“There were a number of theories. You could have sold the place for development into flats, for example, leaving me as a caretaker.”
“I’d never do that!”
“Yeah, well, we couldn’t be sure.” Nate sighed. “Stan will be relieved, anyway. He’s been imagining the worst for weeks.”
“You think they’ll come to a compromise?” Carrie asked, hopeful. “About the dance nights and the bridge?”
He eyed her speculatively. “I think it will be fun to watch you try,” he said, finishing off his whisky.
“As long as I’m entertaining,” Carrie said, and swallowed the last of her drink.
“I think you might be.” Nate got to his feet, unfolding slowly from the sofa. “Well, you can’t do anything about it tonight. So can I pour you another, or do you want me to walk you back to the inn?”
Carrie handed him her glass. “I’m done, thanks. Lots to do tomorrow.”
“I’ll walk you,” Nate said with a nod. Carrie tried to protest, but he stood firm. “I’m responsible for the grounds, remember? That means I’m responsible for you while you’re walking across the gardens.”
It was very dark out there, Carrie had to admit. “If you insist.”
“I do,” Nate said, grabbing his coat.
The gardens were invisible in the black night, which was a shame. Carrie would have liked to ask Nate what he was doing with them, but it would have to wait another day. And lovely as the gardens might be, the inn itself had to be a priority, anyway. She wondered if he was any good at DIY.
She’d turned all the lights on when she’d left earlier, knowing she wouldn’t want to come back to a dark and lonely inn. Knowing Nate was down in the summerhouse was reassuring, somehow.
To her surprise, Nate headed not for the front door, but for the dining-room end of the terrace, at the other side from where they’d met that afternoon. He held open the folding glass doors for her. “Don’t forget to lock these behind you,” he said, and Carrie nodded.
On impulse, she paused on the terrace before the door and turned to him. “Thank you for your help today,” she said. All that talk about Anna had reminded her of the sort of boss she wanted to be. But suddenly, all she could think was that Nate was really very close.
Close enough that she could watch his smile widen as he looked down at her, his dark grey eyes warm. So close that, when he bent his head to hers and kissed her, very softly, right on the lips, she couldn’t really have moved away if she’d wanted to.
“Welcome home, Carrie,” was all he said, before disappearing into the darkness of the night and leaving Carrie standing alone on the terrace.
“Apparently this is my number one spot for kissing,” she murmured to herself, remembering her first kiss there, half a lifetime ago. Then she shook her head. She was the boss now, not some kid looking in, wanting to be part of things. She was in charge.
Which meant she didn’t have time to be distracted by Nate Green’s dark eyes and wide shoulders, or the softness of his mouth against hers.
With a deep breath she went inside, locked the doors behind her, and took her files and notes up to Nancy’s attic room to sleep. Time to start dealing with things.
Carrie knew the first step in any insurmountable task was prioritisation. She’d written her list while touring the hotel the previous day, and she had Nancy’s survey, so she’d already identified what needed to be done. Now she just needed to make a schedule based on priorities and timescales.
Really, it was just like organising a wedding, if you looked at it right. Most things were, Carrie had found.
It was Sunday, so Carrie was hoping for a peaceful day pottering around the inn, working on her lists and drinking tea. Nate would probably be sticking to his garden, hopefully embarrassed by his audacity at kissing the boss the night before—an incident Carrie had decided to chalk up to the notorious effects of Nancy’s best whisky, and chosen to ignore. Even if his lips had been much softer than she’d expected.
She shook her head. If it wasn’t on her list, it didn’t matter. That was the new philosophy.
Dance night wasn’t until tomorrow, so there was no reason for the Seniors to be around, and no catering events planned, so Jacob shouldn’t be in. There were no guests, so no reason for Izzie to be scheduled to work, and even if she was, there were plenty of jobs for her to do far out of Carrie’s way.
No, this was going to be her peaceful, planning day. She could review work schedules, figure out how Nancy had run the place, and then set about making things work her way.
Even she was surprised at how excited she was at the prospect of so many lists, schedules and timetables. But first, there needed to be tea. And maybe toast. Or crumpets.
Carrie had slept late, after the whisky, so it was gone nine when she slipped into the kitchen and found Jacob already prepping a huge joint of meat and another young man she hadn’t met peeling potatoes.
“Who is that for?” Carrie asked, pausing in the doorway.
“Sunday lunches,” Jacob said, flashing her a smile. Obviously he was hoping she’d forgotten about the childminder incident. “Even when we don’t have guests, there are a lot of locals who like to stop in for a decent roast. We get a few walkers and such, too.”
She’d known that, Carrie realised, feeling stupid. Or she should have done, anyway. How many Sundays had she spent at the inn over the years?
“Of course,” she said, wondering how this would affect her plans for the day. Not too much, she decided. She could hole up in the front drawing room, and the bedrooms were still empty for further inspection. And anything that brought money in had to be good. “I was just looking for some tea...”
Jacob nodded at a white plastic kettle and toaster in amongst all the industrial kitchen equipment. “That we can do. Mugs and bags are on the shelf above, fridge is under the counter.”
The corner he indicated was obviously the staff area of the kitchen. The small fridge held only spreadable butter, milk and a couple of Tupperware boxes with Nate’s name written on labels on their lids. The slanting, cursive print really wasn’t what Carrie would have expected from him.
“There are some muffins in the bread bin, too,” Jacob called over. “Help yourself.”
Carrie took her tea and hot buttered English muffins through to the front drawing room, settled in at the window table, and pulled out her list.
“Okay. Where to start?” Realising she was talking to herself, Carrie turned to a blank page in her pad and started to write notes to herself instead.
First question was, bedrooms or dining room? Which held top priority? They both needed doing, but which mattered most?
Without decent bedrooms, the Avalon really wasn’t much of an inn. But without a great reception room, what wedding party would want to stay there anyway?
On the other hand, most of the work in the bedrooms was cosmetic, so it might be quicker to get done. The dining room itself wasn’t bad, structurally, but the terrace outside needed considerable work, according to Nancy’s survey. And from what she’d seen that morning, the kitchen was going to need updating if they wanted to host full-on wedding breakfasts and evening suppers in addition to their normal fare.
“How many can the dining room hold, anyway?” She’d have to measure it for herself, before the lunch crowd arrived.
“We can fit seventy for our New Year’s Eve dinner dances,” Cyb said from behind her. “Although, to be honest, we don’t often get that many these