Page 20 of The Bitterroot Inn (Jamison Valley 5)
“Is that what you do? Are you a photographer?”
He shook his head. “No, this is just a hobby. I got into it a few years back but rarely have time to practice.”
I nodded in agreement. “I know how that goes. I used to have hobbies, but with this place, I barely have time to think these days. Not that I’m complaining. I love my job.” I caught the beginnings of a ramble and stopped myself before I got on a roll. “So if you’re not a photographer, what do you do here in town?”
I was being nosy but couldn’t help it. Normally when someone new moved to Prescott, I’d get the scoop about them from the gossip mill. I hadn’t heard a lick of news about Hunter’s background but I wanted it to stay that way. I wanted to hear all about him firsthand, starting with what he did for a living.
“I work at the—”
“Maze!” Michael burst into the lobby with a loud and exuberant shout. I’d been so caught up in listening to Hunter’s deep voice I hadn’t even heard Michael’s truck pull up. But my brother’s timing couldn’t have been worse. I was finally getting
over my Hunter jitters and proving that I could carry on a normal conversation, but now I’d just have to hope for the chance to try again another day.
Damn it.
“Hi, Michael,” I sighed. “What’s up?”
“I’m getting married!”
My jaw dropped. “What? What are you talking about?”
“I’m getting married.” He came behind the counter and picked me up for a swirly hug. “I’m going to marry Alana Kelly.” He set me down and started shaking my shoulders as he smiled.
I stepped out of his grip and took a step back before he accidentally hurt me in his excitement. “You asked her to marry you? You just started dating! You’re going to scare her right out of Jamison County!”
Michael had called me after his and Alana’s dinner at The Black Bull and told me how great it had gone, but that had been just days ago.
He rolled his eyes. “No, of course I didn’t ask her to marry me, but I’m going to. Maybe in a year or something. Or six months. Or four. I don’t know, but she’s the one.”
“Thank goodness.” I relaxed and smiled up at my younger brother, happy he’d found someone special. “I’m happy for you.”
“I’m happy for me too.” Michael finally looked around the lobby and noticed Hunter staring at us. “Oh, hey.” He held out a hand. “Sorry to interrupt. Michael Holt. I’m Maisy’s brother.”
“No problem,” Hunter said, shaking his hand. “We were just visiting.”
“Cool.” Michael nodded and helped himself to a seat at the counter. “Welcome to Prescott. How long are you visiting?”
“I’m actually moving here,” Hunter said. “I’m having a place built but the construction crew isn’t done yet, so I’m staying here for a few weeks while they finish it up.”
“Nice,” Michael said. “Where are you moving from?”
“Chicago.”
“Great city.” Michael started in on a story about his vacation to Chicago a few years ago while I racked my brain, mentally touring through all of the new construction in the area. I really wanted to ask Hunter about his house but I was trying to tone down the stalker-ish questions. So instead of prodding for an address, I sat quietly, half listening to the conversation, half thinking about where he could be living.
There was a new house being built down by the river but I knew the owners. Other than that, all of the new construction was outside of town in the mountain foothills. Those lots were huge and predominantly bought by outsiders wanting a “cabin” in Montana—cabins that were, at a minimum, twenty times the size of my loft.
As far as I knew, there were only three homes in the foothills currently in progress with Jamison Valley Construction. If Hunter’s was the place I was thinking about, he had money. A lot of money, something I’d already suspected. It had been pretty hard not to notice the Rolex he’d forgotten by the bathroom sink or the cashmere sweaters in his closet when I’d been cleaning his room.
The money didn’t bother me, though, especially since Hunter seemed so down-to-earth and modest. He seemed like the type of man who would downplay his wealth just to make sure he didn’t make anyone feel uncomfortable. Most of the well-off men I’d met had always made a point to flaunt their wealth. Coby’s father had been a doctor and he’d always made sure to drop hints about his fortune.
Don’t go there.
I shook off thoughts of Coby’s father and focused on Hunter and Michael’s discussion.
“Are you a photographer?” Michael asked.
Hunter smiled at me, then looked back to Michael and said, “No, I’m a—”
