A Moment of Bliss (3 page)

Madison nodded, and her feet click-clacked, rapid fire, against the veranda's stone floor as she hurried back inside.

Roark followed, made the polite introductions, and got the hell out of the restaurant. He made it to his office, closed the door, and slumped in his too big, too old desk chair.

What in blazes was he doing?

He wouldn't deny he found Madison attractive. Insisting otherwise was pointless, and he didn't do things that were pointless—but damn. He needed to get himself together.

Madison was gorgeous, smart, and he was about two seconds from asking her out for drinks. The problem was, she wasn't some woman he'd met in town. She was a potentially
huge
client for Honeywilde, and clients and guests were off limits.

Not only that, but he knew better than to flirt with her. It was unprofessional. Madison probably got hit on by businessmen all the time, and he bet she loathed it. Roark wasn't going to be that guy. He
wasn't
that guy. That guy was an ass.

Now . . . if he'd met Madison at a pub or been introduced by friends, that'd be a different story. He'd ask her out for coffee or lunch, then a dinner date. But that wasn't the case here. She might be booking an event here, and that mattered above all else.

No. She
would
book an event here; he'd see to it. Honeywilde had to have this. Madison had done enough research to know the inn's business had been off the last decade or so, and they'd done enough research on her to know she coordinated the kind of events that could help the inn out of its financial hole.

His grandfather's pride and joy, the Bradley legacy, had gotten so close to foreclosure it still gave Roark heartburn, but his parents broke up the shares of Honeywilde and entrusted it to their children before they retired.

Roark inherited the majority, took out the loans to fix the place up, and he and his siblings would be the ones to turn it around.

They had to survive this winter first though, the dead time for mountain hospitality, and the preceding fall season was looking pretty bleak.

“Where have you been?” Roark's sister burst into his office and circled his desk in a tornado of Post-it notes and riotous red hair. A huge mop of chocolate hair and four legs followed, tongue out like this was the best game ever.

“That apple vendor is trying to rob us blind,” she complained, the dog, Beau, barking in agreement. “He's priced those apples like they don't grow
everywhere
up here. I told him no thanks, buddy.”

She bumped around behind his chair, shuffling through the folders on the credenza until one fell off.

“May I help you find something?”

“I need the number for that produce guy. The one right outside of town, family farm. I bet he'd hook us up with some apples, and in the spring he sells strawberries. Wright wants to make his apple crumble thingie for Sunday brunch this weekend. Sunday brunch is the restaurant's busiest time.”

She said it with such conviction, like Roark needed to be convinced. Right now, the restaurant was what kept them afloat.

“I know Sundays are busy.”

“Then you know Wright
has
to make his apple crumble thingie and we kind of have to have apples for him to make it.”

He scrolled through the contacts in his phone until he reached the number for Stewart Farms. He forwarded it to Sophie's phone and it rang in her pocket.

She wrinkled her nose again. “I do not have time to talk to anyone right now.”

“It's me, Soph. I just sent you the number to the farm.”

“Oh.” She checked her phone, then almost dropped it when she clamped her hand down on his arm.

“Ow.” For someone so tiny, she had a grip like the jaws of a pit bull.

“That event planner, the one who did the big wedding in Charleston—Madison. She's supposed to be here today.”

“Yes. She is here.”

“Oh my god. Where? When?”

“She got here about an hour or so ago and I showed her around.”

Sophie threw her hands up. “Why didn't you say so? How did it go? What did she think? Is she going to book us? She used to work for Echols Events and they handle some big names. A big-name event is exactly what we need.”

His little sister had done the recon on Madison as soon as she'd called to make an appointment. Sophie had said the name sounded familiar, and sure enough, Madison's name had shown up in a Charleston style magazine in an article about a big wedding, right before she left her employer to go into business on her own.

Roark stood, hoping to corral his sister's anxiety. Beau was right beside him. “This
might
be a big event, Sis. Let's don't get too far ahead of ourselves. She hasn't booked us yet, but I think it's going really well. She likes the place so far.”

“We could use a successful wedding on our books.”

He didn't have to be reminded of that fact. “Soph.” Roark towered over her, so he put his hands on her shoulders and bent his knees so she wouldn't have to crane her neck. After all the years of reassuring Sophie that everything was going to be okay, he automatically took that position anytime she worried about anything. “I'm taking care of it. Everything is going to be okay.”

“Where is Madison now?”

“She had some questions about the restaurant and a few details, so I left her with Devlin.”

Sophie looked at him with bug eyes. “You left her with Dev? Since when is that a good idea?”

“Never, but I can't cut him out completely. He's already giving me the stink eye every chance he gets. If I interrupt him now, it'll be next year before he stops pouting.”

“Don't be like that. See, this is why the two of you fight.”

“We fight because he wants an on-staff sommelier, classes for yoga and cooking, even freaking ballroom dancing. He acts like we're the Sandals of the Smokies.”

Sophie bumped his arm with her fist. “Dev is a good businessman, like you, but he's . . . creative. Imaginative, and that's a positive. Y'all balance each other out.”

Roark barked out a laugh and had to dodge another one of her punches that looked like it held more force.

He put his hands out to block her tiny fists of fury. “The important thing is, the tour with Madison is going well and I'll finish when she's done talking to Dev.”

“Oh,
you'll
finish it? You don't want your hospitality manager to take over?” She stepped back and somehow managed to look down her nose at him.

“No, I don't. Besides, Madison and I speak the same language. We have . . . rapport.” He was not going to say chemistry, however tenuous it might be.

His sister gave him her patented flat stare that held about a thousand accusations and never failed to make him feel guilty, even when he'd done nothing wrong.

“What?”

“Rapport?”

She rolled her eyes and turned for the door. “Nothing. Just get us this wedding. Then you can do whatever you want with your rapport.”

M
adison squeezed her phone between her shoulder and ear, and made a beeline toward her Audi. The line rang and rang, until finally Whitney picked up.

“Hello,” the future bride sang into the phone.

“It's Madison. You were right. Honeywilde is perfect.”

Whitney squeaked into the phone. “I know, right? Did you get it booked?” The famous lead singer didn't have to tell Madison how eager she was to have her dream wedding at her dream location; it oozed from every word.

“Not yet. I just finished the tour with the general manager and I'm about to meet with him to make an offer. I have to play it cool versus gushing over how gorgeous it is up here.” She walked around her car, enjoying the private moment to admit how freaking beautiful yet quaint this place was.

“You've seen it now, so you know why I have to have it. Growing up, we went there almost every summer. Pay them whatever they want to clear their schedule and book it.”

Easier said than done. “You know I can't pay them whatever. Your manager already chewed me out about this event, then he went after you. I'd like to keep the price within reason and keep him off our backs.”

Whitney groaned. “Phil is such a dick sometimes. I'm sorry. I know he's looking out for us, but still.”

She wasn't wrong. The band's business manager was a nightmare. Regardless, Madison's job was to turn this whole thing into the couple's dream come true. Not just for them, but for her. If she pulled off this high-profile wedding, her one-woman business would be set. No more backstabbing coworkers, no more sexist boss, no more constant threats of losing her job because someone else didn't do theirs. “Try not to worry about Phil. You hired me so I can worry about all of the logistics and you don't have to. I'll make it work. You have music to tend to.”

“When are you going to tell him we need the whole place for a week, in like, less than a month?”

“I won't be telling him ‘we' need anything. He doesn't know who is getting married yet.” Because that'd jack the price up enough to make manager Phil's nonexistent hair curl.

“So he could still say no and slam the door in your face? You can tell him it's us. Maybe it will help.”

“He's not going to slam the door in my face.” She bet it'd been months since Honeywilde was booked to full capacity. Madison wasn't just offering full booking, whether the rooms were used or not, but hefty events costs. The inn needed that kind of money, the same way she needed this wedding to be a success.

Besides, she wasn't letting the big-name cat out of the bag unless she had no choice. “I'll lay out an offer and we'll massage the deal until it's done.”

“Oh, I hope so.” The wistful longing in Whitney's voice betrayed her youth. The bride and groom were in their early twenties and, by all accounts, desperately in love.

Madison wouldn't say it to them—could
never
say it to any client—but she thought anyone getting married was out of their mind. She'd gotten close enough to dream about it once, when very young and stupid. Her dream had been built on lies, believed by a silly girl who should've known better than anyone else. Weddings were part of her job, not part of her life plan.

“There's no need to hope,” she reassured her bride. “I'm going to make this happen.”

Madison hung up and dropped her phone in her bag. This deal
would
be agreed upon and this wedding would turn out flawless. She didn't have anything else to fall back on, so she simply wouldn't fail.

As much fun as she was having dealing with Roark, this was the kind of high-profile gig that could make or break a career. She smoothed down her suit jacket and ran a hand over her hair. She wasn't primping for Roark; she was preparing for battle.

She found Roark on the veranda, sitting with his back to her at a little bistro table they must've moved outside from the restaurant. An empty chair sat on the other side of the table, facing the mountains and an imminent sunset.

“This is cozy.” She put her things down and joined him. “Romantic” was the word echoing in her brain, but she knew better.

Firstly, she worked in the industry of everlasting love and romance, so she was immune to fanciful stuff like this. Secondly, Roark was admittedly jaded himself. She recognized a kindred cynic when she met one and, most importantly, there was no reason for him to try to romance her.

Roark crossed a leg to rest his ankle over his knee. “I thought you might want to get the full experience. Like you said, see what the guests will see if they're sitting out here for a wedding. I brought snacks as well.”

Madison noticed a plate, covered with a cloth napkin, on the center of the table, and two steaming mugs of coffee with a little tray of cream and sugar.

“That better not be what I think it is under that napkin.”

“Depends. What do you think it is?”

“Some of those cookies from the kitchen.”

“In that case, it's absolutely what you think it is. Wright put some aside and made fresh coffee. You said maybe later, and now it is later.”

“You're not going to seal this deal on the virtues of some cookies.”

Roark leaned an elbow on the table and grinned. “That's what you think, but you haven't had these cookies yet.”

She swore her chair tipped toward him with the pull of that playful look. All day long she'd fought the draw. It was wearing her down. They had a deal to make, and flirting with Roark was not the way she did business. She rolled her eyes to play off his effect. “Fine. Unveil the cookies. Let's get this over with.”

He turned toward the table and moved one of the pottery mugs closer to her. “Okay, but you can't have any cookies until the color starts.”

“Color starts what?”

“Oh.” Roark whipped the napkin off the plate with a flourish. “You'll see.”

Underneath the napkin lay ten—no, twelve—cookies. Six different frosted, two chocolate chip, two oatmeal raisin, and two of the Pumpkin Pleasure Rolls.

It was all she could do not to whine at the sweets. “I can't eat six cookies.” Though she wouldn't mind trying.

“Who said we're splitting them evenly? I'm thinking ten for me, two for you.”

She laughed, realizing she'd done so more today than she had in years. She was rusty at it, but still as loud as always.

“Here we go. Now you can have a cookie.” He moved the plate closer to her. She chose a pumpkin one, only because she hadn't stopped thinking about them since she first saw them.

Roark grabbed a chocolate iced cookie in one hand, his mug of coffee in the other.

They turned toward the horizon to see the first shades of orange and yellow stain the sky. “Lovely,” she noted. She wasn't one to swoon at nature, but the view was pretty.

“It gets better.” He bit into his cookie and brushed the crumbs off his chest.

She refocused on the sunset and slowly, quietly, the colors went from a bright orange to burnt, to crimson, to a deep wine color. The color bled and paled, to violet and pink, until all that was left was a soft lavender with the navy blue of midnight chasing it across the sky.

A soft breeze caressed her skin, the uneaten cookie still in her hands. Madison blinked at the evening falling softly around her and realized her mouth was hanging open a little. “Is it like that every day?” Her voice was breathy, barely a whisper, and she didn't like the sound.

She sipped her coffee, now lukewarm. How much time had gone by since she'd joined Roark out here? And why was she waxing poetic over a setting sun when that was just the sort of ridiculousness she'd never entertain?

“Not every day.” Roark reached for another cookie. This time a strawberry frosted. “But we do get a lot of them.”

“It's spectacular.”

From the corner of her eyes, she could see Roark turn toward her. “Isn't it? It's nothing magical like people say, but that doesn't make it any less beautiful. Our cleaner air, plus the high clouds we get this time of year, light scattering through particles in the atmosphere,
that's
the secret to our sunsets.”

Yes, Roark was a kindred cynic, for sure. It didn't ruin the quality of the view for her though. In fact, it enhanced it. He made the sunset real, something she could rely on.

“So the climate is perfect for pretty sunsets in September?” she asked.

“Some of the prettiest.”

That meant she'd have guests at least ten times as wowed as she was, because she wouldn't tell them about the atmosphere and particles. This location was perfect, and she'd make sure she got it without a sky-high price tag. The bride and groom's grumpy manager would be satisfied with not spending a load of money and, more importantly, the wedding couple would have the location of their dreams.

Then Madison's name would spread through the entertainment industry like A-list gossip and she'd be the It woman for fabulous weddings and events. She wasn't working this hard for anything less.

She envisioned patting herself on the back and bit into the cookie. “Oh . . . my . . . god.”

The cookie's name was 100 percent justified; her eyes really did roll back into her head. When she got it together, she looked over at Roark.

He was smiling the smile of a man who'd told her so. “I know.”

“What's
in
this thing? The soul your chef sold for it to taste so good?”

Roark slapped the table. “I'll have to tell Wright you said that, but I don't know what's in them. A cheesecake-type something or other? He won't tell me details and I'm not sure I want to know. Probably enough sugar to warrant a ban by the FDA. We don't question perfection.” He grabbed one of the pumpkin ones too.

“No offense, but how can you eat these cookies and, first of all, not have diabetes, and second of all, still look . . . the way you look.”

He grinned and she knew, this time, she was the one busted. “How do I look?”

“You know how you look. Answer the question.”

“I limit myself to one a day. Usually,” he added before she could point out she'd seen him have at least four today. “Today I'm giving a tour, so it's special. I haven't had dinner yet either, so I'm starving. I tell Wright that he's the reason I run every day. If I didn't run, I'd have to cut these out of my life completely, and that's just not going to happen.”

He was a runner. She ran too, but not because of cookies. Running was the only time she was clearheaded and free. Now would be the time any normal person might mention they also ran. Share commonality, open up a little, bond over personal details.

Madison didn't do personal details.

She looked at the half-eaten cookie in her hand. “I'm keeping you from dinner. We should probably wrap this up.”

“I'm not that hungry. Had about a half dozen cookies, after all. Besides”—he tapped the table with his finger—“we need to talk about your decision. You've had the tour, the view, and the cookies. What do you think?”

This was it. He'd either work with her on this or laugh in her face. “I might be interested in booking Honeywilde for this wedding, but there are a few . . . stipulations.”

Roark turned his chair into the table and slid forward, both elbows propped on it. “I'm listening.”

Madison turned her chair too, matching his posture. “I would need to book the inn for longer than just a weekend.”

“That can be arranged.”

“We're talking a big event here.”

“How big?”

“The entire inn and the restaurant. No other guests allowed in or out for the extent of the booking.”

Roark lifted his eyebrows. “Which would be . . . ?”

“For a week.”

His eyebrows stayed up. “You want to book the whole inn, for a week?”

“Restaurant too. You won't necessarily have people staying here that entire time, but they want it booked up and blocked off for setup and privacy.”

“Privacy? Who are they, royalty?”

“Let me worry about who they are. What I will tell you is I'm definitely interested in Honeywilde as the location.”

“That's good to hear.”

“But there's a catch.”

“And that is?”

“I need it in three weeks.”

Roark didn't exactly laugh in her face. First he stared at her, slack jawed, looked up to the sky, and
then
he laughed. “Are you nuts? Our inn isn't available in three weeks. You book this sort of thing months in advance.”

“I don't have months of advance notice. They're getting married at the end of September and they're getting married here.”

“We already have guests booked that weekend.”

“How many?”

“I don't know.”

“Yes you do. How many?”

He glanced away. “Ten rooms.”

“I can compensate the cost or pay for their visit any other weekend they'd like to stay. Done. Next issue.”

“You cannot throw together a wedding and have it here in three weeks.”

“It's actually less than three weeks. And watch me.” Madison reached for her portfolio and slid it over in front of her. “Now, I'm going to write down a figure, payment for the whole week at Honeywilde. You can tell me what it will take to comp the displaced guests and we'll tack that on to the end.”

“Before you go writing down any figures, be aware that I know how reasonable our rates are. Don't start out trying to lowball me when I know you normally plan events for clients with means. They can afford us.”