Page 2 of Making New Plans

“Oh, Morton,” I moaned.

Sarah, who had been standing on the ladder with one hand clapped over her mouth, burst out laughing. “Morton?”

“Yes, Morton.” I sniffed. “I named him. I wanted him to know it wasn’t my idea to have a murdered and beheaded moose in my lobby.”

“Before you get all moony over Morton, catch.” Sarah tossed me the wreath, which immediately stabbed my palms.

She climbed the ladder and took it back from me, jutting her chin toward Morton. “Want some help with that?”

Glancing at my phone and ignoring the twelve unread emails and three reminders, I sighed. “No. My reckoning is still a few hours away. But…” I put my phone away and gave her my best I’m-the-manager-don’t-cross-me look. “I. Need. Coffee. Now.”

Sarah’s brown eyes twinkled under the brim of her Sarah’s Sugar Shack baseball cap. “You got it, boss.”

I finally smiled. Rescue caffeine was on the way.

Sarah headed out with the rest of the Christmas décor I’d asked her to take down. Even though it was late March, nothing instigated more frenzied cleaning and preparation than the arrival of critical company. Especially when said company hadn’t stepped foot in the lodge since I’d started working here eight years ago, five years as a maid slash receptionist, three as a manager.

Furtively glancing around to make sure no guests were watching or at the front desk, I stepped up to the fireplace. My stomach twisted as I lifted Morton’s head over the grate and fished out his broken antler.

“Sorry, buddy,” I whispered. “But if I have my way today, you’ll be the first of many changes around here.”

Even as I said it, I squashed that flicker of hope. I couldn’t get ahead of myself. I shouldn’t plan. No egg-counting here.

But oh, if that old bastard finally did something right after his death. Finally let me have my way. Finally let me have some control over his lodge’s future. A few lines in the will reading today and I could finally make good on the binder labeled Chloe’s Dream Lodge stashed under my bed like a teenager hiding cigarettes or, as my case had been, a pair of drumsticks and my hard rock CD collection.

I sighed and adjusted my grip on Morton’s sooty antlers. Who was I kidding—my eggs were fully counted and unhatched. The ducks had almost lined up. The stars were close to aligning. The moose were all…antlered?

Chuckling, I glanced down at Morton as I walked him to the front desk. I’d stash him in my office for now then dispose of him quietly.

“Do you greet all your guests with a broken moose head, Miss Higgins?”

I froze, the blood draining to my toes.

No, no, no! It couldn’t be. His flight wasn’t scheduled to come in for a couple more hours.

My gaze shifted from the head in question to the stoney face of the one question mark in my plans. A.k.a. the last person in the world I wanted to catch me carrying a moose head through the lobby.

Hunter Erickson. The intensely handsome son of the recently deceased lodge owner. My possible new boss. He of few words, even fewer of which were nice. Which may have been understandable given we’d only met twice, both times at funerals.

But which demon did you have to bribe to walk off a flight looking like you’d just left the set of a Gucci ad? Seriously not fair. With his sculpted cheekbones underscored by bronze stubble and his penetrating stare, he was already ad-worthy. But then combine that with his long tan coat, unwrinkled and fuzz-free, hugging his broad shoulders, and his carefully tousled golden-brown hair that practically screamed “touch me” and “buy whatever products made this possible,” and he became a work of art.

Hunter lifted his dark eyebrows at my incredulous silence, shattering the Gucci-ad illusion. Gulping past the desert in my throat, I attempted a dignified walk to my front desk, where he awaited me with full, scowling lips.

Walking with a busted moose head was definitely as awkward and laughable as I imagined, however. But did he smile or offer to help? Of course not.

I tossed the head and antler into my office and shut the door. Turning back to him, I gave him the smile I usually reserved for the families with Godzilla children and guests who dared to ask for a refund after a week’s complaint-less stay because the fall colors hadn’t been “colorful enough.” Yeah, go figure.

“Good morning, Mr. Erickson. I thought your flight didn’t come in until eleven?”

He smoothed his dark gray tie. “Lucky winds, I guess.”

That had to be sarcasm, but his face hardly ever expressed emotion, so it was hard to tell. He’d done an excellent impression of Mount Rushmore at his father’s funeral a month ago. A façade that had only cracked with cold fury when I’d offered my condolences, and he’d brushed past me with a curt, “I don’t need them.”

Reeling my mind away from the expression he’d burned into my memory, I consulted my guest book, and my heart sank. What with the Morton incident and his being early, I hadn’t gotten to his room first like I’d intended.

“We don’t have your room quite ready,” I said, with what I hoped was an apologetic smile. “If you don’t mind waiting a bit, I’ll make sure yours is cleaned first.”

The scathing glare he aimed at me wilted my already-flimsy smile. Apparently, anger was the one emotion his face showed well.

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