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You may decide you don’t want the job—but you’ll take it because you need it.
Hissing against the cold blast, she walked to Nina’s car. Let out a relieved breath when it started. And knowing the heater wouldn’t do a damn thing until she got out again, shivered her way into town.
A quick glance showed her a couple coming out of the café entrance. Both held shopping bags. Boded well for day two, she thought, and drove through town and out again.
She turned left, bumped over a bridge where the water below shivered its way over rocks the way she shivered at the wheel.
Another turn with snow-drenched woods on either side. She tested the heater as she climbed a hill, and when it coughed out cool rather than cold air, decided to take it.
She spotted the first cabins tucked in those snowy woods and admitted she’d never understand the appeal of a winter vacation that involved winter.
A tropical beach, now, a sun-washed Italian villa, those made absolute sense. But a cabin in the Vermont woods, paying to freeze on a ski lift or skate on a frozen lake?
Forget it.
“And you can just keep those opinions to yourself if you hope to bag this job.”
She followed the signs to the hotel, winding her way.
It stood, white against the white, dignified rather than glamorous, rising four stories with its straight, sturdy lines.
The first story jutted out on either side, which she already knew from poring over their website.
Inside she’d find shops, two restaurants, two bars and lounges, an indoor pool and fitness center, a small spa, meeting rooms, a ballroom for weddings and events, and fifty-two guest rooms, including a dozen suites.
Behind it, the mountains rose up, and the ski slopes streaked down. She decided on the spot she’d have to be dragged up there at gunpoint, and even then, a bullet might be the better choice.
She turned into the parking lot, noted that even on this edge of seasons she had to hunt for a space. They offered valet, but she considered that for guests, so hiked what seemed like a football field from Nina’s car to the front entrance—a wide, stone, heated portico.
Inside, more white in the sparkling spread of marble floors, a four-sided roaring fire where people in cushy chairs or sofas enjoyed a late-morning coffee. A round table simply smothered in a gorgeous flower arrangement that smelled of spring.
Breathing in, breathing out, she crossed the lobby, walked through a wide archway and into Après.
She’d studied the website; she knew what to expect. But all she could think when she stepped in was: Oh God, oh God, I want this job.
A glass wall opened the bar to the world outside. The mountains, the slopes, a slice of the lake, the woods and trails, what she supposedwould be gardens around a generous patio outside when winter loosened its grip.
Tables gleamed, dark wood, again dignified, and each held a small glass-domed tea light and a bud vase. The chairs and booths invited lingering on the soft, stone-gray leather.
The bar spread along the side wall, giving those behind the stick a full view of the room. Dark wood like the tables, it looked antique with its deep carving, its four-columned backbar with mirrored arches.
She instantly coveted it for her own.
The coffee maker—copper and elaborate—stood on its own counter beside the backbar, with the cash-out in a discreet alcove on the other side; swinging doors would go to the back of the house behind it.
She made mental notes for her future—the decor, all class; the flow, excellent.
She really wanted to get behind that bar, check out the setup, check the taps—a half dozen of them on either side of the bar. She crossed to it—maybe just a quick peek—but a man came through the swinging doors carrying a tub.
Tall, on the gangly side, hair in short, neat twists. He wore a white shirt, black vest and pants. The brass tag on the vest readNICK.
“Good morning.” He flashed a smile. “Après doesn’t open until eleven-thirty, but they serve coffee, tea, hot chocolate in the lobby. I’d be happy to take an order for you.”
“No, thanks. I’m here to meet Ms. Jameson. Nell Jameson. I’m a little early.”
“Morgan Albright?” His smile widened as he set the tub on the bar, then walked over, hand extended. “Nick Tennant. I’m the day man. You’re here for the manager’s slot. Nice to meet you.”
“You, too. Really nice bar.”
