Holiday with You - Claudia Burgoa Page 0,8
on the beach next to Chris Hemsworth—when my phone wakes me with the sound of Aurora’s ringtone—“Psycho.” The piercing of the violins is the preamble of what’s to come once I answer the phone.
Clearing my throat and coughing slightly, I answer, “Audrey Reed.”
“Were you sleeping?”
“What?” I clear my throat again. “Of course not. The air is too dry.”
“Legal just emailed me. You haven’t requested the purchase contract,” she sneers.
My head pounds at the tempo of her screechy voice. Every time she speaks, a flower withers somewhere in sunny California.
“I haven’t found her yet.” My voice is firm and steady. “She wasn’t here when I checked in last night. I haven’t seen anyone in the building.”
The latter isn’t a lie. I haven’t been out of my room.
“You’ll be the first one I call when I make contact with Ms. Grant,” I assure her.
“Just a reminder that you're there for work, not a vacation.”
Pushing the blankets away and getting out of bed, I take the opportunity to bring something important to her attention.
“Are you aware that this place is going to need major renovations?” Nothing here is up to code.
The red carpet is as old as disco music. The beds squeak. The wallpaper is so last century.
“Would you mind if I assess the place?” I look outside the window and smile when I spot a deer trying to reach up to the pine. This is an endearing winter wonderland. I wouldn’t mind staying for a few days. Chasing for Ms. Grant won’t be as daunting as I thought. “That’s a part of what I do.”
That is what I do!
“Focus on getting me that property.”
The line goes dead.
Aurora has always been relentless in going after what she wants. I’ve often wondered how she finds some of the properties we end up acquiring. This one? I can't even begin to guess how it ended up on her radar. Or why she even thinks it’s for sale.
If the way the Winter Valley B&B is run is any indication, I understand her logic. It’s neglected. By all appearances, the owner has no interest in the property. The B&B must be turning a profit, or it would be closed. Then again, I haven't seen much staff, so that’s a massive cost she might be saving on.
I shrug. Maybe selling to Aurora is a solution to a problem for her.
That thought gives me hope.
Taking my time, I go through the motions of showering, dressing, and going downstairs for breakfast.
The empty house still has an unattended small front desk. I walk toward the dining area, which is vacant too. I recall reading they serve continental breakfast. It’s past eight, and nothing’s on the table.
Clang. Bang. Clang.
A second later, a tall, rugged guy pushes through the door.
He glances at me and grins. His light blue eyes seem familiar, but I can’t place him.
“Good morning.” He sets a plate of muffins and a cup of coffee on the table. “Here’s your breakfast.”
I stare at the food and then at him. “Are you the owner of this place?”
“No, I just bring pastries from the bakery when there’s a guest,” he explains.
“This is breakfast?”
He looks at it and then at me. “Listen, lady, I’m just following instructions. They don’t pay me to do this.”
“Where can I find Ms. Grant?” I ask, grabbing the coffee because I seriously need a pick-me-up right about now.
“Who?”
“The owner of this establishment,” I answer after taking a few sips of what can only be described as dark, dirty water.
He can’t possibly call this coffee. “Are you planning on poisoning the guests?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Excuse me, but I’m not Mr. Starbucks,” he argues. “As I explained, they don’t pay me to do this.”
“Clearly. It might be easier if you set the coffee maker in this area so the guests can make their own,” I suggest.
“It would, but we don’t have one,” he replies. “It broke last week, and no one has replaced it. This week, you’ll be drinking instant coffee. No one else has complained.”
I look at the coffee and then at him. His attitude reminds me of someone, but I can’t think of anyone in particular.
“The muffins are good,” he offers. “Becky is the best baker in the area.”
I grab one. It’s still warm to the touch. I tear off a piece and take a bite. They are like small pieces of cinnamon clouds.
“Tasty, aren’t they?”
I nod and take another bite. “It’s so good,” I confess, covering my mouth while I chew. “You were telling me about