BIG BAD BOY - Penny Wylder Page 0,1

“Sadly, just for the festival.”

“Up from the city?” he asks, sizing up my outfit, and probably also weighing the bags under his arm.

“How could you tell?” I joke, with a glance down at my outfit. Heeled boots, tights, a slim-fitting pencil skirt and my work blouse—I’m not dressed for the countryside yet. I had to come straight from the office today, but it really makes me stand out. Everyone I passed on the walk here was wearing jeans and flannel, maybe with the occasional flowery spring dress, loose and deliciously comfortable looking.

“You’re not the first to check in today,” he reassures me, “and you definitely won’t be the last. It’s crazy—most of the year we have ten guests here, max.” We reach the check-in counter and he hauls my bags onto a bellhop cart with comical effort. “This time of year, though, around the festival?” He gesticulates wildly. “Sold out, every single room.”

“How many rooms are there?” I ask as I gaze around the lobby. It’s adorable, just like the rest of this village. The floor is parquet, the walls adorned with full-length mirrors on both sides to make it seem larger than it is. Between the mirrors, there’s gold gilding that looks straight out of a 1920s movie, and old-school style gas lamps, like the kind I’ve seen in photos from London or 1800s period pieces, stand out above the mirrors, lighting the whole lobby a cheery yellow. In a small nook are two overstuffed chairs surrounded by bookcases, lined with paperbacks. I spy several Stephanie Meyers, and now I’m really excited. Gosh, when was the last time I sat down and devoured a book? It’s going to be hard to keep my head in professional mode when everything here is whispering to me, “Relax. Slow down.”

“Twenty-two rooms in total,” he says as I pass him my credit card and I.D. to begin the check-in process. “Plus a garden room down in the basement—code for windowless and dingy,” he adds.

I smirk. “I live in the city, trust me—I understand that code.”

He sighs. “That’s my room, of course.”

I grimace in sympathy. “Does it at least come with the job?”

“It does, though they definitely deduct the rent from my salary to make up for it.” He forces a smile then, and I feel a pang of empathy. “Ah well, can’t complain. This town really is my favorite spot in the world. You’ll see what I mean later tonight, when the festival gets going.”

“It’s that good, huh?” I reach out to take my cards back, now that he’s finished running them, and cast another glance back over my shoulder, out through the double doors toward the town square. I am excited to peruse the tents out there, for sure. I plan to eat my way through as many food trucks as I can this weekend, not to mention sample some of the local brewery beers later in the evening, after I’ve got enough pictures for the day.

“I don’t want to oversell it, but…” He flashes me a wink. “It’s the best weekend of the year. Something about is just magical. You’ll see what I mean.”

Just then, a breeze hits us, as another traveler swoops into the lobby.

“Welcome, sir,” the man calls, still smiling. “I’ll be with you in one minute, just as soon as I finish checking in this young lady.”

The new arrival doesn’t even seem to notice the receptionist speaking to him, let alone acknowledge his words. He’s got to be a city-slicker like me, to judge from his expensive-yet-artfully-torn jeans, his tight-fitting leather jacket, and the flashy leather boots he’s wearing, which I’m pretty sure cost at least as much as my camera equipment.

On top of the outfit, he’s got his cell phone tucked under one ear, into which he’s shouting loudly as he digs through his enormous leather briefcase. Inside his briefcase, I catch a glimpse of not one but two brand-new MacBooks, and a snakeskin wallet that I’d bet anything costs just as much as his boots.

“I know,” the guy practically yells into his phone. “This village is a shit hole. Look, I didn’t volunteer to come here, it’s just where Henry insisted we hold the retreat this year—one second,” he tells the person on the other end, when the receptionist and I trade sideways, sarcastic glances. “Can I get some service here already?” he barks, and it takes both my new friend the hotel caretaker and me a second to realize he’s not talking into the phone