A Groom For The Taking: The Wedding Date

The stunning, stark, ragged peaks of Cradle Mountain.

Bradley slid his glasses from his face, eyebrows practically disappearing beneath his hairline. ‘God must be a cinematographer at heart to dream up this place.’

‘I know!’ Hannah said, practically bouncing on her seat. When she realised she was tugging at his sleeve, she let go and sat back and contained herself.

Bradley’s eyes slid to the building towering over them. ‘How many rooms?’

‘Enough for cast and crew.’

He finally dragged his eyes from the picture-perfect view to look at her. They were gleaming with the thrill of the find. The buzz of adventure. It was the closest he ever came to revealing anything akin to real human emotion. Moments like those were the reason her impossible crush sometimes felt like it was veering towards something just a little bit more.

Her hand shook ever so slightly as she tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘It’s perfect, right? Rugged and yet accessible. And wait till you get a load of the mountain up close. You’ll never want to leave. For me that moment will no doubt come the minute I step foot in the corner spa in my room.’

A crease, then three, dug grooves into his forehead.

Okay, so maybe she was laying it on too thick. But if he understood her enthusiasm for the place, for the project, then come Tuesday she might be in with a chance for the promotion to actual producer she’d so blithely flung out there the day before.

He put the car back into gear and curved it around the circular drive until they pulled to a stop in front of a sweep of wide wooden stairs. Finally her holiday—read ‘Bradley-free time’—could begin in earnest.

When he got out of the car at the same time as her, she gave him a double-take. It turned into a triple when she realised he wasn’t dragging her luggage from the boot. He was eyeing the hotel’s front doors.

Her stomach sank. She waved a frantic hand at the hotel. ‘No, no, no! First you show up at my apartment and practically drag me here on your plane. Then you force me into that excuse for a tourist car. And now this?’

He turned to her, his eyes unreadable. ‘And there I was thinking I had been generous in supplying a private jet and a free hire car as a way of thanking you for all your hard work.’

For half a second she felt a stab of guilt. Then she remembered that Bradley never did anything that didn’t somehow serve him.

‘Fine,’ she shot back. ‘Play it your way. But I can tell you now you won’t get a room.’

For the first time that day she saw a flicker of doubt. So she rubbed it in good. ‘Winter is peak season in this corner of the world, so the Gatehouse has been booked out for months. And, apart from the other big party here—a high-school reunion—this wedding of ours is huge. My mother knows everybody, Elyse is too sweet not to invite everyone she’s ever met, and Tim’s mother is Italian. Half the territory will be here. If they have a broom closet they’ll be making a hundred bucks a night on it.’

He looked at the hotel, and at the glimpse of ragged peaks beyond. Then his jaw stiffened in the way that she knew meant he was not backing down.

His voice was smooth as honey as he said, ‘You clearly have a relationship with the management. Use your magic and get me somewhere to sleep. One night to see this mountain you have raved so much about. And then you won’t see me for dust.’

The temptation to wield her organisational magic in order to have him on his way the next day was mighty powerful. But after the day she’d had she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.

‘I’m. On. Holiday. You want a room? You go in there and make it happen.’

‘Are you intimating I can’t even book a hotel room without you holding my hand?’

Hannah tried hard to get the image of holding Bradley’s anything out of her mind.

‘I’m not intimating anything. I’m telling you outright.’ She rubbed her arms and shivered theatrically. ‘It gets dark quick around here this time of year. Cold too. And you’re still a good two hours to Queenstown. Old copper mine. A couple of old motor inns there. You might just luck out.’

She heaved open the boot and dragged her luggage free. By the time it plopped at her feet she realised Bradley had eaten up the distance between them till they stood toe to toe.

She crossed her arms. ‘You won’t get a room.’

‘Want to bet?’

Hannah wasn’t a gambler by nature. She had an aversion to nasty surprises. But the odds were so completely in her favour. When Elyse had told her about Great-Aunt Maude’s absence she’d called the hotel, and they’d all but cried with relief at being able to give her room to someone on the list of people desperate for it. Bradley would be driving on within the hour.

‘Sure,’ she said, a sly smile stretching across her face. ‘I’m game.’

‘Excellent. Now, we need to talk terms of the bet. What’s in play? Ladies first.’

She thought about asking for an extra week off, at his expense. Now she was here, now she’d survived seeing her mum, it seemed like something she might be able to handle. It seemed like something she might need.

But it was unlikely she was ever going to get a chance as good as this to beat him at something. She had to make the most of it. ‘I get co-producer credit if you make a show here.’

Bradley’s forehead creases were back with a vengeance. Everything suddenly felt all too quiet. She could hear her own breaths gaining speed. Her heart-rate was rocketing all over the place. She wondered if she’d just screwed everything up royally.

Then she thought again. She deserved a producer credit, considering the amount of input she’d had in his productions to date. And if this was what it took for him to realise she meant more to his organisation than a way with middle management …

‘Deal,’ he said.

‘Really?’ she squeaked, jumping up and down on the spot as if firecrackers were exploding beneath her feet. She swished a hand across the sky as if she was looking at a podium at an awards ceremony. ‘I can see it now: co-produced by Hannah Gillespie. “And the award goes to Hannah Gillespie and Bradley Knight.’”

‘Don’t you mean Bradley Knight and Hannah Gillespie?’

‘These things are always alphabetical.’

‘Mmm.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘And if I do get a room?’

‘You won’t.’

He grabbed his leather bag and her heavy suitcase and walked towards the hotel as though he was carrying a bag of feathers. She hurried after him.

‘Bradley? The terms?’

‘What does it matter? You’re so sure I’m not going to win.’

He shot her a grin. An all too rare teeth and crinkly eyes grin. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. Big, broad-winged, jungle butterflies.

He wouldn’t win. There was just no way. But this was Bradley Knight. So long as she’d known him—whether it was getting the green light on every show he pitched, getting any time slot he wanted, or keeping his private life private—he always got his way.

She jogged up the steps, puffing. He took them two at a time as if it was nothing. At the top he slowed, opened the door, and waved her through. She shot him a sarcastic smile and, head held high, walked inside.

Two steps in, they came to a halt as one. Hannah breathed out hard as she realised with immense relief that the Gatehouse was as beautiful as she’d hoped it would be. All marble floors and exposed beams and fireplaces the size of an elephant. It was fit for kings. But not Knights. No Knights.

‘Stunning,’ he said.

‘And fully booked,’ Hannah added.

Bradley laughed, the deep sound reverberating in the large open space. ‘You are one stubborn creature, Miss Gillespie. I do believe it would behove me to remember that.’

She couldn’t help but smile back.