“Would you talk to him? If it was you?”
Another soft sigh spilled from her lips. “I don’t know. I think so. Bad things happen in life, and people hurt others—even people they love. He’s the only father you have, the only link to your blood. If he’s finally willing to talk candidly, I’d want to hear him out. I think there’s something powerful about being willing to forgive someone.”
He sifted through her words, choosing not to respond. She’d seen firsthand what he’d gone through as a child, knew how many of his choices were based on his crazed need to prove to his father he was worthy. Knew how he struggled with guilt over his mother’s death. A psychologist would have a fucking field day with his family issues, but he’d worked through many of his demons by writing—and talking to Ethan and Ophelia and their mother. That support system had made all the difference.
“Are you going to see him again?”
“Yes. Just to check on him.” She cut him a glance. “Unless you tell me not to. I’d never want to hurt you like that.”
“Thank you.” He reached his hand out, and she took it. Fingers entwined, he squeezed hers tight. It would be easy to tell her to stay away from his father, but there was something in her tone when she spoke about him. As if it were important to her to keep seeing him. “Do you want to see him again, or do you just feel guilty?”
She scrunched up her nose, pondering the question. “Both. He’s finally accepting help and being nice. But it’s more than that. He shares more of his story each time I’m there, and I can see how he wants to be different. I feel like I should continue to encourage that.”
The words stung, but he nodded. Ophelia had a gift with people—a way to make them feel important and cherished.
It was one of the things he loved about her, and he wouldn’t ask her to hold back. Even from his father.
“Then I’d never ask you to stop.” He forced a grin. “You were always the nicest out of our group.”
She made a face. “Nice is the worst adjective ever. I’m not nice. I was the one who talked you and Ethan into painting graffiti on the college sign.”
He groaned. “God, I’d almost forgotten about that. Judge Bennett handed us both our asses, and when he asked you if you’d been involved—”
“I said you guys were too crazy for me and walked away.”
“You left us hanging. We had to scrub that sign with a Brillo pad on a Saturday in one-hundred-degree weather.”
She laughed. “I kept you company.”
“You hung out eating an ice-cream cone, directing us where to scrub harder!”
“Told you I’m not nice.”
He laughed, and their hands fell apart.
Sunlight leaked through the branches and turned her hair to fire. A smile rested on her full lips, her body at ease on Flower. She had surrendered to the gentle rocking motions, heels firmly hooked in the stirrups.
His heart ached as he looked at her, the melding of past and present, child and woman. Harper was right. Ophelia was calmer now. There’d always been a zest and mad energy throbbing in her veins. She’d dash about, ready for the next event or adventure, throwing her entire being out to the world. Now there was a graceful restraint. A quieter sort of happiness that was sensual in the way only a confident woman could be—one who knew her body and mind and accepted herself completely.
“I love seeing you like this,” he said quietly. “The way you are with the guests is a humbling experience. The way you give so much of yourself. Your mother would be so damn proud.”
She jerked in the saddle, then met his gaze head-on. Those blue eyes turned misty, like the color of smoke, and trapped him helplessly under her spell.
The horses muttered softly, sensing the sudden awareness in the air. His entire body throbbed with anticipation, ready to drag her off that horse, shove her against a tree trunk, and kiss her until his mad lust was finally sated.
She smiled. “I loved running the inn together. She taught me so much. Oh God, how we laughed and complained and giggled together! It was a special time for me, being that close to my mom.”
He let his thoughts wander awhile, then asked the question that had been burning inside him. “Do you regret it, Ophelia? Leaving with me? Marrying me?”
Her gaze nailed him, blue eyes flaming with intensity. “I’ve never regretted running away with you. Everything brought me back to where I belonged.”
Pain slapped through him. He barely caught his breath from the hit. “I always thought we belonged to each other. That being together was our safe place.”
Regret tinged her voice. “Me, too. But we were too young to know what that really meant.”
“And now?”
Was that a flash of hope in her eyes or a trick of the light?
“And now maybe things can be different.”
They smiled at each other. His heart bloomed. She was finally admitting there was a chance.
He’d take the small opening and chip away until he created a giant door he could walk right through, back into her life.
Ophelia knew the moment her guests arrived the next day that they’d be trouble.
The duo had matching annoyed expressions. Perfect hair and makeup. Designer luggage. Three-inch-heeled platform Michael Kors boots that were definitely not waterproof. The dark-haired one wore a turtleneck that ended right below her boobs. The blonde had bubblegum-pink lips that could have made her the mascot for Botox. They seemed about twenty-five, with an air of snobby entitlement.
Yeah, this was going to be fun.
Not.
Smothering a groan, she pasted on her smile. “Welcome to the Robin’s Nest B & B. How was your trip?”
“Awful,” the brunette whined. “The roads suck, and there was, like, no decent restaurant to stop at along the way. Thank God we’re only here for two days, or I’d die.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. I can make you some coffee or tea and some snacks while you relax and get unpacked. Let’s get you registered. I’ll show you the rooms and bring up your luggage.”
“We requested a private bath,” the blonde threw out. “We’re not sharing with strangers.”
“Of course. It’s all set.” She went to the writing desk and pulled up the information on the computer. “Devon Marshall and Margaret Alistair, correct?”
“I prefer Margo.” She tossed her golden tresses and pursed those lips in distaste. “I also have a strict list of preferences for breakfast I’ll need you to accommodate.”
She kept her smile pinned on. “Yes, I’d be happy to tailor the menu to your needs. Can you confirm your address, phone, etc.?”
They got through the check-in process, and she grabbed two keys. She gave them a quick tour of the inn, then led them up the stairs to the rooms. “I’ve placed you in the Garden and Imperial suites. Both have private baths, a sitting area, king-size beds, and a fireplace. There’s instructions on how to work the fire, but I’m happy to help you if you need it.”
The girls toured the rooms with matching judgy gazes as if ready to pounce the moment they didn’t like something.
Ophelia delved into her spiel, which included everything they both needed to know about the town and the inn’s facilities.
“We don’t like to share breakfast with strangers,” Devon said.
“We only have two other guests right now, but I’m happy to bring up room service.”
“Good. We’d like mimosas and fresh fruit—but no pineapple and no apples. Fresh-squeezed orange juice with the mimosas—not the cheap juice in the cartons. Absolutely no carbs. I brought a recipe for oatmeal-banana pancakes we’d like you to make. And we like our coffee with organic Stevia and prefer a dark blend with no bitterness.”
Her lip quirked. Guess Margo had no idea oats contained carbs. “Not a problem.”
“Is there a gym?”
“No, I’m sorry. No gym.”
Devon gasped. “I assumed there was a place to work out! Every facility has a gym!”
Margo moaned. “What are we going to do? What if we gain weight?”
“We have a wonderful yoga studio in town that holds classes all day tomorrow. I’d be happy to give them a call and register you.”
Devon nodded. “Yes, definitely. I almost fainted.”
Margo gave a dramatic sigh of relief.
Ophelia tried to choke back the ball of disgust lodged in her throat. There were always a few guests who made her want to quit the inn and be a file clerk in a big-ass library with no mandate to talk to anyone. But her mother always said the hardest guests to serve brought the most opportunity for growth.
Guess she’d be getting that a lot this week.
“Very good. Let me get your luggage and set up your tea and snacks.”
“I only like Barry’s tea,” Margo said.
“Not a problem.” She clicked the door closed and massaged her temples. These next two days were going to be hell, but then she had a nice stretch of isolation until the next group was booked.
She could do this.
She delivered the suitcases and headed to the kitchen to steep some Barry’s tea and put out no-carb, low-fat snacks. She reminded herself to run out and grab some champagne. New Year’s had cleaned her out, and rarely did guests request bubbly unless it was an anniversary.
Footsteps made her look up. “Can I make some coffee?”
“Already put on a fresh pot. Don’t lie. You smelled it, didn’t you?”
Kyle rubbed his head and gave her an adorably sheepish look. Sexy scruff hugged his jaw, emphasizing those carved lips she already missed kissing.
“Yeah, I’ve climbed into the saggy middle of my story. I’d rather scrub toilets than keep writing.” He looked hopeful. “Any toilets for me to scrub?”
She laughed, grabbing him a mug and pouring the brew. “Nope. The middle was always the worst for you. You have to stop editing yourself—that’s where your block always happens.”
“I know! I can’t seem to let it go. I fix every few words, think about shit, and then delete the words I put down. I literally spent two hours on my laptop and nothing got written.”
“Vomit the words, remember? Think morning pages. Unconscious creative writing. No muse or inner voice telling you anything. Then you can fix it later. It’s like hump day—you have to barrel through.”
He took the coffee and stared at her with a bit of hero worship. “Yes, this has happened before. You remembered.”
She laughed. “You’ve been writing since we were twelve years old. Every single time you’d bitch and whine and declare it was all over once you hit the middle. No story has beaten you yet, and I highly doubt this will be the one that does.”
“You’re right.” A determined gleam lit up his eyes. “I got this. Why did I forget I’ve gone through this before?”
“It’s like childbirth, I think. Women say no matter how excruciating the pain, the baby is so amazing they have selective memory and decide it wasn’t so bad. Then they get pregnant again.”
“You’re a brilliant woman, Ophelia.”
She laughed again and waved her hand in the air. “Yes, I am. Now get the hell out of my kitchen and go write.”
“I will. I’m going to—”
“Excuse me! Excuse me, Ophelia? I need some help, please.” Devon appeared from the dining room and headed toward them.
Unbelievable.
The kitchen was in the back of the house, so a guest had to walk through a bunch of rooms to get there. This was her private area.
Guess Devon had ignored the big sign at the bottom of the stairs that said to ring the bell for any service.
“Yes, Devon? What can I do for you? I’m just getting ready to bring up your tea.”
“Thank you, but we’d also like to request . . . Oh my. Hello. I’m sorry to interrupt.” Devon froze, staring at Kyle like Bernie Madoff looking at a pardon.
With pure, undisguised hunger.
The girl dropped the attitude, and her face lit up with a smile. Practically purring, she held out her hand and tossed her head. Glossy dark hair swished past her shoulders. Her gaze roved over his figure like a she-cat appraising her dinner.
“I’m Devon. Are you a guest here?”
Kyle smiled back and shook her hand. “Yes. Welcome to Robin’s Nest. Are you enjoying your stay?”
“I just checked in with my girlfriend. We’re heading up to the Winter Festival tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s a blast. They have great snow tubing, and Angry Orchard usually has a booth.”
“How about you?” Devon ran her tongue over her teeth and leaned in.
Ophelia almost groaned at the obvious move. God, she was practically drooling over him.
“Why don’t you join us tomorrow?”
“Sorry, I have to work. But thanks for the invite.”
“Working on vacation? That’s a shame. What do you do?”
Kyle shifted on his feet. Ophelia recognized it as a sign that he wanted to leave but was trying to be polite. “I’m a screenwriter, and I better get back to it. It was nice meeting you.”
“A writer for movies? How cool. Name one of your movies.”
He looked torn between being polite versus escape. “Umm, The Bounty is one.”
Devon gasped. Her hand shot out and grabbed his upper arm.
Ophelia felt a possessive howl trapped in her throat, ready to emerge.
Why was she touching him?
“I cannot believe this—you’re Kyle Kimpton! I’m completely freaking out. Your movies are amazing. I’ve seen The Bounty three times!”
Aw, crap.
Kyle smiled and didn’t shake off her touch.
Was he staring at her bare midriff, tanned and tight and on display?
“Thanks, I appreciate that. Always nice to meet a fan.”
“Oh, you must join us for dinner tonight. There’s nothing to eat here anyway, since Ophelia doesn’t cook. It would be an honor.” She thrust out her sizable breasts, squeezed his arm, and waited.
Ophelia waited, too.
Slowly, Kyle removed Devon’s hand and stepped back, his grin firmly in place. “That’s really sweet. Normally I’d love to, but I’m on a tight deadline and I’ll be eating in my room tonight. Maybe I’ll see you for breakfast?”
Disappointment flickered over Devon’s features, but she brightened at the mention of breakfast. “Definitely. Would love to spend some time with you before the festival.”
“I thought you required room service?” Ophelia cut in. “Because you don’t like eating with other guests?”
Devon shot her a glare, then forced a tinkly laugh. “Oh, I was just kidding. I’m not the diva sort, I’m looking forward to chatting with everyone tomorrow.” She tilted her chin and stared at Kyle, dropping her voice to a sexy growl. “I’m in the Garden Room if you need anything at all. A break, a chat, another cup of coffee . . .”
Ophelia highly doubted coffee was on her mind.
God, did she have to be so obvious about it? And the man didn’t seem to be in such a hurry any longer.
He just smiled back at her, as if he was used to women throwing themselves at him on a daily basis.
Because he probably was.
“Thanks. I’ll let you know.”
What? He’d let her know? Know what?
“Good,” Devon whispered.
Ophelia slammed down the teacup, practically shattering the delicate china. “Tea and snacks are ready,” she announced loudly.
With another look at the girl, Kyle left the kitchen.
Devon’s smile slipped away, and she regarded Ophelia with pure annoyance. “What time does Kyle show up for breakfast?” she demanded. “I’ll have whatever he orders.”
“Oh, he likes a woman with a huge appetite,” she said, nodding serious
ly. “I heard him say women who are always worried about their weight and diet annoy him. He likes to eat an omelet, bacon, toast, and pancakes. He adores carbs. Hates fruit and yogurt.”
Devon paled, but she was clearly committed. “Fine, make sure I have the same. What room is he in?”
Annoyance surged. “I’m not allowed to give out that kind of information about guests. Sorry.”
“Never mind. I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.” With a sharklike smile, she motioned toward the tray. “Bring that up to Margo’s room, please, and I’ll join her. Also, I prefer a down pillow, not that memory foam stuff. Can you get me a replacement pillow?”
Bitch.
“Sure, that won’t be a problem,” she said cheerfully.
“Thanks.” Devon left the kitchen, hips swinging, glossy hair swishing.
Ophelia prayed for the patience not to throw her the hell out of her inn.
There was no way Kyle could be attracted to such a woman. It was just odd seeing up close how his celebrity affected people. He may have craved fame and fortune, but ego had never been his problem. In fact, he’d always wanted approval from the higher-ups, the people, the crowd. It was as if his own success didn’t count unless everyone agreed. The more they adored him, the better he felt about proving his father wrong.
Was that another thing that had torn them apart? She’d realized with her singing that it didn’t matter if the world termed her successful or a star—she sang for her own pleasure. But growing up with a father who consistently told him he was nothing made Kyle seek approval from the outside world.
If Patrick finally admitted his wrongs, would some of Kyle’s demons be soothed?
Her gut drove her to one answer over and over: Kyle needed to talk to his father before he left Gardiner.
She just had to convince him.
“More toast?” Ophelia asked sweetly.
Devon stared at her plate with a touch of panic. Kyle still hadn’t seemed to notice the girl’s unease with carbs, and he had happily devoured everything Ophelia put in front of him. Margo was perched on the opposite chair, engrossed with her phone. She’d tried talking to Kyle once, but the sharp glance Devon threw her shut Margo right up.
A Brand New Ending (Stay Book 2) Page 20