“Can I help you?” He rested his elbows on his desk, his mood worsening as he noticed the stack of invoices piling up in his inbox. Second and third notices from the power and water companies that he still couldn’t afford to pay. Guests were going to be a little more than upset if the water got shut off.
“Yes. I’m Kate Hartley from Belle Affairs. I was looking to speak with Mr. Scott Dillon, the owner.”
“That’s me,” he said distractedly, opening one of the envelopes and frowning at the amount owing.
“Oh, I thought this number was the reservation line.”
“It is.” How could the bill be so high when they were only running at 40 percent capacity? Could he limit guests to one shower per day per room?
“You’re the owner and you run the front desk? God, how small is this resort?”
“Is there something I can do for you, Ms. Hart?”
“Hartley.”
“Whatever,” he said under his breath, still fuming over the amount of the bill. He needed to figure out ways to cut back on the water usage...take laundry home or something.
“I was given your business card—if you can call it that—by Liz Sheffield.”
He paused. “Liz Sheffield.” His jaw clenched as he spat out the name of his soon-to-be sister-in-law.
“That’s right. Apparently Ms. Sheffield and Mr. Dillon—your brother, I take it?—wish to hold their wedding at your resort. I’m sure you are aware of the details already, so I just need some information for planning purposes. For example, how big the ballrooms are, how many guests they can accommodate, the resort restaurants’ catering capacities and the waitstaff available for that day...”
“No.”
Silence, then, “Excuse me? No...what?” Her voice was cool, confident, calm. A true professional. And a true pain in the ass, he suspected.
“I’m not hosting the wedding here.”
Silence met him on the other end of the line. He waited. Those who speak first lose.
She cleared her throat but still didn’t speak. He didn’t say anything, either, a grimace forming on his lips. If she was waiting for an explanation, she’d be waiting a long time. He leaned back in his chair and swiveled to and fro. He couldn’t believe Liz actually thought holding a wedding he didn’t want any part of at his resort was a good idea. Just the thought of her made his stomach drop. He hadn’t seen her in almost two years, and he wasn’t in any rush to change that. Having her at his resort...for her wedding... He shook his head. No chance in hell. Though he knew it was Derek’s idea.
He hated to disappoint Derek, but refusing to host the wedding was the least of Scott’s offenses.
When an agonizing amount of time had ticked by on the clock above his desk without a word from her, he hung up. He stared at the phone for a moment, but when the reservation line didn’t ring again, he shrugged.
Good. That solved that problem.
And he wouldn’t be answering the line any time soon. Turning to his computer, he logged into his bank account. The meager amount in the business account wouldn’t go far, so he paid the water bill from his personal account. He’d be paying his employees from his own pocket next.
The intercom buzzed. “Did you just answer incoming reservations?” Cameron didn’t even try to hide her annoyance.
“Yes, but it was nothing. Just a sales call.”
“Didn’t they get the memo we have no money?” she muttered.
“Smile, Cam. You’re still here.” Thank God. He had no idea what he’d do without her. She’d worked at the resort for years before it had been shut down by its retirement-age owner. She knew the place and how to run it better than anyone. If she quit, he was screwed.
“For now,” she said. “Anyway, I was just checking inventory, and we need a produce run...”
Perfect. Any excuse to get up in the air.
He shut down the computer then stood and grabbed his winter coat. The predicted snow had just started to fall, although it was mid-April, the mountain air was still frigid. “I’m on it,” he said.
An hour later, he sat in the cockpit of his Cessna on the Big Bear City Airport runway, waiting for clearance to take off. Sure, he could order inventory to be shipped to the resort, but he only trusted one place for his business’s needs—Stanley’s Fresh Goods in San Francisco. And they didn’t deliver outside the city. To make the trip more cost-effective, he would also stop at the fish market before heading back.
The ground crew flagman waved him up next, and after the slightest moment of hesitation, Scott headed toward the end of the runway. Checking the plane’s controls and setting his course, he radioed the tower. “Cessna 215 ready for takeoff.” And moments later he was up and on his way. Sweat trickled down his back. Once he’d leveled off, he shrugged out of his coat and forced a feeling of anxiety aside.
It was just him, and he had control.
As he headed south for the twenty-minute run, he broke through a bank of clouds and the sun appeared. He felt himself relax.
A former commercial pilot, he’d only been interested in the Cessna cargo plane when he saw the ad for the resort in the Big Bear daily newspaper. Unfortunately, the resort’s owner, Doug Delaney, hadn’t been interested in selling the plane on its own. The closed, run-down West Mountain Resort and the plane were a package deal.
“You take them together or it’s no deal,” the grumpy old man had said when Scott had gone to see him about purchasing the cargo side of the business. Delaney went on to explain that both businesses had once belonged to him and his late wife. She’d run the resort and he, a retired pilot, had started the cargo business to “stay out of her hair.” He made weekly trips to LA and San Diego to pick up supplies and products for the resort to reduce shipping costs while earning extra cash making deliveries for other local businesses. The idea that the cargo business had an existing client base was also a draw for Scott.
Having lived in Big Bear most of his life, Scott had known about the Delaney family–owned companies, but he’d only wanted to purchase one of them. “I’m really not interested in owning a resort. I wouldn’t have any idea how to run it. I’m a pilot,” Scott had explained.
The man had looked past him to Scott’s old pickup truck parked in the driveway. “Where’s your plane?”
“I don’t have one yet.”
“A pilot without a plane isn’t much of a pilot,” Delaney had said before collapsing in a fit of coughing.
Scott had heard around town that old Doug Delaney was sick with lung cancer and the doctors hadn’t expected him to make it past Christmas the year before. The cargo delivery business and resort were suffering without family to take them over, and the old man wanted nothing more than to rid himself of the burdens and fly south. “Somewhere warm where I can die lying in the sunshine,” he’d told him.
Unfortunately,
