Page 66 of The Bitterroot Inn (Jamison Valley 5)
Was Nell an old girlfriend? Maybe a coworker from Chicago? God, could Nell be an ex-wife? The idea of another woman saying vows to Hunter made my stomach roll.
The text and the mysterious Nell were bothersome, but not as much as the fact that I’d put myself in this odd position. I was going to introduce Hunter to my friends and family tonight, I was going to bring him fully into my life, and I barely knew him.
Shit. I didn’t even know what he did for a living.
I’d ask, “How was your day?”
He’d say, “Good. How was yours?”
I’d ask, “Did anything exciting happen at work today?”
He’d say, “Nope. It was slow. What happened here?”
And that was it.
We talked about me, the motel and Coby. He’d always put a priority on my life and my activities.
Was that weird? That I didn’t know what he did for work? Yes. But it hadn’t bothered me until today. I’d been learning other things about Hunter that had just seemed . . . more important. I’d learned that he did the voices when he read stories to Coby. I’d learned that he was allergic to shellfish. I’d learned that he never went a day without telling me I was special.
But tonight, things were changing.
Hunter had promised he was all in. He’d promised we were serious. So it was seriously time for him to start sharing more.
My time limit on the nosy questions had just run out.
I was so distracted thinking of all the things I wanted to ask that when my phone rang I didn’t even acknowledge the name before hitting accept and pressing it to my ear. “Thank you for calling The Bitterroot Inn. This is Maisy, how can I help you today?”
“You can start by telling me how you murdered Everett Carlson.”
My hand fisted the steering wheel with white knuckles.
The reporter.
“No comment,” I said through gritted teeth, then pressed end.
Anger replaced anxiety and I shoved my phone back in my purse before ramming my foot down on the accelerator. Breaking the speed limit didn’t help and I was still upset by the time I parked in the lot at the fairgrounds.
I stomped across the gravel parking lot to the arena. It was still early, the rodeo wouldn’t start for another two hours, but all of the contestants were here tending to their horses and milling around. Passing the participant lot filled with trailers and large trucks, I crossed through the arched entrance of the fairgrounds.
Metal stands rose high above me and I could see snippets of the wide dirt arena on the other side. Underneath the stands were rows of boxed concession stands and one beer garden at the end of the row.
I wasted no time going right to my mother.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as I tossed down my purse and brownies on the counter of her concession stand. Today, her quilting club was selling baked goods to raise money for the senior center and she’d asked me to help her get set up before the rodeo started.
I looked past her at the cash register to see a whole slew of her club members stacking baked goods on trays. “Nothing. I’m fine,” I lied.
“Maisy Ann,” she warned.
I sighed and opened my box of brownies. Taking out the biggest one I could find, I peeled back the cellophane and shoved a corner in my mouth. I needed chocolate before telling Mom about that reporter’s phone call.
Mom frowned as I chewed, then turned around and walked to an ice chest. She took out a Coke and brought it back to me at the counter as I chomped bite number two.
I swallowed that bite, then popped the top on my soda, chasing my brownie with a fizzing gulp. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” She glanced over her shoulder to confirm we were alone. “Now, what’s wrong? Did something happen with Hunter?”
I shrugged but didn’t answer. Before I complained to her about my issues with Hunter’s secrecy, I wanted to address them with him first. So she’d just get my rant about that snooping reporter. “This reporter has been calling me.”
