by London James
It wasn’t the shock or hint of displeasure. I know she probably doesn’t like having people in the kitchen, but frankly… I don’t care. No. It was something else, and I can’t quite figure it out. Maybe it’s just a memory I can’t get all the way into my mind.
She slides one of the mugs of coffee toward me, and then she heads over to the refrigerator and takes out a container of cream. Pouring it into a small pitcher, she places it beside me, along with a sugar bowl. I stare at it for a few seconds, and then I look at her.
“I guess I did say I’d take my coffee with cream and sugar. It’s easy to take that literally.”
Color creeps up Avery’s neck as I reach for the cream and let a thick ribbon drizzle down into the dark brew.
“Now you can have it exactly the way you like it,” she says.
She’s trying so hard to be pleasant that her voice is starting to sound physically painful. I’ll have to let her off the hook. Soon. That comment is just too good for me to pass up.
“Is that an offer?”
The color finds her face, and her lips roll in, tightening against her teeth. Her hands clench on the counter, and I’m just waiting for her to burst so I can finally laugh, but she doesn’t. Instead, she spins on her heels and stalks over to the oven. Flicking the switch with far more force than she needed to, Avery peers through the glass door at the cinnamon rolls.
A delicious, spicy smell fills the air and my stomach tightens, reminding me of last night and the woman pressed up against me in the gazebo. Her skin was silky and smooth and smelled like an amazing combination of cinnamon and arousal. She was a nice welcome to Vidalia Isle, but I didn’t even get a chance to find out her name. She rushed off as soon as she thought we might get caught and I couldn’t find her for the rest of the night.
Not that I need to rush off and sweep her off her feet for our happily-ever-after. I’ve never felt instant need and passion that intense before, but that’s all it was. Explosive, primal, and temporary. The last thing I need right now is another woman trying to stake her claim on me and make my life more complicated. The dozens of messages on my phone right now, all from the same woman, are a testament to that.
Avery didn’t take the bait. She is trying far too hard to impress me. It’s taking some of the fun out of the teasing, but before I can remind of her who I am, the kitchen door swings open again.
“My date woke me up this morning asking for some hot, sweet cinnamon buns… And I thought I’d come get him some breakfast, too.”
The man who checked me in last night walks into the room, catches sight of me, pivots, and leaves without pausing. Avery straightens up from where she was leaning over at the oven; one hip cocked as she stares at the door. Her eyes slide over to me.
“He didn’t even have a date last night,” she tells me.
Taking oven mitts from where they hang beside the oven, she pulls the pan of pastries out of the oven and slips it onto a cooling rack already set up on the counter. She shakes the mitts off her hands and uses metal tongs to dislodge the first roll, setting it on a plate. Dishing two more out, she holds the plate out to her side. As if on cue, the door opens again, and a woman scurries in.
She takes the plate from Avery’s hand, grabs a bowl from the refrigerator, and leaves without a word. As she disappears into the next room, I remember her from last night. She was the older lady in the pink get-up who whisked Avery away after the man who gave me a lift to Hometown Bed And Breakfast hit a puddle and soaked her. Turns out his offer for a ride was just a friendly gesture and nothing in any sort of professional capacity. The local law against most vehicles in the village meant his hurry to get down the driveway wasn’t out of efficiency, but more so stemming from the worry he had about the fact that he was probably going to get caught.
And to be fair, he did get caught promptly upon leaving the driveway. I noticed the sheriff giving him a stern talking-to beside the car, which was suspiciously angled in the wrong direction down the road. It probably didn’t unfold this way, but I like to imagine the sheriff making him push the car back to wherever it’s allowed to be kept. I should apologize to her, but Avery won't stand still long enough for me to say something. She grabs a spoon from a drawer behind her and holds it up.
“They’re going to need a spoon for the cream cheese icing,” she says. “If I don’t bring it to them, they’ll try dipping them like tortilla chips again, and I’d really rather that not happen to the whole bowl this morning.” She takes a few steps toward the door, then stops, cringing.
“Not that it happens a lot on any other morning,” she says, the spoon swinging like a wand to accentuate the words. “And when it does, I always make new cream cheese icing. I don’t serve it to… You’re welcome to go explore the building, and maybe go look around the grounds. It’s really beautiful at this time in the morning. If you have any questions or need anything for the…”
She stops herself from finishing the sentence and hurries out of the kitchen. There is something seriously strange happening here. Either that, or Avery just grew up to be a lot more unhinged than I expected. I take my coffee over to the counter and look down into the partial pan of cinnamon rolls.
They smell amazing, but I’m not the DIY breakfast type. I’ve never plucked my own pastry out of the pan, and my first morning at an inn, as quaint as this place is, doesn’t strike me as the best time to start. Besides, they took all the icing, and that’s the best part.
A door leads out of the kitchen to the back yard, and I step out into the crisp morning. Getting up early is a matter of muscle memory for me. Ever since I was a child, my life has been regimented by traditions, schedules, and rituals, and that’s included rarely getting a chance to sleep past sunrise.
The result is an internal clock that sees absolutely no problem with snapping my eyes open frightfully early, no matter how late I go to bed. I try to fight it but shoving my head under the pillow and telling myself to go back to sleep rarely does any good. Some days are worse than others, and last night, I managed maybe three hours before waking up. I squeezed in another hour of lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, but I can only do that for so long. The sun is just coming up, which means I have a lot of day left ahead of me.
I don’t know why she made it, but I decide to take Avery’s suggestion and roam the grounds a bit. Visiting the bed-and-breakfast is why I came to Vidalia Isle in the first place, so I might as well make the most of it.
Taking a long swig of the coffee, I walk across the veranda and lean against the edge to look out over the lawn. Positioned on the edge of Vidalia Isle, Hometown Bed And Breakfast sits on idyllic land that stretches far into the distance behind the building. From this vantage point, it looks like there’s nothing else on the island but this inn. Gold-and-red tints adorn the tree leaves as autumn paints them into a backdrop almost too beautiful to be believable or realistic.
I walk around to the steps leading down into the grass and walk out into the new sunlight. I'm being strangely lured toward a hammock draped between two huge trees a few yards away when, all of a sudden, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I immediately wish I'd left it in my room. There really isn't any reason for me to have it on my person while I'm in Vidalia Isle, but slipping it into place is as much a part of my routine of getting ready for the day as putting on my shoes.
Taking it out, I give a quick glance at the screen so I can decide whether to answer. The name on my phone's screen doesn't necessarily inspire enthusiasm for the conversation to be had, but I'm still compelled to pick up.
“Hello, Mother,” I say. “How are you this morning?”
“Owen, where are you?”
“I'm in Vidalia Isle, just like I told you. I got here yesterday.”
“When you said that's where you were going, I didn't think you were serious.”
“Why not? When was the last time I told you I was going somewhere and ended up somewhere else? Is there a reason I shouldn't be here?”
“Yes.
You should be at home fulfilling your responsibilities.”
“I have no official duties in the next several weeks.”
“You know that's not what I'm talking about. You have personal responsibilities,” she says in that way of hers that means someone is close enough to hear her and she'd rather not spell it out for them to spread around.
"You see, Mother, it's precisely this type of conversation that made me want to come all the way out here for some time to myself in the first place."
"You can't run away from this, Owen."
"Maybe not, but I can avoid it. You know how I feel about this topic."
"And you know how your father and I feel about it. We aren't going to change our minds."
"Then it looks like we're at an impasse."
"Why are you being so difficult about this? It's not like you're the only one who has ever had expectations placed on you."
"No, I'm not. But all those other people weren't me. I'm not trying to be difficult. Those people all made the choice to go along with what was expected of them. That's fine. But it shouldn't mean I have to. I just want to be able to make my choices, too."
"Sometimes, it doesn't work that way."
I get to the hammock and negotiate my way into it. "We'll see. Thanks for calling, Mom. There are some things I need to take care of. Talk to you soon."
She's trying to get my attention as I hang up the phone, but I have no interest in continuing the conversation. It's the same one we've had a dozen times already, so it's not like I'm missing anything. She isn’t going to be able to change my mind. Whether I can change hers or not is yet to be seen, but I haven’t given up yet. My phone buzzes again, this time telling me I have a new text.
The name attached to it isn’t a surprise. Add it to the pile of unread messages. I’ll think of some clear but effectively diplomatic way to answer them all in one fell swoop at some point in the near future, but for now, I have much more important things to do. Like figuring out how to get from sitting on the hammock to lying down without dumping myself out onto the grass.
Tucking the phone away, I grip the side of the hammock and adjust my hips. The seemingly innocuous fabric gives an ominous shake, and I go still in a panic, hoping it stops wiggling around soon. When it finally settles, I swing my leg up toward the folded hammock. It misses and lands on the other side. The other leg follows in tandem, and I end up facing the opposite direction.
Taking a different approach, I swing my leg over again and lie back, forcing the hammock open so I’m lying down with my legs on either side. Progress. Setting my coffee cup down on the ground next to me, I grab a hold of the hammock with each hand, I push it open and bring my legs together in one motion. The result is the image of me lying with all the looseness and ease of a popsicle stick, with my arms and legs straight and stiff, and my head unmoving.
“Yep. This is the life,” I murmur to myself.
After a few seconds of feeling steady, I cautiously reach for my cup and then move my hips side to side, nudging the hammock into a slight swing.
“Now we’re talking.”
I risk turning my head to glance back at the inn, catching a flash of movement in one window that looks as though it's a face, watching me. Okay, so I've been caught getting into the hammock. Now, I’m already contemplating how to get out.
Chapter Seven
Avery
I bite my lip against the laugh that tries to come up watching the blogger. It’s just now occurring to me that I still don’t know the man’s name because he didn’t bother to introduce himself. He is too aggravating for me to admit that his battle with the hammock was cute. Too aggravating, but also a serious professional conflict of interest.
“What are you watching?” Skylar asks me.
She’s made her way through most of the bowl of cream cheese icing meant to coat the entire batch of cinnamon rolls, and Seb’s face is flat on the table when I sit down with them.
“Mr. GPS Blogger’s inability to get into a hammock.”
Seb’s face lifts up to stare at me.
“Mr. GPS Blogger?” Skylar asks. She swallows and reaches for the spoon to add another glob of icing to the remaining piece of roll in her hand. “If we were going to come up with a nickname for him, I really thought we’d get more creative than that. Like ‘Has Ego, Will Travel.’ Or ‘Perpetually Traveling Solo.’”
“Those aren’t really nicknames for him so much as they are renaming his blog,” Seb points out, recovering from his embarrassment enough to start in on his pastry.
“It’s not a nickname,” I say, tearing off a piece of the roll left on the plate. Despite my babbling disclaimer earlier, I dip it into the bowl to scrape up some of the icing. “It’s what he goes by on his blog.”
“What do you mean?”
“He writes his blogs anonymously. The blog itself is called The Traveler’s True GPS, and when he signs his blogs, he just puts GPS. I guess he thinks of himself as the all-knowing guide to anyone traveling around.”
“Well, that’s just all kinds of gross,” Seb says, his mouth full of cinnamon and sugar.
“Yeah, and it gets better. I’ve told you how rough he can be in his reviews. What I didn’t tell you is how shady he can be. He signs his name GPS on the blogs because he doesn’t want anyone to know who he is. You can’t exactly reserve a room anywhere these days without having an ID, so he can’t totally fly under the radar. So, he stays at places but then doesn’t review them for months.
Skylar starts eyeing my cinnamon roll so I snatch it from the plate before she can creep up and continue on with my story. “He rarely actually makes a reservation, so his name is linked to the place for as short a time as possible, and that way, he can catch people off guard and bash them even further for any little imperfection. He’s careful about the things he says so it’s not easy to link him to his reviews, and he’s been known to lift experiences from other guests who were staying there at the time to concoct what he says about the place.”
“What do you mean?” Skylar asks.
“Most of the places he reviews are small, like Hometown Bed And Breakfast, so the number of people staying at them at any given time usually isn’t more than ten. Sometimes, it’s only one or two. But it all depends on when he shows up."
I take a bite out of my cinnamon roll. Man, I get better with these every day. "Anyway," I continue, "if he was to detail every little thing that happens to him while he’s there, it would be easier for the owners to narrow down his identity and eventually out him. So, he watches what’s going on around him, finds issues, and kind of pieces them together into a patchwork quilt of shame.”
“Wow. ‘Patchwork Quilt of Shame,’” Seb says. “That sounds like next month’s book club selection.”
“It also sounds like he still hasn’t been burned, and he’s traipsing around, bashing businesses and ruining lives.”
“And this is the man you wanted to come stay here so badly, you willed it to happen?”
“Yes,” I say, matter-of-factly. “If I could manage to be the one to get a good review from him, it would be amazing.”
“Is this about improving your business, or about fulfilling your lifelong dream of being a unicorn?” Skylar asks.
“Maybe a little bit of both.” I notice Seb staring into the distance, his fingers drumming on the table. “What is it, Seb?”
“This GPS guy,” he says. “He looks familiar.”
“You checked him in last night,” I point out.
“No. I know that. I mean, like...” He brushes his hand through the air like he’s pushing something away. “Like, he's distantly familiar. It’s like I’ve seen him before, but I can’t figure out where.”
My throat feels like it’s squeezing and ready to close.
“It wasn’t here, was it? Maybe he’s already been here, and I’m already on my way to a bad review.”
He shakes his head. “No. Not here. Somewhere else.”
He goes back to staring
into the distance, and Skylar shakes her head. “Alright. Enough of all that. Let’s talk about what really matters.” Her eyes zip over to me, and mischief plays on her lips. I know exactly what she’s thinking.
“Let’s not,” I say, starting to stand.
She takes me by the wrist and yanks me back down into my seat. “Come on, Avery. We already know you met someone last night. We just want all the dirty details.”
My sigh is one of acceptance of my fate rather than wistfulness.
“I had a very heavy make-out session with a stranger. That may have involved some below the panties play,” I tell them. They gasp. “Outside.” Another gasp. “In the gazebo.”
Their sheer delight is a bit extra considering we are grown adults, but since it’s a conversation most people have while still hoping to get rid of their acne before prom, I’ll give them a pass.
“We’re so proud of you!” Seb gushes. “That’s the closest you’ve ever come to losing your virginity!”
And he took it too far.
“Let’s not,” I say, closing my eyes and waving them away. “You can just stop that right there. Look. It was fun. And it may or may not have been alcohol-fueled, but that’s it. He was a sexy guy in a mask, and I didn’t even find out his name. It ends there.”
“Seriously?” Seb asks. “Just like that?”
“Yes. Just like that. It was a one-time thing and nothing more. It wasn’t love at first sight, and I’m not interested in hunting him down to finish what we started. That is frankly too much drama for me to deal with right now. What happens at the ball stays at the ball, and I’m perfectly fine with that.”
“And it doesn’t have anything to do with the hunky man who happens to be your only guest, does it?” Skylar asks.
“The hunky blogger whose name I still don’t know and who is shady as hell? No. It doesn’t have anything to do with him.” I flatten my hands on the table and push myself up. “And now that we’ve gotten that over with, I’m going to the kitchen.” I take a few steps, then turn back to them. “He’s not hunky.”