Under The Mistletoe. Kristin Hardy

no one’s turned it in by Monday. No sense in worrying about it now, though. I’m not likely to forget who I am. It’s Saturday night. Go home and relax.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Someone had once said that the octagonal dining room was big enough that each end was in a different area code. It was Gabe’s last stop every night. There was something about the glow of the pale salmon walls in the soft light of chandeliers and candlelight, the semicircular Tiffany windows ringing the upper gallery where the orchestra had played back when the hotel was first open. When Gabe looked at the unapologetically opulent room, he forgot his ongoing struggle to find plasterers who could restore the complicated capitals of the pillars and the ornate ceiling medallions. He just appreciated the reminder of a more gracious time.

      “Good evening, Mr. Trask,” said the maître d’.

      “Good evening, Guy. How’s everything going? Full house?”

      Guy’s Gallic shrug was expressive. “Eh, if I had a roomful of tables by the window, everyone would be delirious. As it is, they are merely very happy.”

      “That’s the way we want to keep them.”

      In the background, a four-piece combo played a complicated, syncopated tune to an empty dance floor. It wasn’t an easy composition; a tune more likely to inspire indigestion. Gabe looked over. “What exactly is that?”

      “Miles Davis, I think.”

      Gabe frowned as the trumpet player wandered off into a spiraling solo. While he could appreciate it as a music aficionado, he wasn’t crazy about it as a manager. “No one’s going to dance to this.”

      “Just as well. Dancing…” Guy sniffed in disapproval. “People getting up, sitting down, complaining about overcooked meals because of the rewarming. We should stop it, you know.”

      “Not a chance. There’s always been a dinner orchestra at the Hotel Mount Jefferson.” And there was nothing like walking in to the sound of soft music to make a guest truly feel transported, he thought.

      He crossed to the bandstand as the combo finished its song and stepped down to take a break. “Richie,” he called to the trumpet player, “can you hold up a minute?”

      “Sure, Mr. Trask,” said the ponytailed redhead. “We just thought we’d take five.”

      “Sure. How’s it going?”

      Richie shrugged and looked across the dining room. “Not too many takers tonight. They like the music, I assume—I hope—but it would be nice to get some people on the floor.”

      Talented, Gabe thought. A bit temperamental and insecure, as all good musicians were. “Then you need to play dance music.”

      He flushed a little and straightened his tie. “We started out with the usual. No one came up so we thought we’d just get a little of the rust off.”

      “Do that on your midweek gigs,” Gabe advised. “You don’t have to play standards, but stick with something that’s got a beat people can work with.”

      “Even if no one dances?”

      “They’ll dance if you give them the music.” Gabe glanced across the room, resigned to working it a little before he left for the night. He’d stop at the tables, chat with the guests, suggest a turn on the floor. “Come back from your break and—” Suddenly he froze, staring at a table by the window.

      “Mr. Trask?”

      “Play something danceable,” Gabe said slowly, absently, staring at a woman with pale hair and gray eyes. “You’ll get your dancers. I guarantee it.”

      

      “I’m all finished,” Hadley told the waiter, gesturing to her nearly full plate.

      “Was there something wrong, madam?” he asked.

      Hadley shook her head. She’d eaten little, but she chalked that up to her state of mind, not the food or the menu. Dinner had actually been a pleasant surprise. She’d anticipated stodgy French or chophouse surf and turf, not an intriguing fusion menu that would have done any pricey Manhattan restaurant proud. Seared ahi tuna and Thai lobster spring rolls side by side on the menu with pecan-crusted pork loin and duck in huckleberry reduction suggested someone creative was at work. And the guests were tucking in with gusto.

      Conversation stayed at a low buzz, a tribute to good acoustics. Women in evening dress smiled and toasted with their escorts. Jackets required. How long had it been since she’d dined anywhere with a dress code? How long since she’d dined in a room so permeated with luxury? Sure, there were plenty of stylish restaurants in New York. None, though, that so vividly brought back the memory of another era.

      And the sharp longing for someone to share it with.

      Turning her head to ward off the thought, Hadley stared out the dining room window at the snow that had begun drifting down outside. Across the way, the lights of the conservatory bled out into the frozen night. She’d sat in countless hotel restaurants on her own during one business trip or another. It had never bothered her before. Probably it was the romance of the place that was getting to her. The Hotel Mount Jefferson was a haven for romantic getaways, a place where couples could glide across the dance floor and toast to love at their tables.

      But she wasn’t part of a couple. She wasn’t part of anything, just a solo person trying her damnedest to stay out of the funk she’d been fighting for days. She didn’t need anyone, she reminded herself. She’d seen what it brought.

      So how was it that all she wanted just then was to be held?

      “Having a nice evening tonight?” asked a voice behind her.

      Hadley turned her head to see not a waiter, but the stranger from the afternoon. And her funk was forgotten.

      He’d made an impression in the cold light of afternoon. Now, he jolted her system into awareness. No jeans and sweater this time. Instead, he wore an exquisitely cut gray suit that only made him look taller, leaner. Cuff links gleamed at his wrists. A silver chain made a graceful sweep across his blue patterned tie. He looked as if he belonged in a plush VIP lounge somewhere, swirling a balloon glass of brandy while he talked high finance.

      “You’ve dressed up, I see,” she said, wishing for those moments in the afternoon when she’d had him to herself.

      “So have you.”

      She’d worn a drape-necked tank in cream silk jersey. Paired with a narrow black skirt, it had seemed demure enough. Until he stood looking down at her. Goose bumps that had nothing to do with the temperature rose on her arms. She glanced at the windows. “Your snow has started, I see.”

      “Good thing you decided to come inside. We’d have had to send a Saint Bernard out looking for you.”

      “With a keg of brandy as my prize?”

      “You can get a brandy in here if you want it, with no risk of frostbite.”

      “The benefits of civilization.”

      “Indeed.”

      There was something in his eyes, a light, an invitation to fun. She felt a little flutter in her stomach and glanced down. She should be more disciplined; she wasn’t here to play around and he was probably with someone. But it was so tempting to for once not think about work, to be just Hadley, just a woman.

      Too tempting. “Don’t you have to get back to your party?” she asked abruptly.

      

      Gabe didn’t answer right away, trying to avoid staring at the pale gleam of her throat in the soft light. He’d worked his way across the room to her, stopping at a number of tables to greet the guests, chat a little, charm a lot. And the whole time, he’d been utterly and completely aware of her as she stared out at the night, that wistful look back on her face.

      He wanted to wipe it away. He