Page 42 of The Bitterroot Inn (Jamison Valley 5)
Was it time to go back to therapy? After I’d killed Everett, my parents had insisted I talk to a therapist to help deal with the aftermath of that traumatic night. Therapy had really helped but I’d stopped going after Coby had been born and I’d bought the inn.
My therapist lived in Bozeman, and between the two-hour round-trip plus the session time itself, therapy had taken too much time. I’d had a newborn to feed and a business to build so therapy had been an easy item to fall off the priority list. But with these flashes as vivid as ever, maybe I needed to make the time and try again.
But in the absence of anyone to talk to tonight, I opted for my distraction of choice: work. Work would once again be my savior.
I brushed my teeth, then went back to my room for clothes, tossing on some gray joggers and a black zip-up. Then I pulled a black cap over my head, slipped on my fuchsia sneakers and headed to the kitchen with my phone in hand.
Opening up my video monitor app, I checked Coby’s room on the screen. Sure enough, he was sprawled on his bed and completely zonked out. Unfortunately, nights like this weren’t uncommon so I’d invested in a top-of-the-line monitor so I could work downstairs while Coby slept. Nine out of ten emails I returned were sent after midnight and I’d lost track of how many loads of laundry I’d done before sunrise.
Carefully shutting the door, I slipped downstairs through the interior stairwell to the lobby. The loft had two sets of stairs. The staircase outside we used the most but the interior was handy for after hours. Since I didn’t like to wander far from the loft on nights like this—just in case Coby woke up—I always stayed within a thirty-second sprint back to this stairwell. That limited my radius to the lobby, my office, the utility room and—conveniently for tonight—the housekeeper’s room.
With my master keys in hand, I went outside and straight to the utility room, collecting a garbage can and two bags. Then I headed next door to the housekeeper’s room to start my cleaning.
Opening the door, I was assaulted by a wave of musty air. I leaned into the room and grabbed a can of paint to prop the door open before flipping on the light, revealing piles of leftover remodeling supplies.
The room was long and narrow, with a cramped bathroom and a narrow closet taking up the entire width at the back. The twin bed was pushed tight against one wall opposite a small dresser loaded with paint supplies. Next to the dresser were stacks of unused tile and rolls of carpet remnants. On the small TV stand at the foot of the bed was a box filled with random tools.
I started with the stuff on the bed first, hauling the toolbox Beau had bought me into the utility room. Then I used a laundry basket to load up my extra sink fixtures and doorknobs. When I came back in again, I decided to relocate the tile to my office. Picking up one of the cement pieces, I brushed my fingers against its smooth white and gray surface. I was lost in my inspection of the beautiful scrolled design when a hand landed on my shoulder.
“Ahh!” I screamed and jumped, spinning around with my tile leading the way. It connected first, hitting before my eyes could take in the person behind me. When they did, I dropped the tile and gasped as it cracked on the floor.
“Fucking shit, Maisy.” Hunter stepped back and clutched his temple.
This wasn’t happening. Not again. “Hunter?”
“Yes, Hunter. I called your name. Didn’t you hear me?”
“No!” I yelled, flailing my hands in the air. For the second time, I’d physically assaulted Hunter, and just like the last time, out came the words. “Oh my god! Why did you sneak up on me? You know I react first! Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay. Shit. I’m so sorry! So, so sorry. Do you think you have a concussion? Are you dizzy? Oh my god, you’re bleeding!”
Hunter pulled his fingers away, red on his fingertips. “Damn.”
I rushed closer, my hands going to his face and twisting it so I could get a better look. The tile had gashed him right in the forehead about two inches above his temple.
“Come on.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him outside. I didn’t stop to lock up the housekeeper’s room or even close the door. I just dragged him behind me, through the lobby and up the interior stairs to the loft.
“Maisy, it’s not a big deal. Will you slow down? I’m fine.”
“No, it’s not. Come on.” I kept pulling. Every time he tugged for me to slow, I just pulled harder.
“Maisy, I’m fine,” he repeated when we reached the loft.
“You’re bleeding. That is not fine, Hunter.” I pulled him through the entryway and down the hall toward the bathroom. “I can’t believe I made you bleed. Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I really hurt you this time. This is bad. Really bad.”
“Maisy—”
“It’s not fine!” I clapped my free hand over my mouth and froze. I’d just shouted right outside of Coby’s bedroom.
We both stood still, staring at Coby’s closed door and listening for the sound of him rustling from his bed. When all remained quiet, I resumed my pulling on Hunter’s hand to the bathroom.
“Sit.” I pointed at the toilet while I closed the door and turned on the faucet to warm up the water. “I’ve got a first-aid kit in here.”
I crouched down and started digging through my cabinet under the sink. In my haste, out came the tampons and pantyliners, both spilling out of their respective containers right onto the floor by Hunter’s feet. “Shit!” Could this get worse?
The last thing I wanted was for Hunter to be front and center with my feminine products. I wanted him to think of me as sexy and alluring, not bleeding and bitchy.
“Here.” Hunter bent to pick them up.
