Page 9 of The Bitterroot Inn (Jamison Valley 5)
Maisy
I banged my head on the counter.
“Worst. Impression. Ever,” I told my shoes. “Ever!”
That had to be a record for the number of “ums” and “uhs” I’d ever said in a five-minute span. I hadn’t stammered that much since being asked to participate in an impromptu high-school debate.
Hunter must think I’m a complete dork. Just another desperate woman fawning over his handsome face. No wonder his paperwork was full of chicken scratch. He’d been in such a hurry to escape the drooling, bumbling motel owner that he’d barely made his script legible. If not for having his driver’s license and credit card, I wouldn’t have known his name.
But what a name.
Hunter Faraday.
I stood up straight and tapped my chin. “Hunter Faraday,” I whispered to the empty room. Where had I heard that name before? Had I met him?
I shook my head. No. His name was vaguely familiar but there was no way I’d forget that face. Or his body.
For the first time ever, I was jealous of a plain tan sweater. I wanted to be wrapped around those Olympic-swimmer-sized shoulders. I wanted to brush against his flat stomach. I wanted to hug his narrow hips. Those dark-wash jeans didn’t know how lucky they were to cover those sexy long legs and skim down his flawless ass.
And his smell? I had dated men that wore Armani cologne before, but it had never smelled that good. When it’d wafted across the counter, I’d nearly fainted and he’d still been two feet away. Who knew what kind of a blathering fool I’d become if he ever came closer than that?
“Don’t go there, Maisy Ann,” I reminded myself.
Hunter was my guest and a paying customer. I needed to keep a professional distance. Three weeks of him staying in room eight would pay for Coby’s new bedroom in the loft and I couldn’t afford to creep Hunter out and drive him away.
“Work. There is always work to be done.” Determined to move past our encounter, I shoved thoughts of the gorgeous Hunter Faraday aside and got back to work.
While I picked up the papers I had knocked on the floor, I tried not to think of his perfect smile. While I updated my appointment book with his reservation, I refused to picture his soft, full lips. When I jogged upstairs to the loft and ate a quick lunch, I did my best to ignore the sound of his deep voice ringing in my ears, saying he thought my eyes were beautiful.
By the time I walked back down the interior stairs that led from my loft to the lobby, I had shaken off the jitters from meeting Hunter. Well . . . mostly. He wasn’t the type of man you forgot easily. Hunter was a benchmark type of man, a ruler I’d use to measure the physical appearance of any man in my future.
Even with his man bun.
I’d never found man buns particularly attractive before. Sure, some of Hollywood’s A-listers could pull them off—my Chrises certainly could—but any time I’d seen one in person, they’d always looked so thin and greasy. Yet Hunter’s hair was a thing of sheer beauty. It was thick and soft—not an oily strand in sight. The natural blond highlights around his face were more noticeable because of its length, and the way he’d pulled it back—into a clean, tight knot—highlighted the angles of his face.
He’s a guest. He’s a guest. Stop daydreaming about his hair.
I had only met a few men with a magnetic presence like Hunter’s. All had left scars, especially Coby’s father. And as a twenty-nine-year-old single mother with a business to run, the la
st thing I needed was another wound.
Another reason to steer clear of my new guest.
So I used work to busy my mind, spending the afternoon at my computer returning some overdue emails. Hours later, I stood from my desk, proud that I’d been so productive despite the handful of times thoughts of Hunter had threatened to distract. I grabbed my keys and purse from the lobby, about to walk to Quail Hollow to pick up Coby, when my phone rang.
“Hey,” I said, greeting my younger brother, Michael. “What’s up?”
“Would you care if I got Coby from daycare today?”
He had never picked up Coby before. “Uh, no. I guess not.”
When Coby had been a baby, Michael had always been nervous around him, always worried about dropping him and unsure how to play with him. But now that Coby was running and talking, Michael had been working hard to build a new bond with my son. I loved that they were playmates. Coby might not have a father, but between my dad and brothers, he was not short on male role models.
“Do you want to come and get his car seat?” I asked. “Or were you going to walk?”
“I’m driving but I stopped by Mom and Dad’s and borrowed the Yukon with his seat.”
“Okay. Then I’ll see you in few?”
