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The scent of coffee made me start to perk up. This wasn’t the twenty-third floor of James Corp. This right here, this caffeine and sugar scented business, was a reason why I chose this valley for the resort. It was like a break from the real world without any big chain stores or restaurants. It was near the state’s national parks, but off the beaten path to have too many tourists. A ski resort was nestled in the mountains at the edge of town, meaning the valley offered both summer and winter activities. I’d skied here a number of times and knew from those visits this town would be on the list for one of my boutique inns.
This town was calm. Quaint. Easy going.
Friendly, too, based on the big smile and welcome from the barista. “Hey there! What can I get you today?”
“Coffee, black. To go.” I glanced at the bakery case. “Are those cinnamon rolls homemade?”
She smiled. “Sure are.”
My stomach rumbled. “One of those.”
“Good call. Want it warmed up? It’ll be better that way.”
“Sounds good. Thanks.”
I leaned against the counter as she began to fill my order, checking emails on my cell.
“No, something’s off with that calculation. The length and width of the space is what?”
The soft voice had me glancing over my shoulder. A woman was on the phone, papers tucked under her arm. She had glasses on her nose, dark hair pulled into a somewhat sloppy ponytail.
The barista handed me my to-go cup and I passed her some cash as she said, “I’ll let you know when the cinnamon roll is ready.”
“Eight seven by twenty-nine point five,” the woman behind me said. “Right.”
I stuffed the change I was given into a vintage tea pot serving as a tip jar, grabbed my coffee and made my way over to the napkin dispenser at the milk and sugar station. If the cinnamon roll was as gooey and frosting covered as it looked in the case, I was going to need several.
“That’s… twenty-five sixty-six and a half for square footage,” the woman continued.
Wait, did she do that math in her head? I glanced to see if she was reading something on those papers. Nope. They were still stuffed beneath her arm.
She bit her lip, clearly thinking. While her gaze was on the list of coffee drinks on the chalkboard on the brick wall behind the counter, she wasn’t seeing any of it. “Doesn’t the report say twenty-eight something?”
I started listening more intently to her half of the conversation. I grabbed a stir stick to look busy with my coffee, even though I liked it black, and not like I was eavesdropping. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I was fascinated. Whatever the math problem, she wasn’t using a calculator or one in her cell phone.
“Hey Bridge. Usual?” the barista asked.
Bridge. An odd name.
She–Bridge–moved the phone away from her head as she answered. “You got it. Thanks, Eve.”
Bridge moved to a high top beneath the large picture window looking out onto the street, set her papers down with a sigh. “That’s one of the problems,” she continued with whomever was on the call. “The math’s way off. They’re overcharging by over two hundred square feet. Yes, I’m sure.”
She tipped her head up at the tin ceiling and while I could only see her back, I knew she was probably rolling her eyes. I had to smile. “Yes, I understand you have to check my math. Pull out your calculator and see. I’ll wait.”
As she did that, she glanced around the shop and her gaze snagged on me. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. I was used to the reaction. I was a big guy. Around here, all I was missing was a flannel shirt and an ax to be considered a lumberjack.
I reached for a napkin and tugged it from the dispenser.
What I hadn’t noticed the first time her eyes met mine was that they were green. Like emeralds, fringed by dark lashes and only magnified by her glasses. She pushed them up her nose and I found the action strangely endearing, right along with the pencil tucked behind her ear. She was a tiny thing, maybe an inch or two over five feet. Just a little peanut in comparison to me.
And young. Early twenties, I guessed, which was practically robbing the cradle since I was pushing forty. Fuck, I felt old. Maybe she was in college and working on some group project.
Shit. Was I eyeing a college coed?
Unlike most women I was used to who wore perfectly fitted dresses or suits at corporate, or even tighter yoga pants and snug tops out and about, this half pint had on loose fitting jeans and a simple long-sleeved shirt.
Not one part of her caught my eye. At first.
