LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

word suddenly seemed very … meager. Ian’s gaze shifted away from me.

      “So … um, what are you doing here, Charles?” I asked.

      “Well, this is the best hotel around, according to your boss. I stayed here last time, too.”

      “It’s a great hotel,” I said faintly. “Definitely. We did an ad campaign a few …” My voice trailed off.

      Now, granted, Vermont is a tiny state with very few people, and cities—real cities, with things like hotels—are few and far between. Georgebury only boasted a couple of bed-and-breakfast places, so it wasn’t exactly shocking to learn that Charles deVeers, multimillionaire businessman, might choose this hotel if he was visiting the state. Especially if Mark had recommended it.

      But it was shocking anyway.

      “Daddy? Where are you?” Muriel came out of the bar. At the sight of me, her face tightened. Then she smiled an alligator’s grin, all teeth and carnivorous intent. “Callie. What are you doing here? Are you stalking us?”

      I attempted a laugh. “Ian and I were at a wedding, actually.” I paused, wondering if I could take Ian’s hand. I didn’t. “You remember him from the hike, right?”

      “Oh, right. Fleur’s friend,” Muriel said, smirking. “Hi, there.”

      “Hello,” Ian said.

      And then, of course, Mark emerged from the bar as well. At the sight of me, he jerked to a stop. “Callie!” His face flushed. “Uh … wow. Hi! Oh, and … Ian, is it?”

      “Right,” Ian confirmed.

      “Nice to see you again,” Mark said. “Small world.” He glanced at me, looking guilty as a shoplifting teenager.

      “This is silly,” Charles boomed. “You two should join us! We were just having a little celebratory drink. Come in, come in!”

      Mark’s gaze bounced between Muriel and me. He swallowed.

      “They were at a wedding,” Muriel said. “And, not to blow the big surprise, but … well, you’ll be going to another one pretty soon.” She smiled broadly, then put her hand on Mark’s chest.

      On her fourth finger was a solitaire diamond big enough to choke my dog. I felt the blood drain from my face. Blinked. Nope, it was still there.

      “Congratulations,” Ian said.

      “Come have some champagne with us,” Charles said. “It’s such a happy occasion!”

      My eyes slid from the rock to Mark. Though he was smiling, he didn’t meet my eyes for more than a drive-by.

      Mark was getting married. To Muriel. She’d be here forever now. He was getting married to that unhelpful, uncheerful, unfriendly …

      Realizing that I hadn’t inhaled in some time, I sucked in some air. I tried to say something, but my vocal cords seemed to be frozen.

      “We’re actually pretty soaked,” Ian said, and at the sound of his voice, I closed my mouth. “But thank you,” he added.

      “Congratulations,” I said finally, though my voice sounded strange. “Best wishes. Um … well, I guess I’ll see you Monday.”

      “Another time, then, kids. You have a great night.” Mr. deVeers, all charm and conviviality, waved us off.

      Ian steered me to the elevators, his hand warm on my arm. The minute we got there, he let go, making me realize how cold I was. He pushed the button, then shoved his hands into his pockets.

      I took a deep breath, my mind still reeling. “That was … wow. Small world. Small state.” I glanced at my companion, trying to recover. He didn’t look at me, and our kiss seemed like a year ago.

      “Ian?” I asked.

      “Yes?”

      “Um … I’m sorry about that. The interruption.” Shit. I sure as heck was. Just when you think you’re getting somewhere, a huge sinkhole opens up in the damn road and breaks your axle.

      The elevator arrived with a ding. “After you,” was all he said.

      Our rooms were on the fourth floor, right across from each other. I opened my evening bag and withdrew my key card. He pulled his out from his jacket pocket. The mood from the car was as dead as roadside possum.

      “Ian,” I blurted. “Um … Do you want to come in? Raid the mini bar, share a Toblerone? Maybe, um … talk? Or other things, too?”

      He hesitated, but the answer was already written on his face. “I appreciate you coming to Laura’s wedding, Callie,” he said carefully, “and you really were … helpful. But maybe this isn’t the right time for Toblerones.” He paused. “Or anything else.”

      I took a quick breath, mortified that tears were stinging my eyes. “Okay. Sure. Yup. Well, sleep tight, Ian. See you in the morning. Um, if we could leave on the early side tomorrow, that would be great. I have a lot of things to do.”

      “Sure,” he said, and with that, he slid his card into the door and went into his own room.

      “Shit,” I whispered. “Shit on a shingle, shit on rye.”

       CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      GREEN MOUNTAIN WAS subdued the following week with the news that M&M were making it official. Mark avoided me, acting chipper and professional when we did have to talk and, on the two or three occasions when we happened to walk in at the same time, suddenly remembering he’d forgotten something, requiring an about-face. I heard him and Muriel laughing behind his office door one morning, and another day, the elder Rousseaus came in to take their son and his fiancée out to lunch. I still couldn’t believe it. Not that Mark was getting married … but that out of all the women on earth, he’d picked her. That he loved her enough for a lifetime.

      Though I tried to stay out of any true gossip, it was clear the rest of my coworkers weren’t thrilled about the engagement, either. “He can marry her if he wants,” Karen said as we walked in together on Wednesday, “but I wish to holy hell that she wasn’t working here.” Yesterday, Muriel overheard Damien referring to her and Mark as M&M. “Oh, that’s so cute!” she said. “We should rename the company. M&M Media. What a great name, don’t you think, hon?” Mark had murmured an answer, and later that day, I’d seen Muriel playing with the words M&M Media in different fonts on her computer.

      Muriel may have been a tad more pleasant, but the sight of her running our weekly staff meeting was off-putting. Apparently, she’d given up trying to be creative director and was moving into production.

      “Callie, what are you working on this week?” she asked, her eyes giving me the customary scan-and-judge. She was clad in a winter-white wool dress, wide black belt and gorgeous black patent leather pumps.

      “I’m working on your dad’s Web site and some of the downloads for—” I began.

      “Please call the company by name,” she said mildly, ticking something off her notepad. Damien snorted and went back to studying his manicure. He used to run our production meetings and was making his irritation known through deep sighs and eye-rolling.

      “Anything else?” Muriel asked.

      “Yep. The hospital ad for the Globe and the pitch for that construction company in New Hampshire,” I said. “Tomorrow we’re shooting the fall footage for Hammill Farms, so I’ll be going to that, too.”

      “Do you really need to? Mark and I will be on site,” she said, looking up with a fake smile.

      I glanced at Mark, who was staring out the window. “Well, since I came up with the concept and wrote the script,” I said calmly, “I’d say the answer is yes, I do need to go.”

Скачать книгу