Page 44 of The Bitterroot Inn (Jamison Valley 5)
But none of those facts stopped me from whispering, “Yes.”
Hunter smiled and stood, holding out a hand to help me up. I gave myself two heartbeats to savor the feel of his skin on mine, then I went into Coby’s room and scooped him up, grabbing his favorite blanket for the trip to my car. Coby didn’t wake up once, not as I walked down the stairs or as I was buckling him into his car seat and covering up his bare feet.
Meanwhile, Hunter jogged around to the parking lot and grabbed his camera from his truck, and when he came back, he took the keys to my car and drove us all to Wade Lake.
Sitting on the hood of my 4Runner with Coby asleep in the back, I watched as Hunter took his first photo for my inn. The sunrise over the lake was gorgeous, but mostly I sat and stared at Hunter.
I had forgotten how good it felt to fall for a man.
Too good.
I just hoped it wasn’t too good to be true.
The week after Hunter had taken us on our early morning trip to Wade Lake went by in a frantic, frazzled, freaking mess.
I’d gotten an influx of spur-of-the-moment reservations on top of my previously scheduled bookings. On top of that, my part-time housekeeper had come down with the flu. So instead of ticking off items from my renovation list, I’d spent my days cleaning and doing laundry to turn over guest rooms.
By Sunday, my bookkeeping was overdue, my loft was a disaster, and Hunter’s housekeeping room looked exactly the same as it had the night I’d clobbered him with the tile. I had given up on anything I’d deemed noncritical including doing my makeup, eating lunch, and, unfortunately, spying on Hunter from my loft window.
Since Hunter had gone back to his normal early morning, late-evening routine, I hadn’t seen him all week. Our only communication had been through sticky notes. I’d leave him a smiley face or a Hi! on the Tupperware meals I delivered to his refrigerator each day. He’d respond with emptied containers and a scribbled Thank you.
Except on Friday. Friday, he’d left me a note with his phone number, asking me to text.
My fingers had never typed a text so fast.
For the last day and a half, any time my phone dinged, I would stop whatever I was doing and race to my phone, smiling whenever I saw Hunter’s name on the screen.
“Mommy!” Coby called from his room. “Is he here yet?”
“Not yet, buddy. Pretty soon,” I yelled back from the kitchen.
Hunter wouldn’t be here for another twenty minutes. He was coming over to spend another Sunday afternoon with us and we’d planned on getting lunch at the café and then going to the pond to take some photos of Coby fishing.
My son was bouncing-off-the-walls excited.
So was I.
It had only been a week but I missed Hunter. Last Sunday, he had made a lasting impression. I missed his smile. I missed hearing his voice. I missed the smell of his cologne, which had faded from my car.
Twenty minutes. I only had to wait twenty minutes and I’d have it all back.
I went back to my massive pile of dishes in the sink, hoping I’d have them done before Hunter got here, when my phone rang on the counter. I rushed over, wet hands and all, hoping it was him wanting to come over early.
“Darn,” I muttered seeing the unknown number. It wasn’t uncommon to get calls from blocked numbers for the inn, and since I’d forwarded the lobby phone to my cell, I cleared my throat to answer. “Thank you for calling The Bitterroot Inn. How can I help you today?”
The line was silent so I waited a few seconds. “Hello?”
Still no sound. I lifted the phone away from my ear just as a woman’s voice finally came over the line. “Hello. Is this The Bitterroot Inn located in Prescott, Montana?”
Double darn. Not a potential guest, a telemarketer. As much as I wanted to just hang up, I couldn’t do it. So I’d listen, multitasking as I waited for the sales pitch I’d politely decline.
“Yes, this is The Bitterroot Inn.” I sandwiched the phone between my shoulder and cheek and went back to my dishes.
“May I speak with Maisy Holt, please?”
“This is Maisy.”
“The same Maisy Holt who murdered Everett Carlson four years ago?”
