Page 45 of The Bitterroot Inn (Jamison Valley 5)
The plate in my wet grip slipped right out, crashing into the bottom rack of the dishwasher. “Who is this?”
The woman didn’t answer.
“Who is this?” I demanded through gritted teeth.
When she didn’t answer, I hung up. Tossing my phone aside, I braced my arms on the counter and closed my
eyes, taking a few long breaths to calm down. This wasn’t the first time I’d received a phone call like that and they always made me angry.
The first year after Everett’s kidnapping, I’d been hounded relentlessly by the press. Everyone wanted to sell my story—or their version of my story—hoping it would make them a few dollars. The fact that I’d declined comment without exception just made me that much more interesting. That much more of a challenge.
Some reporters had been ruthless in their attempts to get me to comment, saying anything and everything to make me mad so I’d slip. Some reporters were nicer, offering me money or a TV exclusive, but I’d always declined those too.
My story was my business and didn’t belong in the headlines. The only person who would get an explanation was Coby, when the time was right.
Why was I even considered news after all this time? Weren’t there other topics far more interesting than my simple little life? With phone calls like that to bring it back up, how was I ever going to move past that horrific night with Everett?
Work. I’d get back to work and busy myself until my anger was buried deep.
Doing just that, I finished the dishes and cleaned my kitchen. Then I dusted the living room until a knock sounded at the door.
Coby flew out of his room, sprinting past me with Pickle trying to keep up.
“Wait up, bud.” I jogged over to the door as he was attempting to yank it open. “It’s locked.”
I checked the peephole first, making sure it was Hunter, and smiled when I saw his man bun. Flipping the deadbolt, I swung open the door to see his handsome face. He grinned and my world was better. Gone was the stress from the past week and the annoyance from that reporter’s phone call.
“Hunter!” Coby yelled as Pickle yapped.
“Hey, Coby! What’s happening?” Hunter asked, ruffling my son’s hair as he came inside.
“We’re all going fishing!”
“I’m pretty excited,” Hunter told him. “Do you think I’ll catch the biggest fish?”
Coby shook his head. “No way.”
“Maybe I will.” My statement earned me two misbelieving looks.
Hunter leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Hey, stranger.”
“Hey, back.”
“Are you guys ready to go?”
I nodded. “Yes. I just need to grab our stuff.” I was about to order Coby to get his shoes and hat but he had already plopped down on the floor to pull on his Crocs.
I hustled to the refrigerator to get the white Styrofoam cup of worms I’d dug up from my flower bed yesterday, and with it in hand, I grabbed Coby’s fishing pole from the corner. I slid on my shades and locked the loft’s door, following Hunter to the 4Runner, where he was already buckling in Coby to his seat.
My stomach was full of jitters, but the good kind. The kind that only came with a crush.
“Do you still want to grab lunch?” Hunter asked as he drove.
“Yes, please. I’m starving.”
He took us straight to the café where the Sunday after-church crowd was starting to thin so we were lucky enough to get a booth by the window.
“Want to play tic-tac-toe?” Coby asked Hunter, flipping his paper place mat over and digging for a pen in my purse.
