untimely bump in the hall. “I’m sure he’ll be most happy to make your acquaintance this morning.”
“This morning?” I asked, crinkling my nose in confusion. I wasn’t scheduled to meet with the team for another two days.
“Yes, there’s a meeting this morning for the entire senior staff at seven thirty. Camellia Conference Room on the third floor. I slipped a note under your door with the particulars.”
Who says particulars?
He began to walk away, but shot back over his shoulder, “Everyone, including my father, is looking forward to meeting the mysterious Ms. Bixby.”
“Oh good, maybe he’s the guy I can talk to about getting a TV!”
“No TV!” he called back without turning around.
“Ridiculous,” I muttered to myself, then looked at my watch. Dammit, less than an hour to shower and change and make it to the meeting.
I spun quickly on my heel and headed in the opposite direction Archie had gone, skipping the elevator and running up the six flights of stairs.
He thinks he’s got one over on you, I thought, as I hurried to my room. He thinks he’s got the upper hand.
Well, Mr. Archie Bryant, let’s show you just exactly how wrong you are.
Chapter 4
At seven twenty-five I stood outside the Camellia Conference Room on the third floor as requested, five minutes early and ready to meet the man who had hired me, Archie Bryant’s father, Jonathan Bryant. Dressed to kill in a cherry-red bandeau top underneath a tailored, slim-cut black leather jacket, black pants, and three-inch red Choos, I had on my armor—necessary when meeting the team a few days ahead of schedule.
I wasn’t nervous—I never get nervous—but I had no idea what Archie had already told his father. I could be getting my pink slip before I’d even officially started, which would kiss my partnership bye-bye. Mr. Bryant Sr. could’ve called this meeting with the express intent of firing me on the spot, while his son with the freckles looked on with a delighted smile.
Which is why I was so surprised when the delighted smile that greeted me in the conference room belonged to Jonathan Bryant, who not only stood when I came in the room, but came over to shake my hand and welcome me officially to Bryant Mountain House.
“Ms. Morgan, lovely to meet you, just lovely. Thank you so much for meeting with us this morning. I hope we haven’t intruded into your stay with us too much?”
“My stay?” I asked.
“Yes, my son told me you were here under a fake name and—”
“Mr. Bryant, I can assure you the only reason I was here under the name Bixby is because I—”
“—wanted to get the lay of the land without us knowing you were here? Wanted to experience Bryant Mountain House as a regular guest? Interested in seeing how we really tick without all the extra bells and whistles we’d certainly be sure to throw at a well-known hotel branding expert?”
I grinned at Archie, who was standing directly behind his father, as his expression went from anticipatory, to confused, to frustrated, to now positively livid. “Yes, yes, and yes, Mr. Bryant, all of the above.” I shook his hand heartily, now focusing all my attention on the father and not on the son. “And it’s lovely to meet you as well, please call me Clara.”
“Clara.” He nodded. “It’s a genius idea, of course, when you think about it, wanting to understand a property as a guest before trying to understand it as a professional.” He gestured toward a long table filled with an array of pastries and fruit, bagels and cream cheese. At the end, coffee urns beckoned. “Please make yourself at home. Have something to eat. And then I’d love to introduce you to our team.”