Page 17 of Final Proposal

And I don’t know why it bugs me so fucking much that she isn’t here.

I twist in my seat to look around the room. Most people are still in the same positions they were in last night when I dozed off. Curled into balls. Leaned against walls with legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles. Lying on the floor, using their spread-out rain jackets as a barrier between them and the old carpet.

The sun is out. Clearly. Which means the storm’s passed on. And if the room is emptier than it was last night, then that means maybe the road has been cleared.

“Christ,” I murmur and scrub a hand over my face, the scrape of my stubble a reminder of just how rough I must look.

It’s then that I see the napkin with the scribble on it under my half-finished whiskey bottle on the table in front of me.

I lean forward to pick it up and smile when the pretzels on its corner fall to the floor.

Fordham the University—

It was a pleasure meeting you. I had to hit the road early and deal with “stuff.”

Thank you for the company, the advice, and the ear. I’m sure everything will work

itself out with your brothers. Maybe our paths will cross again someday. Until

then . . .

—Celery Ellery

I hold the napkin in my hand and lean back again on the couch, staring at her handwriting.

She didn’t leave me her phone number.

Then again, she is engaged.

So why do I have the distinct memory of waking up last night and she was tucked under my arm with her head on my chest? And why do I remember liking it?

I scrub my hand through my hair.

My phone’s dead. I’m in desperate need of a toothbrush, a shower, and a shave. And by the looks of the clear sky and Ellery’s absence, the road appears to be open.

Let’s just hope it’s open in the direction I need it to be.

I’m in the parking lot within minutes, bag in my hand and eyes darting around. The sun may be out, but there’s still a chill in the air from the breeze from the ocean.

Debris from the storm is everywhere. Tree branches. Trash strewn about. Sand blown around by the wind.

It’s when I look back toward the inn that I notice it as a whole for the first time. In the past, the gray clapboard building was something off in the distance of the road when I drove past. Last night, the hotel was something I ran into to escape the storm.

But this morning with the sun out, the sound of seagulls in the distance, and my current stance in the middle of its parking lot, I take a closer look.

White Sands Inn.

It’s what the faded sign says. There’s a lighthouse for a logo on said sign despite there not being a single one in sight.

I guess they took some creative license.

The place has curb appeal. Its overall size doesn’t overpower its backdrop of blue skies and what I can assume is the boardwalk and beach on the other side. Too many places make that mistake. They think the size of the structure and the capacity it can hold is what’s most important because more rooms equal more revenue.

What they don’t understand is that if the hotel isn’t in an appealing location—in this case the beach on one side and the lush foliage of the New England trees surrounding the other—people don’t want to stay at the actual hotel to do more than sleep.

And it’s the guests staying at the hotel—to order room service, to drink at the bar and watch the surf crash on the beach, to eat at the hypothetical boardwalk café—that earns the added profit.

Potential.