Page 70 of On One Condition

“Whew, glad to know we’re on the same page,” I say dramatically, followed by an awkward silence where I want to ask when I can see him again but fear coming off . . . needy? Too clingy?

“I had every intention of asking you if you’d let me take you to dinner tonight, but I completely forgot that Hillary—my project manager—set up a working dinner with Espies.”

“The owner of the Cedar Mountain Resort?” I ask, referring to the swankiest ski resort between here and Billings.

“That’s the one. We’re trying to create exclusive packages for the guests. Luxury deals they can’t get anywhere else.”

“Luxury,” I murmur absently.

“Yes. Luxury. Decadence. A destination to lose yourself in. That’s our brand. That’s what S.I.N. is known for.”

“It’s attractive marketing. Have you met Espies yet?”

“No. What is it that I should know?” Ledger asks cautiously.

“He’s a decent guy.” I almost say indulged trust-fund kid, but figure that’s an insult to Ledger as well, so I refrain. “Just steer clear of talk about hunting. Or trapping. Or anything to do with dead animals. It will unleash a conversation domination topic where he’ll show you a picture of every animal he has killed in the past twenty years, along with a very detailed story to go with each one. From spotting to shooting to skinning.”

“Um . . .”

“It’s okay, city boy. You don’t have to respond. The topic of hunting is commonplace here, but Espies takes it to a whole other level.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll definitely keep clear of that.”

“And if you’re trying to win his favor, take a bottle of Don Julio. That will make him happy.”

“Noted.” His soft sigh fills the line. “I’m sorry about . . . tonight.”

“Don’t be.” I look around the office. “I have plenty of work to keep me busy.”

We say our goodbyes, and I’m left staring at a blank computer screen with nothing but my own thoughts.

It’s for the best. His meeting. Us being apart for the night. Some distance so that things are left with a little perspective.

I laugh. Who am I kidding? I miss him.

As ridiculous as that sounds, I do.

“No time like the present to tackle more of Pop’s stacks,” I mutter to myself.

But there is a thought that keeps coming back to me. A thought I haven’t been able to kick since meeting Sarah in Bear Valley the other day.

I fell back on what I knew best, to save the day . . .

I twist my lips and stare into the night beyond the windows. Those words repeating in my head. I study the lavenders’ silhouettes. The dark shadow of Pop’s unfinished barn. The craggy oak tree towering over the south quadrant.

Ideas start to form. Begin to tumble. Take shape.

Luxury.

Decadence.

A destination to lose yourself in.

That’s when I see a light in the darkness. A way to make this work. A way to fall back on what I know best to save the day.

Screw Pop’s stacks.

I open my laptop and begin to plan.