by London James
“I’m just—”
“Now, Skylar.”
“Tell Miss Betty I’ll see her at the next family reunion,” Skylar says before making her way around the side of the table to us. “What’s wrong?” she asks.
“It’s just time to go,” Seb says, looping his arm through hers.
“Knitting or Thanksgiving Dinner?” I ask.
“It’s what they do, Avery.” She looks at Seb. “Why are we leaving so fast?”
“Avery is tired and wants to get back to the B&B to check on her new guest.”
Skylar eyes me up and down. “Avery met someone.”
We stop in our tracks.
“What?” Seb asks.
“Why would you say that?” I ask. I’m hoping my voice sounds scandalized and convincing, but it comes out leaning more toward Minnie Mouse.
“Am I wrong?” she asks.
“Alright, we’re just going to keep on moving,” Seb says. “That woman who keeps trying to start a society page in the newspaper is listening, and I just saw her take out her pen.”
Oh, dear lord. Seb always said it was going to happen and now it is. My love life is going to be front-page news.
We scurry out of the barn and notice a line of wagons lined up in front to offer hayrides back into the village. The night is beautiful, and usually, I wouldn’t mind the stroll back to Hometown Bed And Breakfast, but tonight, I want to minimize the time spent with my two best friends. I need some time to think through the events of this evening before I have to tell them about it.
Fortunately, two couples climb into the nearest hayride with us, so Sebastian and Skylar can’t continue the conversation. Sitting in between the two of them, I can feel them staring at me as if they hope we’ll spontaneously develop the ability to communicate with our minds. When we get to the bed-and-breakfast without the telepathy setting in, I say goodnight and run into the house as fast as my spiked heels will let me.
The house is quiet. My last guest checked out yesterday so I could have extra time to prepare for future guests, but with the arrival of the mystery guest, I’m not as alone as I initially prepared to be. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, I have a quick debate with myself. A gown and peacock feathers in my hair isn’t exactly the way I want the blogger to encounter me for the first time. At the same time, not being greeted by the owner on the night of arrival sounds like something he’d want to splash all over a review.
I could go check the information Sebastian put into the computer when he checked him in, but it really wouldn’t do me much good. The Traveler’s True GPS, besides having a terrible name, is written anonymously. I wouldn’t recognize his name, even if I did see it, but it seems too convenient for this man to show up unexpectedly, not to mention immediately after the rumors began to swirl about GPS traveling through this area. This guest has to be him, which means I have to do everything I can to impress him.
Taking off my mask and smoothing my dress, I make my way to the door of the room the new guest is using. There’s no Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the knob, so I knock. After a few seconds without any response, I knock a little harder. There’s still no response, and I glance down to see that there isn't any light shining from the gap under the door. It’s not an exact science, but a lifetime of helping my grandparents run this place has taught me a few tricks, and one of them is that people hate being in the dark in unfamiliar places. Even sweet little bed-and-breakfasts. They’ll do anything they can to sneak a little extra light into the room, even if they are sleeping.
It's always one thing or another. The bathroom door stays open. A lamp stays lit. Some even occasionally bring along their own nightlight — anything it takes to not force them to be in total darkness in the unfamiliar space. If there is absolutely no light coming from a room, it is most likely because no one is there.
I guess he was serious when he said he’d be out for the night. I’m not sure what to think of that. He’s supposed to be here reviewing Hometown Bed And Breakfast. Why would he swing in long enough to drop his stuff, only to disappear out into Vidalia Isle? Some of his reviews include suggestions for what to do in the area, usually as an alternative to spending extra time in the inns he considers so abysmal, but he didn’t even have a chance to look around my B&B. He couldn’t possibly already think so low of it that he’s searching for how to get out of it. But, it's either that, or I’m just the unlucky one who caught him in a bad mood.
Giving up, I head upstairs to my room and reluctantly take off the gown, feeling like the clock has struck midnight. At least I get to keep both shoes.
I climb into bed after a hot shower with the masked man on my mind. The feeling of his body near mine, and against mine hasn’t faded, but the passionate heat and lingering drinks that took away my ability to think clearly have. I fall asleep wondering who the man was… and if I really want to know. Maybe he should just remain the stranger with the mask.
Chapter Five
Avery
Whoever said things always look clearer in the morning never put on a peacock mask and almost had sex with a nameless, faceless stranger in a gazebo the night before.
Whatever the statistics behind what happened last night are, my alarm goes off with my eyes wide open and my mind still not settled on what I think about the whole thing. Fortunately, I have too many other things to think about this morning to put too much thought into last night, so I don’t feel bad compartmentalizing it.
I'm more than happy to let myself go through the motions of my usual morning. The bed-and-breakfast is like its own living being by this point. It's been the backdrop of most of my memories throughout my life, even when I didn't live in Vidalia Isle, and despite my somewhat reluctant relationship with it, it's in the mornings when I feel most connected. This is when both of us are a little creaky and reluctant.
The building has the excuse of being more than a century old. I'm just a girl who wants to be a morning person but finds it hard to peel myself from my warm, cozy bed before the sun has even had the decency to show its face. But despite the creaking walls, chilly hallways, and pipes that occasionally greet the morning by being far more verbal than plumbing should ever be, we start each day together. Especially when the bed-and-breakfast is empty, or the guests don't get up as early as I do... This is when I feel most connected to my grandmother.
She loved this place so much, and even after being gone for two years, bits of her are still present throughout the space. Like I do every morning, I head downstairs into the kitchen to make breakfast. This morning, I take out the dough that I placed in the refrigerator to chill, right after Sebastian and Skylar convinced me to go to the ball and drop it onto my marble island.
The feeling of dough beneath my hands wakes me up. By the time I've spread it with the thick cinnamon and sugar paste, and am starting to roll it, I'm feeling like myself again. It's a good thing because I haven't even gotten a chance to finish the roll before the door to the kitchen swings open. Most of the time, guests aren't allowed in the kitchen.
It's not that I have anything to hide from them. I take pride in every inch of Hometown Bed And Breakfast being immaculate and welcoming. When it comes to the kitchen, I like having it separated so I have some peace and quiet, and it gives me a feeling of not being judged every minute of the day. If I'm being completely honest, I also just don't want to be accessible all the time.
Sometimes, being able to dip through the kitchen door and lose myself in a batch of cinnamon rolls or skillets of bacon is all that stands between me and saying words my grandmother never would have let me get away with. Most of the time, I end up saying them anyway, but at least the frustrating guest who inspired them doesn't hear it.
And this is precisely why.
The face in front of me doesn't belong to Sebastian or Skylar, and it's not attached to a body holding a suitcase, so I can only imagine it's my unexpected new guest. The one who showed up without making a reservation, the one who will likely make my life much more di
fficult if he doesn't leave Vidalia Isle before we are packed to the rafters by the end of the week.
Damn. He is dreamy.
But that doesn't change the fact that he's also the man who skidded his ridiculous car into my driveway and splashed me with muddy water last night. I didn't even get an apology from him for ruining my dress. Of course, it would be a little hard for him to apologize when he disappeared before I even got a chance to meet him. He's looking around the kitchen with the kind of scrutinizing eyes that can only belong to a bitter, self-important blogger. A bitter, self-important blogger whose opinion means everything to me, and whom I'd kill to impress, to be more specific.
I hate myself right now.
“I thought this was a bed-and-breakfast,” he says with a distinct note of distaste in his voice.
Finishing the roll, I reach for my knife.
“It is,” I tell him. “Welcome to Hometown Bed And Breakfast. You must be my newest guest.”
“Considering there are enough tourists swarming the island to fill out every other inn, I guess I really must be.”
My ability to keep the smile stretched across my lips is a testament to years of watching my grandmother gracefully, and with the utmost tact, manage even the cushiest and most unpleasant people who walked through the door. She was much better at it than I am.
“Well, welcome to Vidalia Isle. I'm Avery.”
He narrows his eyes at the hand I stretch out to him, and I glance down, brushing it against my apron as I notice my palm is covered with flour.
“You aren't the person who checked me in last night,” he points out.
“No, that was Sebastian.”
“Is he one of your employees?”
“He's my best friend. I don't have any employees. Hometown Bed And Breakfast is, and has always been, owned and fully operated by my family.”
“Your family?” he asks, his eyes sliding back and forth like he's looking for someone else to pop up.
“Just me now,” I tell him. “I've been running it since my grandparents died. Still holds true, though. Owned and operated by... me.”
I need to stop talking. There's no reason for me to be babbling on as much as I am. Every word I say, I can see my comments splashed out in Courier New font against the pretentious parchment background of his blog. Clamping my teeth together into yet another grin, I slide the roll close to the edge of the counter where notches in the marble act as a guide to show me where I should mark out each roll.
“I suppose, after a while, kitchen islands like that start to show some wear and tear. Have you thought about getting those kinks fixed? They’re probably a haven for germs and bacteria.”
My hand tightens around the handle of the knife, and I have the compulsion to cover my cinnamon rolls, so they don't hear him talking about germs and bacteria around them.
“They aren't kinks in the marble,” I explain carefully. “I had those made in the island so I can mark out where to cut the cinnamon rolls each morning. They're kind of my specialty.” My smile doesn't change the stoic expression on his face.
“If they're your specialty, shouldn't you know where to cut them?”
“Being able to mark them makes it easier to create consistent results.”
Feeling the need to demonstrate, I use the tip of the blade to press a slight indentation at regular intervals along the tightly spiraled roll of dough.
“I guess easier is what most people are after these days,” he says. “It rarely produces good results, but that's just my opinion. I've never been in the..." He pauses like he's searching for the right word, and a mocking smile comes to his mouth. "…hospitality business. Maybe it's just something I don't understand.”
This man is as arrogant and difficult as I expected him to be, but his short brown hair and sexy hazel eyes surprise me. I didn't expect him to be this young. Whether it's because I thought somebody as widely traveled would be older, or I just don't want to think a person could thoroughly pickle themselves in so much bitterness and bile in only a few decades of life, I thought he'd be older. The fact that he’s probably only a few years older than me, and gorgeous on top of it all, only makes him more annoying.
I put the knife down and reach into the narrow drawer under the marble surface of the island, my fingers searching for the spool of floss I always keep there. Pulling out several inches, I wrap it around my fingers.
“Doing things efficiently and in ways that streamline the process isn't necessarily a bad thing. Making things needlessly complicated doesn't necessarily equate to better results.”
I'm keeping my voice as chipper as possible, but I have a feeling it's tightening up. The floss slips under the front of the roll, and I cross the ends to quickly slice through the dough.
“Are you using dental floss on something you intend for your guests to eat for breakfast?”
It's not used, but if you give me ten seconds, I'll be happy to make sure my teeth are squeaky clean before continuing.
“This is a special container I keep in the kitchen and only use for cooking. The floss cuts through the dough without the pressure of a knife, which means the individual slices maintain their integrity.”
"Now, that's a relief. I, for one, can't stand the thought of aligning myself with dishonest cinnamon rolls. All breakfast pastries must be fully vetted before I can, in good conscience, share a table with them," the man says with his eyebrows raised.
Drawing every ounce of strength I can from my grandmother, I let out a breath and continue cutting the slices from the dough. It's time to change directions with this conversation.
"Breakfast is usually served between seven and nine," I tell him.
The message carries that leading tone meant to tell him he's intruding on my space, and he needs to back the hell off and let me finish making him his delightful morning meal before things go downhill.
"That's a wide range of times," he says.
"Guests wake up at different times, and I like to be accommodating. I don't want anyone to feel rushed when staying here. It should feel like being welcomed into my home. That's why the name doesn't have 'inn' or 'bed-and-breakfast' in it.”
"Yes, I noticed the play on words. Hometown Bed And Breakfast. Cute."
"It's not really a play on words." I close my eyes and calm myself before I keep going along that path. "Can I make you some coffee? You are more than welcome to go relax in the parlor, and I'll bring it to you when it's ready."
"I've already seen the parlor. I'll take my coffee with cream and sugar."
"Coming right up."
Depositing the last cinnamon roll into the baking dish, I slip it into the preheated oven and move over to the coffee machine to wake it up. My usual routine is to make the cinnamon rolls or whatever other bread I'll be serving for breakfast and then brew a cup of coffee to enjoy during the last silent moments of the day.
That's been blown to hell this morning. I snatch the bag of coffee from the refrigerator and measure the grounds out into the compartment at the top of the machine.
"You use pre-ground coffee?" he asks.
He doesn't actually expect any confirmation. It's a question asked purely for the sake of pointing out he notices the richly colored grounds are tumbling out of a silver foil bag rather than coming from a complicated grinder that takes up counter space. I should have expected that.
He's mentioned on no fewer than four occasions that he has far more respect for innkeepers who put the effort into selecting their own beans and grinding them, even going so far as to award gold stars to those who create custom blends. But they are totally arbitrary and don't even involve adhesive or a display chart, so he's really missing out on the full star-awarding potential.
"I get them from a specialty roaster in the village," I tell him.
Part of me wants to throw in the word 'custom' or 'proprietary' somewhere, but the closest thing to the grounds being custom for me is the label Daniel splats onto the bag when I order it for pickup. Now probab
ly isn't the time to start lying.
I don't know how long he's going to be staying here, and the last thing I need is to tangle myself up with contradictory statements and end up being labeled in my review as not having a full grasp of all my faculties.
"That's nice," he says, humoring me.
"Speaking of the village," I say, hoping to detour the conversation and maybe start an actual rapport, "did you have a good time last night?"
"Last night?" he asks.
The machine finishes brewing, and I take two mugs from the hooks beneath one of the cabinets. I look at him strangely as I take the carafe from the machine and pour some of the dark brew into each mug.
"When Seb checked you in, he said you told him you were leaving for the evening and might not be back until this morning."
He grins, and I get the distinct impression I don't want to know what's going through his mind.
"Well, the night did get off to kind of a rough start," he says.
I'm shocked. He's actually going to apologize for soaking me with the puddle.
"Oh?"
"I ended up being late, and there was some awkwardness."
Of course not.
Chapter Six
Owen
She doesn’t recognize me.
I know exactly who Avery is. All the years have defined the lines of her face, deepened her intensely dark eyes, and brought out the softness of her lips, but she’s still there. I can still see her. Yet, when she looks at me, she doesn’t remember. Even my teasing hasn’t triggered the memories. It’s funny in a way. I came to Vidalia Isle hoping to skate by without people recognizing me, but it didn’t cross my mind when I showed up here Avery wouldn’t immediately know who I was.
It’s alright. I’m having fun teasing her, just like I always have. She’s too easy to rustle, and it’s hilarious to watch her try to keep herself contained when it’s obvious by the look in those eyes that she is two seconds and one more comment about her cinnamon rolls from throttling me. Something about her eyes caught me when she looked at me as I came through the kitchen door this morning.