Page 6 of The Bitterroot Inn (Jamison Valley 5)
“Will do. Call us if you want help this weekend.”
“Okay.” I waved as he got into his truck, then went back to the lobby.
My Thursdays were reserved for bookkeeping and I had a stack of bills to pay before lunch. Settling into my office off the lobby, I wasted no time diving into my work. Two hours later, my bank account was lighter and I abandoned my desk in search of more caffeine from the mini fridge.
Opening a Dr. Pepper, I hopped onto one of the barstools behind the lobby counter and stared out the window toward the motel sign.
It is so cute! How could people not love it?
A little over a year ago, I’d surprised the entire town by having the old sign taken down. It had been too ostentatious, nearly as tall as a streetlight, and its words had long since faded from years of sun exposure. The sign I’d picked to replace it was understated, yet perfect.
Sitting in the center of a raised flower bed were two, short white posts. Between them swung a classic white sign from an iron bar. It wasn’t just the new sign that had caused the uproar, it was what had been written on its face in clean black letters.
The Bitterroot Inn.
That sign, displaying the inn’s new name, had been featured on the front page of the weekly Tuesday newspaper two weeks in a row.
To this day, not many people understood why I’d wanted to rename the motel, especially since I’d kept the previous name for so long. But I had spent so much time making this place my own that I wanted a name I’d picked too.
The bitterroot was Montana’s state flower and a personal favorite. The moment I’d jotted down the words on a napkin at the café, I had known instantly it was right.
The next day, I’d ordered the new sign.
And the gossip had commenced.
The inn wasn’t the only thing that had changed these last three years. I had changed too. With every stroke of my paintbrush, every swing of my hammer, every turn of my screwdriver, I had changed.
Gone were the immaturities of a girl in her early twenties—being a single mother and business owner had chased those away. Gone was the naïve woman who had let a monster into her life—though not before I’d gotten the one good thing he had to offer. Gone was the young nurse brimming with spirit who had talked incessantly—I had learned to listen more and be mindful of the people I brought into our lives.
I had learned the hard way just how deceptive people could be when you were too busy talking to pay attention to the red flags.
Taking a breath, I pulled myself out of my thoughts before they could spiral to a bad place. I reached for a sketch pad on the counter and flipped to an empty page. I had spent all my time and money renovating the motel but hadn’t done much to my own loft. Now that I was finally on my last guest room, I was brainstorming all of the things I wanted to do for Coby’s room and our home.
I was so lost in my sketching I flinched when the lobby door opened, and my pencil skidded off the page, leaving a deep mark even the eraser wouldn’t undo. I frowned for a split second before looking up, ready to greet my visitor with a megawatt smile.
The smile fell, along with my chin.
My visitor was straight out of a magazine. His light brown hair was tied back in a neat man bun. His strong jaw was covered in an expertly manicured beard. His caramel-brown eyes, framed with long, dark lashes, were aimed at me with such intensity they nearly knocked me off my stool.
When he turned to close the door, I was suddenly very aware of the fact I was wearing no makeup and my clothes were about as dull as an economics lecture. But hey! At least you washed your hair today. Thank god I wasn’t in my normal blue baseball cap.
I wouldn’t look like a complete slouch in front of this man.
This man was all the good things about my Chrises rolled into one. This man should be in the middle of a photo shoot for a fifty-foot billboard, not standing inside my motel lobby.
This man was about to get the mumbling, fumbling version of Maisy Holt the likes of which no one had never seen.
Super.
Hunter
What the fuck was I doing?
I needed to leave. Being this close to Maisy was too much of a risk. I was supposed to be invisible. Hidden. I was supposed to be the man in the shadows, doing whatever I could to protect her without her knowing I was even here.
Walking into her motel in broad daylight was as far from hidden as I could get.
The last time I had been in Prescott, I’d been able to avoid Maisy completely. I’d resisted the lure of seeing her and had lived like a recluse, going to work every morning and then immediately retreating home each evening. I’d grocery shopped thirty minutes before Jamison Foods closed at midnight so I wouldn’t accidentally bump into her in the aisles. I’d steered clear of all the restaurants, living off of my shitty cooking for a year, just so I wouldn’t risk being in the same room. I’d spent next to no time exploring Prescott just to avoid meeting her on the street.
