Page 72 of Some Like It Hott

“Everyone knows Nan.”

“Right. She definitely makes an impression. Well, she said that several years ago she started making cakes because she felt like it wasn’t good for Rush Creek that Carol’s Cake Shop was running a monopoly?—”

I’m shaking with laughter at Preston’s Nan imitation—puffed up and soapbox-y and dead-on.

“So then—Nan says—after she started making cakes, Carol got vengeful.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I love how when Nan does it it’s social justice and when Carol does it, it’s vengeance.”

He grins. “It’s all about point of view. So Carol started her pastry business to give Nan a run for her money.”

“What’s next?” I ask. “I mean, obviously Nan has to do something. She can’t let Carol’s awful behavior stand.”

“Right. It sounds like maybe pies are next?”

I snicker. He hands me a chocolate croissant. “Is thiswarm?” I ask, wide-eyed.

“I had them heat them up. They’re better that way, right?”

“So. Much. Better.” If I wasn’t in love with him before, I am now. I lick chocolate out of the little cleft at the end of my croissant. “Mmm,” I moan, then raise my eyes to find Preston watching me.

He carefully takes the croissant out of my hands and sets it on the bag on the nightstand.

“Are yousure,” he asks quietly, “that you need to do all those other things first?”

And then he leans in and kisses me in a way that makes the correct answer to that question obvious.

37

Natalie

The week flies. I spend almost every waking moment working on our festival offerings, which also means getting them ready to offer at the resort. It’s a lot of work and a lot of fun. Preston and I drive all over creation retrieving materials, like a big white tent and a plastic shower curtain that will jointly form a splatter room, an even bigger kiddie pool for Jell-O wrestling than we used at the party, a few additional sets of football flags, and more Nerf blasters and darts. We talk to Amanda about catering snacks for our booth next weekend, then recruit her kids and a bunch of other Wilder kids to letter signs for us. When the kids turn out to be fantastic workers, we ask them to help us out on festival day.

There are a few hairy moments, like when we realize that there’s a roof leak in the corner of the stable where we’ve stored the Jell-O powder and have to order more, shipped overnight. Another one when the company we subcontracted horseback rides from bails out on us for a kid’s birthday party in the ritziest part of Bend. But we chip away at the problems.

Meanwhile, whenever he’s not needed, Preston is on work conferences. Or in something he calls avirtual data room, supervisingdue diligence. Or working on spreadsheets, tap-tap-tapping away on his computer. And except when we’re doing heavy lifting, he’s mostly wearing his fine, expensive button-downs with the sleeves rolled, exposing the loveliest typing porn this side of the Mississippi. I could watch him make spreadsheets all day, those long, blunt fingers, whose strength and agility I am well-acquainted with…those distinctly male wrists…the sinewy muscle in his forearms, that extra bulge of strength right below his elbow…

Often, Preston gets interrupted mid-spreadsheet.

I ask him a lot if things are going okay with work, the deal, and the promotion, and he assures me they are. His client, a company called MegaStar, is almost done studying the company they want to gobble up, called PowerFun and so far, everything’s gone smoothly. No surprises. In fact, he might be able to stick around Rush Creek for a little longer, wrap up due diligence remotely, then go back to New York to finish negotiations.

I let myself lean into that “a little longer.” The open-endedness of it. It probably shouldn’t, but it gives me hope.

And then, suddenly, it’s Friday night, the night before the festival. Preston is in his room, doing something complicated requiring Asian market hours, while Hanna and I close and lock the door on the Hott Springs Eternal barn stall, where all tomorrow’s materials are stored. Hanna has had a lot of questions for me, which is a little weird because she’s been pretty hands off with all this stuff so far. But tonight she wants to know a slew of details about how the programming will work, exactly when it will start, and so on.

It takes me a while to extricate myself, and when I do, when I head back to the lodge, I’m as weary as I can ever remember being. I want food and sleep. And I feel a little grumpy because there’s nothing in my mini fridge except moldy leftovers I keep meaning to throw away, and I’m tired of all the Hott Springs Eternal room service options. I guess I’ll get another Bleu Hott Burger—calories are good—but it doesn’t sound appealing.

I’m so tired and hungry that I lean my head against the elevator wall while it rises and have to make myself step out and plod down the hall to my room.

I swipe my key card and jump back with a shriek, because there’s someone in my room.

Then I realize it’s Preston, and?—

“Oh, wow,” I say. “Wow.Wow.”

I’m frozen in the doorway, mouth open.

He’s borrowed a table from somewhere else in the hotel, covered it with a tablecloth, set it with china and candles and?—

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