Page 7 of The Bitterroot Inn (Jamison Valley 5)
Last time, I’d been strong.
This time, temptation had won out.
This morning, I’d been desperate for a real meal and had braved the café. For the two-day drive from Illinois to Montana, I’d been living off protein bars, sour gummy worms and jerky. Rolling into Prescott at two in the morning, I’d parked at a campground and slept in my truck. Waking up to a crick in my neck and hunger pains, I’d hurried to the café, figuring the chances of Maisy coming into the restaurant while I scarfed down some food were next to null.
I needed to brush up on chaos theory.
Because while I had been shoveling scrambled eggs and fried potatoes into my mouth, Maisy had slid into the café booth three down from mine.
And that’s when my whole plan to stay away had turned to shit.
All because that cop had made her laugh.
Hiding behind an open newspaper, I had stolen glances of her talking and smiling with him. Then he’d told a joke and her melodic ring had drowned out all other café noises. My hands had crumpled the sides of the newspaper beyond repair and I had lost control of any rational thought.
>
Fucking jealousy.
This entire morning of insanity was all jealousy’s fault.
Because rather than getting back in my truck and putting a couple dozen miles between us after she’d left the café, I had followed her as she’d walked up Main Street.
I had watched peoples’ faces light up when she smiled and waved good morning. I’d watched as she moved with an easy grace along the sidewalk. And I’d watched as the sunlight traveled with her.
By the time she’d reached the inn, I was under her spell.
After that, I had gone back downtown to retrieve my truck and drive around a bit, hoping some space would get me back on track, but my tires seemed to steer themselves right back to The Bitterroot Inn.
Right back to Maisy.
Now, here I was. Not hiding. Not invisible. Instead, I was staring at her and not wanting to blink. I was doing my best to ignore the voice of reason in the back of my mind.
Hunter, turn your ass around.
I took one step further into the motel’s lobby.
Do not speak. Leave.
“Hi.” I crossed the remaining distance to the counter.
“Um, hi,” she squeaked, then cleared her throat. “Hello. Hi. Uh, good morning.” The flush of her cheeks was so fucking beautiful, my heart pumped double time.
Whatever you do, shit-for-brains, do not ask for a room. You have a plan, remember?
“I was wondering if you have a vacancy?”
Fuckwad.
“Um, okay. I mean, yes!” she blurted. “I have a vacancy. For how long?” She started fumbling around with a stack of papers, scattering them across the counter and knocking some onto the floor.
“Three weeks?”
“Okay.” Her hands frantically shoved the scattered papers aside and then grabbed for an appointment book. “Sure.” She took a steadying breath and reached to pluck a pen out of a mason jar. “Three nights,” she said, writing the words in her book.
“No, three weeks.”
Her eyes snapped to mine and she blushed again at her mistake. “Weeks. Sorry.”
