The Wilder property is a few miles outside town. The low buildings of the town give way to evergreens and houses, and then, as I follow Barb’s directions, to a road that winds past ranch land dotted with sagebrush and portioned off by split-rail fences. It’s beautiful, wild, and lonely, and I miss the straight lines and hard edges of my city.
Then nerves take over as I pull into a long dusty driveway on the Wilder family property. The way things ended with Gabe yesterday—even though I think I handled the situation pretty well—I’m wary about what comes next. And I know I have to talk to Barb about giving me all the info I need to do my job well.
There are two buildings at the end of the driveway, the house to the left and the barn—home of Wilder Adventures—to the right. I park Marshmallow, the butt-ugly rental car, alongside a Jeep in the small dirt parking lot. I always name my rental cars, along with all the other technology in my life—phone, laptop, even my alarm clock. I learned it from my dad. It’s the only thing about him that I kept.
The Wilder house is a Northwest contemporary, lots of glass and wood, all horizontal siding and unexpected peaks. It’s beautiful.
The barn looks older. I’m guessing this land was once part of a ranch, and that the barn was original to that setup. It’s painted red and has a long, pitched roof and small, scattered windows. The barn door has been remade into a business entrance with swinging glass doors.
Against my will, I’m charmed.
I grab my coffee and my Hobo bag, take a step out of the car, and breathe in the cool mountain air. Here, outside of town, the air smells totally different—sage and juniper. I catch my heel in the dirt and stumble.
For a frantic split-second, I wonder how much coffee and dirt will end up on me. Then someone steps out from behind the Jeep, grabs my arms, and rights me. Someone with big, warm hands who’s strong enough to effortlessly ease me to standing.
My coffee didn’t even spill.
“You should have left those shoes in New York,” Gabe says, eyeing them with a scowl. The scowl gets even deeper. “How many pairs did you bring?”
“Five,” I admit.
He rolls his eyes. His long-lashed, intense, dark brown eyes. He’s still holding my arms. I don’t want him to stop. I didn’t dress warmly enough, because apparently Western Oregon in May is not like New York in May. Research failure. But the heat pouring off Gabriel Wilder is sunshine-strong and welcome, even if he won’t stop scowling.
Meanwhile, something is licking my hand.
I tear my attention off his show-stopping face and realize that the culprit is a big dog that’s at least part German Shepherd, along with something more playful and fluffy.
“Is this the guy you were buying dog food for yesterday?”
He nods in a way that manages to convey that we’re not ever going to mention yesterday again. At the same time, he finally seems to realize he’s still holding onto me and drops his hands. “This way,” he grunts.
Apparently, the guy who was chit-chatting with me in the bar last night will not be attending this meeting. Which, fine. I get it. He doesn’t want me here. I bury a tiny twinge of regret and follow him into the barn.
Which, when we’re inside, more than anything makes me think of a big-box sporting goods store. Racks prickle with skis, poles, and paddles; the walls are covered with bikes and all manner of small watercraft; and cubbies and bins bulge with life preservers, helmets, boots, foam sleeping pads, sleeping bags, and tents. You name it, the gear’s here. It’s orderly but chaotic. And it smells faintly like a ski lodge.
I can’t spend too long taking in my surroundings, because my attention is snared by the men—and two women—seated around the big conference table in the center of the room.
The Wilder brothers.
It’s a sea of slightly-too-long hair in shades of brown, broad shoulders under flannel shirts, khaki hiking pants bulging at the thighs, and gorgeous sun-golden forearms arrayed on the table for my visual feast.
I think I’ve been reading too many why-choose romance novels, because my heart is totally pounding.
“Lucy!” a woman’s voice calls, buoyant with pleasure. A fair-skinned woman with a short silver bob and green eyes finds her way to my side. She starts to open her arms like she’s going to hug me, then apparently thinks better of it and extends her hand to shake mine instead. Probably good, because I’m not feeling altogether kindly toward her at the moment.
“You must be Barb,” I say.
“It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you,” she says. “Everyone, this is Lucy Spiro. She’s here to give us some ideas about how to get more customers.”
This announcement is met with eye rolls and exchanged glances. I stiffen my spine. I remind myself that none of them knew I was coming until last night at the earliest—and probably not until this morning. They’ll get used to the idea. I’ll win them over.
Although they’re not looking like a crew likely to be won over. They’re staring at me with matching scowls and identical unwavering glares.
Including the one staffer who isn’t a member of the Wilder family. She’s a young, sturdily built woman with tanned skin and short, dark hair. I vaguely recall there was a sixth trip leader on the website, Kane’s partner for ski trips. This must be her. Hanna, I think.
Apparently, she won’t be my number one cheerleader. I make a note to myself to see if I can change that. I know that just because she’s female doesn’t make her my automatic ally… but it’s worth a try.
“Let me introduce you to everyone,” Barb says. “This is Brody.”
Brody is the lightest-haired of the crew. He’s not wearing flannel, but instead, a black leather zip jacket over a short-sleeved copper-colored t-shirt that at first I think is covered with bugs—ew. On closer examination, they turn out to be fishing lures. Right. He’s the fishing charter brother. Tattoos peek out of the sleeve of his jacket and the neck of his shirt. He looks like trouble waiting to happen.
“Hi, Brody,” I say.
He gives me a sullen look and a flat-palmed wave of acknowledgment and doesn’t stand to greet me. Okay, then. Maybe I’m not going to win Brody over first.
Clark’s next—the survival trip leader. His hair’s shorter and darker than Brody’s, but his facial hair is longer—more beard than stubble. Based on the market research I did, I’m sure that the thin half-zip shirt clinging to his sculpted chest is made from wool to protect him from the elements. He’s a little more friendly than Brody. He gets up and greets me with a handshake, maintaining steady-gray eye contact all the while.
Then it’s Kane’s turn. He runs backcountry ski trips, though we’re out of season for that now. His hair is streaked with all his brothers’ shades of brown, and his eyes are a pale sky blue. He’s polite, and his handshake is strong but not aggressive.
He gives me a nod and gestures to the dark-haired young woman. “This is Hanna. She’s my co-leader.”
She nods in acknowledgment, but makes no move to get up.
“Hi, Hanna. Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Hi.”
If it’s possible to imbue that short word with scorn, she’s managed it.
Easton’s last. He’s the youngest, I’m pretty sure. The baby. If I remember correctly, he does whitewater rafting trips. When his mom says his name, he stands and saunters over. Takes my hand, holds it a little too long. Winks at me. His hair is between Clark’s and Brody’s, in shade and length—just long enough to suggest curls. He’s too pretty to be believed, with his mom’s green eyes and a perfectly sculpted nose and jaw. Think Sawyer on Lost. Except even hotter.
He’s a very different kind of trouble from Brody, but trouble no less. But he’s also the chink in their armor. The place to start winning them over. He seems like a man who’d be perfectly happy to have more women on his trips—and to make them feel safe and catered to.
“And Gabe. Who you’ve already met.”
For some reason, when I turn back to Gabe I expect his spell to be broken. After all, I’ve been staring into the sun for several minutes now. But unfortunately, that’s not the case. Instead, he looks even better, like he’s soaked up his brothers’ light and is reflecting it back at me. He’s the biggest of them, for one, and the only one with those dark, dark brown eyes that bore into me. And even stacked up against these intimidatingly handsome men, there’s something about him that stands out.
I realize that even when he’s silent, he conveys that sense of command. It’s a kind of stillness and watchfulness that makes it clear that he’s attentive to everything going on and ready to act if the situation calls for it. I’ve got duckling rescue tools in my vehicle and I won’t hesitate to use them.
I want him in charge of me, I think again, even though that’s the last thing I want. I’m in charge here. Today. I want to call the shots. I should be calling the shots.
He steps forward and greets me with an impersonal handshake and a clipped “welcome.”
It’s probably the least welcoming welcome ever uttered. I try not to feel disappointed that this is how it’s going to be.
“Lucy, I’ll let you take it from here,” Barb says.
I survey the table—so much testosterone, so much glower!—and then decide I’m not going to let any of them throw me off my game. I came here to do a job, and I’m going to do it. So I leap right in with my spiel. I tell them who I am, where I’m from, and why I’m qualified to help them move forward. I explain that some consultants come right in with PowerPoints and answers, but I’m the other kind, the kind who wants to see how things operate now before I tell them how things should run in the new order.
I can tell that at least a few of them appreciate that. Clark gives a nod of approval when I say it, and Easton gives me a thumbs up.
Gabe’s expression doesn’t change at all.
I tell them some of the same things I told Gabe last night. That data shows us that woman make a disproportionate number of buying decisions, including booking trips. Trips taken by male-female couples are almost always booked by the female partner. Girls’ weekends out and spa trips have become a hundred and seventy-five percent more popular in the last five years. And weddings have continued to become more elaborate and more destination-oriented, a trend that started in the nineties and hasn’t stopped.
“You can have those customers,” I say. “They will take your trips. If you make them trust you. If you cater to their preferences. If you make them feel safe—”
Six identical grimaces.
“Safe,” Hanna says. She is the scorn master. People journey from far away to be trained by her in the fine art of cutting through bullshit with one icy word.
“—which doesn’t necessarily always mean physically safe,” I add hastily. “In this case, it means they know what to expect and what they’re getting, and they believe in your ability to provide it.”
I take a deep breath. Here’s the tough part to sell to this crew. “And sometimes it means emphasizing a different aspect of adventure in your marketing. The human side. Finding yourself, finding a new friend, finding love—”
“Wilder, Sexier Adventures,” Easton says, eyes on mine, a quirk at the corner of his mouth.
Gabe makes a sound that might or might not be a “stand down” growl. My body definitely hears it as that… and tightens. Oh, so he doesn’t want Easton flirting with me. Isn’t that interesting.
I sneak a peek at him. His jaw is rigid. If anything, anger makes him even more still. It freezes him.
He’s disturbingly yummy, this marble statue version of him. It makes me want to poke him, just a little, to see if anything will splinter the veneer.
“That can be your specialty,” I say to Easton, and am rewarded by the sound of Gabe’s knuckles cracking as he grips the edge of the table.