Page 35 of Rory Rides Her Fake Fiancé
“Okay, give me a minute to, uh, clean up the guest bedroom.” He grins at me before disappearing into that alcove. I poke my head into it—there’s just enough room for three doors: the middle one is half open and reveals a bathroom counter, the left one is closed, and the right one is the one Morgan’s in.
Okay, so he does have a guest room. Presumably with a bed.
Why am I disappointed?
Drawers slam and there are thumps that sound an awful lot like cardboard boxes being moved around.
Princess trots after him, tail wagging to see what all the fuss is about, leaving me alone.
I drop my bag on the floor and look around. The big walls have those large frames designed for multiple regular-sized photos in them, and I lean in to take a closer look. There are older pictures that show a young Morgan—no baby or kid photos, but as a teenager. I recognize some of his friends in them. I spot a few pictures set in the bar and a lot of pictures with snow—a chairlift from behind with three bundled-up people; a tailgate party with Morgan, three guys, and two girls; and a picture of the view from the top of a mountain looking down over the snowy landscape of the town.
There’s a framed newspaper clipping too.
SKIING TEENS FIND BURIED SKIER
The story’s about a skier who slid off one of the runs the day after a big snowstorm. He got stuck in the powder between the trees and the “local high school boys” found him and dug him out before he suffocated.
“That was wild,” Morgan says, coming to stand beside me. “You ever ski?”
“Nope. This calls you a hometown hero.”
Morgan shrugs. “Eh. I found the guy. Hunter had the shovel. Your room is ready.”
I turn to follow him into the bedroom. Boxes are piled up on one side, but the full-sized bed is clear and is made up with sheets and a comforter. It’s not a big room, but it’s just me and a backpack.
And a dog, apparently, who jumps up on the bed.
“Hey, Princess, get down from there.”
She obeys, only to put her chin on the edge of the bed and wag her tail while staring up at us.
“Okay, that’s my room across the hall”—he points to the left door—“and this is the bathroom.” He pushes the middle door open and shows me the sink, toilet, and shower.
I walk in and look around.
Morgan leans on the doorframe, one elbow resting on the wood above his head. His bicep is obscene. “Help yourself to anything you need. Towels in there, shampoo’s in the shower. I, uh, don’t get up early in the morning since I work late, so help yourself to anything in the kitchen too.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks for letting me stay.”
“You’re welcome. Shout when you’re done in the bathroom and I’ll take my turn.” He taps the top of the doorframe and leaves me to it.
I don’t have much with me, since I keep essentials at Grandma’s house and she didn’t bother to pack them up for me. I find a new toothbrush under the sink and use Morgan’s toothpaste. Then I shower, and I haven’t showered in a man’s bathroom in a long time. It’s so . . . utilitarian.
I wrap a towel around my body and one around my hair and then I poke around. Curious about the man I’m “engaged” to.
No medications, no sign of a woman. He’s a hometown hero with a fucking golden retriever named Princess.
I exit the bathroom and startle when I spot Morgan sitting on the couch. Princess is wedged into the cushion next to him, belly-up while he strokes her fur. Her lips have succumbed to gravity and she gives me a toothy grin.
The overhead lights are off and there’s just the lamp on next to Morgan. The wood floor gleams and the couch looks soft and inviting.
Morgan’s smile is as slow as molasses while he looks me over. “Feeling better?”
Am I? I was cranky earlier, pissed at Grandma and annoyed at the locals. Now, after a hot shower and just the right amount of affection from a man and a dog, I feel a lot better.
Tired though.
I nod. “Thanks again.”
