And though she took a damn good photo, Morgan concluded, she looked better in the flesh. Maybe it was that energy, or the depths of her soulful brown eyes.
She walked with utter confidence. “Nell Jameson.”
“Morgan Albright.”
They shook, and sized each other up.
“Am I late?”
“I was early.” Be yourself, Morgan thought. “I wanted to get a feel for the bar before the interview.”
“And what’s your feel?”
“The actual bar?” Morgan ran a hand over the surface. “I want it for my own.”
“Can’t blame you. My grandfather had it shipped over from Dublin.”
“I thought it was the real thing. The rest? It’s wonderful. Classy, but comfortable with it. Organized, a good flow—things guests won’t necessarily pinpoint, but they’ll feel it. And the view, well, that’s a gift.”
“Thermal windows, tinted to cut glare. You can watch the slopes—do you ski?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Okay then. Spring, summer, into the fall, there’s a view of the ninth tee over toward the lake. Do you golf?”
“No. But I’ve sat in gardens, even planted some, and I assume the view of those when they’re not buried in snow is pretty spectacular.”
“They are. Well, we’ll take a table and get started.” Nell held up a finger. “Before the table, why don’t we start with you showing me some practical application. How about you make me a Kir Royale?”
“I’d be happy to. I need to see your ID.”
She heard Nick suck in a quick gasp, but kept her eyes on Nell.
“Are you serious?”
“I can’t serve you otherwise.”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“That’s what they all say. Sorry. You could pass for twenty. Could be exceptional DNA and bone structure, but it’s not worth the hit to this venue, or to me, to risk it.”
“Is that your personal policy?”
“It is, and I hope it’s your business’s policy or I’m the wrong person for this position.”
“I see.” Nell set her briefcase on the bar, opened it. She took a slim leather case from one of the pockets, slid out her license.
Morgan studied it, smiled, said, “Thank you.”
Her heart hammered as she walked around the bar. Then settled. She knew what she was doing here.
She filled a flute with ice and cold water, set it aside while she located a bottle of crème de cassis, a lemon, a paring knife.
“The website lists you as head of Hospitality.”
“That’s right.”
Morgan took a bottle of champagne from the cooler. “So that’s Après, the Lodge Bar, the restaurants, room service?”
“The juice bar in the fitness center, the snack bar attached to the lift, grocery runs for stocking the cabins per guest requests.”
“A lot,” Morgan said as she opened the bottle with an elegantly muffled pop.
“I have an excellent team.”
“I’ve only met Nick, but if he’s representative, you do.”
She dumped the ice, eyeballed a tablespoon of the crème de cassis into the flute, tipped the glass to pour the champagne.
“Do you think it adds elements of comfort and challenge, working in a family business?”
“I do.” Intrigued, Nell propped her chin on her fist. “Are you interviewing me?”
“Just making conversation.” She used the knife, sliced the lemon, cut out the pulp and made a perfect spiral twist. Topped off the champagne, added the lemon twist, then set the flute on a cocktail napkin. “Enjoy.”
Nell sipped, set the flute down. “Okay, that’s perfect. I wasn’t going to actually drink it, but I’m going to make an exception. Let’s take that table.”
When Nell walked to a booth by the windows, Nick gave Morgan a grin and a thumbs-up.
“I’m going to get this out of the way,” Nell began when Morgan sat across from her. “I’m sorry about what happened to you, what happened to your friend. I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Part two of getting out of the way. I was annoyed when my grandmother set up this interview. Stepping on my toes.”
“Oh.” Shit! “I can’t blame you.”
“Grandmothers.” Now Nell shot out a megawatt smile. “Good thing I adore mine.”
“I’m going to say the same for me and mine.”