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Then the waitress turned from the table, and his jaw nearly dropped. Because the female he’d been eyeing wasn’t different at all—she was Macy Clayton.
Chapter Three (#u5e53afec-fd72-52a5-8095-b5f603e32506)
“You didn’t know she worked here?” Sky guessed, her tone tinged with amusement.
Liam shook his head. “This job wasn’t on her résumé.”
“She’s only been here a couple weeks. Or maybe I should say back here, because apparently she worked for Duke when she was in high school.”
“Is she a good waitress?”
“Why? Do you want to hire her to work in your restaurant?” his sister teased.
“There is no restaurant,” he said firmly. “And I’m asking you because you have an opinion about everything.”
“Then I’ll tell you that she’s got great people skills. She’s friendly without being flirty, and she knows when and how to placate an unhappy customer but she’s not a pushover. Definite management material.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said dryly.
“And I’ll go put in your food order.”
“I haven’t told you what I want.”
“Steak sandwich with mushrooms, onions and pepper jack cheese with fries.”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” he admitted.
With a smug smile, she turned toward the kitchen.
And he shifted his attention back to the waitress who’d caught his eye. “Macy.”
She pivoted, her eyes widening with surprise and recognition. “Mr. Gilmore.”
“Liam,” he reminded her.
“Liam,” she echoed dutifully.
“You didn’t mention that you had a job here.”
“It’s a temporary gig,” she said, then smiled. “Just until I start my job at the Stagecoach Inn.”
He couldn’t help but smile back. “Confident, aren’t you?”
“Qualified,” she clarified.
“So why is a former assistant to the manager of a Las Vegas hotel working at a bar and grill in Haven?”
“I needed a job and Duke needed a waitress.”
It sounded like a simple enough explanation, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing a major piece of the puzzle that was Macy Clayton. And though he knew he was treading dangerously close to a line that should not be crossed, he was intrigued enough by the woman to want to know more.
“I didn’t give you a tour of the hotel today,” he noted.
“And I was so hoping for one,” she confessed.
“Stop by tomorrow, if you want,” he said. “As long as I haven’t had a kid dropped in my lap, I should be free to show you around.”
“I want,” she immediately agreed. “Anytime in particular?”
“Whenever it’s convenient for you.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He watched her move away, making her way toward a table of six that had just sat down. Regulars, he guessed, as they didn’t seem to need to look at the menus that were tucked beneath the tray of condiments on the table.
“It’s my fault,” Sky lamented, as she set a plate of food and his cutlery on the bar in front of him.
“What’s your fault?” he asked.
“I should have realized that saying Macy wasn’t your type would compel you to prove otherwise.”
“Maybe you should tell me why you’re so sure she’s not my type,” he suggested, lifting his sandwich from the plate.
“And maybe you should trust me for once,” his sister countered.
His gaze shifted to Macy again. “Yeah, I’m having a little trouble with that.”
“Then keep in mind that she’s going to be working for you.”
He wanted to argue that point, but after interviewing three other candidates for the job, he’d been forced to acknowledge that none of them was even remotely qualified.
Darren, currently a bouncer at a honky-tonk bar in Elko, was looking for a day job so he could go to night school. When Liam, simply out of curiosity, asked him why he wasn’t choosing to study during the day and continuing to work nights, it was immediately apparent that Darren hadn’t considered the possibility—an oversight that didn’t bode well for success in his future studies.
Felix’s résumé indicated that he was already college educated and had a master’s degree in English literature. Unfortunately, he had absolutely no experience in the hospitality business and even less interest. During the interview, he confided that service industries were tedious and boring and acknowledged that he’d only applied for the job because employment opportunities in the town were limited.
And then there was Lissa, a college dropout who claimed that her life experience made her uniquely qualified for the job. When Liam asked her to give him an example, she explained that she’d lived with her in-laws for eighteen months without killing either of them—though she confessed that she’d given the idea more than a passing thought on a few occasions.
Which meant that, for the sake of the business, there really was only one choice for Liam to make.
He was going to have to hire Macy Clayton.
As he chewed on his sandwich, he accepted that whether she was or wasn’t his type, hiring Macy Clayton would definitely put her off-limits for any romantic overtures.
And that was a damn shame.
* * *
Macy showed up just as the delivery truck was pulling away from the inn the following afternoon. Liam had kept himself busy directing the unloading and placement of the furniture so that he could pretend he wasn’t watching and waiting for her to arrive for the promised tour of the property. At the same time, he reassured himself that his response to her couldn’t possibly have been as powerful as he remembered.
Then he saw her, and the awareness hit him again, like a sucker punch in the gut.
It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, though she was undoubtedly that. Even dressed casually, as she was today, in slim-fitting jeans and a cowl-neck sweater beneath a charcoal-grey wool coat belted at her waist, she was stunning. But he’d crossed paths with plenty of attractive women in his twenty-nine years without ever experiencing such an immediate and intense reaction, and he couldn’t deny that it worried him a little.
“Good timing,” he said, in lieu of a greeting as she walked up the steps.
“Was that the delivery truck just leaving?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I recognized the logo,” she said. “You’re obviously a man of exquisite taste.”
“Garrett Furniture has a great collection of pieces that coordinate without being exactly the same,” he told her. “The idea is that every room will offer the same level of luxury but in a distinctly individual setting, so that guests who enjoyed their stay in the Doc Holliday Suite might want to come back to experience the Charles Goodnight Suite—or upgrade to the Wild Bill Getaway Suite.”
“Are all of the rooms named after famous people?”
“They are,” he confirmed. “It was my grandmother’s idea, and she did the research, from Annie Oakley to Wild Bill. Interesting details about their lives are engraved on plaques in each room—but instead of telling you about them, why don’t I show you?”
“Sounds good to me.” She reached toward the door before he could, but instead of grasping the handle, her fingers traced the outline of the raised panel on which was carved an intricate and detailed image of a horse-drawn stagecoach. “This is amazing.”
“The previous owner wanted to acknowledge the building’s origins,” Liam told her. “There’s a series of paintings in the library—original oils by local artists—that also pay tribute to the town’s history.”
Since the door opened into the lobby on the main level, that’s where they started the tour.
Macy had come in the same way when she’d arrived for her interview the day before, but the folding table and cheap plastic chairs that had created an ad hoc interview space had been replaced by an elegant double pedestal executive desk with dentil molding and antique brass hardware. The high-back chair behind the desk was covered in butter-soft leather that coordinated with the sofa and oversized chairs that faced the stone fireplace.
“You should have a lamp for that table,” she suggested, pointing. “And a focal point for the coffee table. Maybe a copper bowl—wide and shallow. Have you ever been to the antique and craft market out by the highway?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You should go,” she told him. “There’s a local artist who sells his pieces there. I bet you could find all kinds of unique things to add not just visual interest but local flavor.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, as he directed her toward the library.
The room had the potential to live up to its name, with two walls of built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcases—currently completely empty of books. She thought about the fun she could have stocking those shelves to provide guests with a variety of reading materials. Maybe she’d even throw in some board games, lay out a chess set on the square table between the two silk-upholstered wing chairs.
She took a moment to study and admire the paintings he’d told her about, appreciating not just the talent but the subjects represented in every brush stroke and color.
“Basque linens,” she said, as they moved down the hall to the main floor guest rooms.
“What?”
She chuckled. “Sorry—I’m sure that seemed to come out of nowhere, but I was just thinking about other ways to highlight the history of not just this building but the local area.”
“I know about the Basques but nothing about their linen.”
“It was originally made from flax grown in the fields and woven with colorful stripes, traditionally seven, which was the number of Basque provinces in France and Spain. The source of the fabric and the process has evolved over the years, but the colorful stripes remain a defining feature.”
“How do you know this?”
“In high school, I did a research paper on how the Basque people and culture have influenced our local community, which is just one more reason—” she offered a hopeful smile “—I’d be an asset at your front desk.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he promised, leading her down the hall to the Annie Oakley Room.
She wondered if he’d chosen the color palette and furnishings, or if his grandmother had taken the lead in that, too. Either way, the overall impression of the room was warmth and comfort, and she could imagine herself contentedly curling up in the middle of the half-tester and dreaming sweet dreams. That tempting fantasy was followed closely by one of sinking into the claw-footed tub filled with scented bubbles when she peeked into the bath.
Appropriately, Bonnie & Clyde were adjoining rooms—the former with a single queen-size sleigh bed, the latter with two double beds of the same style.
“A, B, C,” she realized. “I assume you did that on purpose?”
“Yeah, although it kind of fell apart upstairs where we jump from D to F.”
“What’s beyond those doors?” she asked.
“Serenity Spa.”
She sighed, a little wistfully. “When I heard you were looking for a manager, I knew I wanted the job,” Macy told him. “Because it’s what I’ve trained to do—and what I’m good at. But that was before I’d seen what you’ve done here, and now that I have, I want it even more.”
“You haven’t seen half of what we’ve done here,” he said, leading the way to the second floor.
He was right. And with every door she walked through, she fell more and more in love. The rooms were all spacious and inviting, with natural light pouring through the windows, spilling across the glossy floors. She’d often thought hardwood was cold, but the rugs that had been added provided warmth, color and texture. There were crown moldings in one room, window seats in another, elaborate wardrobes and antique dressing screens, padded benches and hope chests. The en suite baths boasted natural stone tiles and heated towel bars, waterfall showerheads inside glass enclosures and freestanding soaker tubs.
Each room was unique in its style and substance, and Macy honestly couldn’t have said which one was her favorite—until they reached the third floor and Liam opened the door to Wild Bill’s Getaway Suite.
Everything about the space screamed luxury, from the intricate mosaic pattern in the floor tile to the elegant chesterfield sofa and forty-two-inch flat-screen TV mounted above the white marble fireplace. Beyond the parlor was the bath, with more white marble, lots of glass and even an enormous crystal chandelier. There was a second fireplace in the bedroom, along with a king-size pediment poster bed flanked by matching end tables, a wide wardrobe and even a makeup vanity set.
“Well, it’s not the Dusty Boots Motel,” she remarked dryly when they’d made their way back down to the main level—and the solarium where he told her breakfast would be served.
Liam chuckled. “The idea was to give visitors to Haven another option.”
“I’d say you succeeded.”
The solarium had two sets of French doors that opened onto the deck, where additional bistro tables and chairs would be set up for guests to enjoy their breakfast in the warm weather.
“Did you have another space in mind for more formal, evening dining?”
He shook his head. “We’re limiting our service to breakfast-slash-brunch, with an afternoon wine and cheese in the library on Fridays and Saturdays.”
“I like the wine and cheese idea,” she said. “But if you’re not offering an evening meal, you’re missing out on the opportunity for guests to spend more of their money right here.”
“There are other places people can go for dinner,” he pointed out.
“There’s no place in town that offers an upscale dining experience. When my parents celebrated their fortieth anniversary last year, they drove all the way to Reno because they wanted candlelight and a wine list that wasn’t printed on the bottom of a laminated page below the kids’ menu.”
He smiled at that. “I can see your point, but I know nothing about the restaurant business.”
“Which is why you hire people who do,” she said.
“Like you?” he guessed.
