A young girl in ill-fitting black pants and a rumpled white button-down shirt greets me with an easy smile. “Evening! How many?”
“Only me,” I answer, returning her smile.
“Right this way.”
She guides me through a crush of evening patrons, around a knockout brunette who gestures wildly to a captive audience of men, to a small table in the back of the restaurant. Nerves jangle uneasily in my stomach and my mouth goes dry. I wish I could be like the brunette, wildly confident and unfettered by anxiety and the shackles of the past.
“That’s Lola, the owner,” the hostess says. “She normally tries to greet all of our customers, but she may be too busy this evening to introduce herself.”
Lola. Even her name was sassy, spunky. I used to be sassy and spunky. With one last look at the brunette, I refocus on the hostess.
“I’m sorry,” I say before she can lead into her spiel about the waitress being with me soon. “Would you mind? I’d love to have a seat in the corner, if it isn’t any trouble.”
The hostess gives me the side-eye, but she acquiesces to my request without comment. I rub my sweaty palms on my thighs when she gestures to a table nearer to the kitchen.
“Thank you,” I say with feeling. The desire to flee abates. “I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome! Your server will be with you in a few minutes to take your order.”
Once she leaves, I scan the room automatically, noting the exits, the other customers. I catch myself studying them and picking at my nails. With a mental shake, I tuck my hands under my thighs. Elvis croons from an old-fashioned jukebox on the opposite side of the restaurant and chrome accents flash from every direction. Humming along with “Hound Dog,” I study the menu with keen interest.
Around me, waitresses in cute little teal outfits bustle to and from tables, carrying trays filled to the brim with the usual diner fare. Burgers, fries, milkshakes, and sodas abound. Everything looks delicious, but I limit myself to a small Cherry Coke, a small order of fries, and a chicken sandwich when the waitress arrives to take my order.
When she returns, I only have eyes for the plate full of greasy, bad-for-me food. She sets the feast in front of me and I have to clench my hands in my lap to keep from lunging at it. “This looks great. Thank you.”
She places a straw on the table and retrieves the menu. “New in town?”
Ignoring the gnawing hunger in my stomach, I nod. “Brand-new, actually.”
“I thought so. Didn’t think I’ve seen you around. I’m Renee. Windy Point native.”
I shake the proffered hand. “Peyton. Nice to meet you. I’m from Mississippi.”
“Oh? Here on vacation?”
I lift a shoulder. “Sort of. My uncle lives over near Camp Lejeune. I was headed that way when I came across your town. I can’t get over the scenery here. It’s like living in a fairy tale.”
Renee leans a hip on the table, content to chat. Hoping she won’t take offense, I nibble on a French fry.
“You’ll have to go see the Windy Point tourist stop in the mountains, then. It’s a spot where the views are spectacular. Words don’t do it justice. I’ve lived here all my life and it still takes my breath away.”
Thinking of the mountaintops I passed, the way the light played over the trees, I say, “I’ll have to do that.”
Someone shouts her name and Renee’s friendly smile turns into a grimace. “I better get back to work. You’ll let me know if you need anything?”
Thinking of view and the growing dark, my thoughts turn to where I’m going to stay for the night. “Actually, before you go…”
After sucking down the Coke and inhaling the fries and chicken sandwich, I hang a left on Old Oak Lane on the northern side of town, near the dark glimmer of the lake I’d passed before. According to Renee, it’s christened Bear Lake. Huddled around its shores are several bed-and-breakfasts, cabin rentals, and hotels. After stuffing myself with more food than normal, the exhaustion from a long day of driving pulls at my eyelids. I count myself lucky that I do a decent job of pulling into a parking spot in front of a swanky hotel that looks like an oversized log cabin. Situated a little ways away from the water, it offers privacy from swimmers but would still afford a grand view in the daylight. Already, my fingers itch to paint it.
Belly full and mind spinning with thoughts of going for a hike the next day to find the perfect location for preliminary sketches, I push through the front doors and step into the hotel lobby. Grand soaring beams frame the two-story high entrance. A fire crackles, directly across from the front door, in an ornate floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace. The warmth wafts over me in waves, warding off the lingering spring chill still stubbornly clinging to the air. Renee wasn’t kidding when she said the place is gorgeous. When I asked where she’d recommend I stay for a while, she’d said, “The Bear Lake Lodge is where you need to go. Don’t even look at anywhere else. Ford Collier, the owner? Mmhmm is he something to look at. The place itself is almost as gorgeous as he is. If you want views, that’s where you want to be.”
I don’t know about the gorgeous man, but she’s not wrong about the lodge. It is stunning; almost worth the price tag I’d looked up online before the drive over. I give a little mental shrug as I step up to the check-in desk off to my right. My little nest egg will take a punch, but if this place brings back the urge to paint, it’ll be worth its weight in gold.
The space behind the desk is empty, so I ring the little silver bell on the counter and turn to wait. I can’t get over how cozy and warm the place feels. Thick braided rugs are strategically placed throughout the common areas on the first floor, which features an open-concept floor plan. But the real stunner is the sweeping expanse of windows on either side of the gigantic fireplace. The first thing I’m going to do in the morning is get a mug of coffee from the complimentary bar and sit in the big, fluffy chair in front of those windows. I can’t see out them now because it’s too dark, with only dots of lights from other cabins and the faintest hint of navy-blue water visible, but I know come morning the view will be awe-inspiring.
“Can I help you?” comes a gruff voice at my back. I jump and twirl around at the same time, knocking my elbow on the corner of the countertop and biting back a stream of curses.
I bite my cheek to keep from swallowing my tongue.
Renee wasn’t wrong about the owner either, it seems.
Chapter Two
Ford
The willowy blonde isn’t as collected as her fancy clothes and designer purse make her seem. Her pretty bronzed complexion goes stark white, then red as her deep blue eyes land on me. I say nothing in response to her reaction. All I want is to get her checked in and settled, then go back to my room with a beer and a baseball game on low.
“I’m sorry,” she says when she catches her breath. She bites her lower lip, the tip of her pink tongue darting out to wet it. “I didn’t hear you coming.”
Why is it they always have to chitchat? This is exactly why I have Nell on the front desk. I have neither the time nor the patience to deal with the customer part of “customer service.” “Need a room?”
Her hands tremble as she sets her Michael Kors bag on the counter with a clunk and digs through it. Silver rings glitter on slim, nimble fingers, flashing like lightning bugs. Her trim, unpainted nails have multi-colored specks, a rainbow of color. Mildly amused, I wonder if it’s another one of those weird nail trends women seem to like that I sure as hell don’t understand.
“Yes, please,” she says with a glance under her hooded eyes. “For the week? With the possibility of extending.”
“Weekly rate is five hundred.”
She doesn’t bat an eye as she pulls out a credit card. “That’ll be fine, thank you.”
I grunt in response as I consult the computer. “I’ve got a double on the second floor with a view of the lake available.”
“That’s perfect.”
I don’t happen to think so. The last thing I n
eed is a pretty blonde with secrets in her eyes busting up in my peace and quiet, but I keep my mouth shut, take her card, and book the room.
She doesn’t make idle chatter, which I grudgingly appreciate. Instead, she seems content to study the lobby, especially the windows. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t proud of the place. It wasn’t a firefight in Afghanistan, but it kept my hands—and my mind—busy, which was more than I could say for a lot of the men I served with. Definitely more than I deserved.
I pass over the key cards to her room and a brochure with local attractions, lodge amenities, and a map. “Your room is up the staircase to the right. Number 202. We’re zero on the phone if you have any trouble.”
“Thank you,” she says and hefts her purse over her shoulder. “Have a good night Mr. …I’m sorry I forgot your name.”
I clear my throat. Another reason why I liked to stay in the back. It was a surefire way to keep from being on the receiving end of the curiosity that inevitably came from giving my name. “Ford, Ford Collier.”
“Mr. Collier.” Her bright smile disarms me. Either she’s a real good actress or she had to have been hiding under a rock for the past couple years. I give a mental shrug. “Just Ford.”
“Ford,” she repeats softly. “I’m Peyton Rhodes. It’s nice to meet you.”
I take her offered hand and shake, frowning at the blue splotch of paint on her wrist. The single note of disarray contradicts her fancy purse and glittering adornments. It makes me frown. So it wasn’t a fashion choice. I don’t want to know where she got it from, but I do. “You, too,” I say gruffly.
With another smile in my direction, she disappears up the staircase to her room and even though I tell myself not to, I stare at her ass the whole way up.
Somehow reminding myself that women like her are nothing but trouble doesn’t do a damn thing to get me to look away.
The next morning, before I’ve even had my first cup of coffee—if you could call it that—Peyton comes downstairs and, with a small, polite smile in my direction, heads to the bar where we set out a little breakfast with coffee that doesn’t taste like the sludge I make. I try not to look at her, but my eyes have other ideas. The tight black pants she somehow slicked herself into showcase stunner legs even a monk like me can appreciate.
“Good morning,” she says.
I nod to her and busy myself on the computer, but I keep watch on her out of the corner of my eye. After she fills a cup and adds a shit ton of cream and sugar, she takes it with her and goes over to one of the lounge chairs in front of the window. I took her more for the excursions and Instagram type, but she stays there, sipping her coffee and watching the world outside the window come to life as the sun rises over ancient oaks.
The crooning voice of George Strait filters in from the office, causing me to scowl. Nell, a sixty-five-year-old Windy Point native, listens to the local country radio station every day without fail. And each day I threaten to fire her because of it.
So far, she hasn’t taken me seriously.
“How many times do I have to tell you to turn that shit off?” I ask when she pushes through the swinging door from the back office.
Nell, a Paula Dean twin if there ever was one, smiles silkily. Her glossy silver-white hair doesn’t have a strand out of place. Much like the woman herself, she’s as neat as a pin and militant about detail. My drill sergeant would have loved her.
“Well, honey, you can ask until we’re both stone-cold in our graves, but the answer is still going to be no.”
“I really ought to fire you.”
Nell lifts a hand to my cheek and pats it smartly as I shy away. She outdoes Peyton when it comes to the number of rings on her fingers. “You can sure try. I worked here before you were born, and I’ll probably be here long after you’re gone.”
I snort. “I’m not going anywhere, Nell.”
Her lips, painted a pale pink, pull into a smile. “Then you’d better get used it, then, hadn’t you?”
“I really ought to fire you,” I repeat to her back.
Nell pours herself a cup of coffee and says a cheerful, “Good morning,” to Peyton, who beams sunnily back at her. That pretty, easy smile pulls at me in ways I don’t like. But it’s more than the smile. It’s that I’d like it directed at me, which is a complication I sure as hell don’t want or need.
We don’t get many visitors to Windy Point this time of year. Most tourists tend to prefer the summer months, when the weather is clear enough for a hike or swim. The name Rhodes wasn’t familiar, so she doesn’t have family here. Her clothes don’t exactly paint her as a drifter and I’m not one to notice cuts or material. It makes me wonder what brought her to this town, to my lodge.
More specifically, it makes me want her to leave because I don’t want to wonder.
I don’t want to know any more about her than I already do.
It wouldn’t take long for word to get around about her, the way small towns work, and then I won’t have a choice. I knew that from personal experience. The gossip hotline would have her life story before sunup the next morning, if it didn’t already. In fact, now that I thought about it, I’m surprised Nell didn’t come in with a file as thick as my arm.
Her silver eyebrows wiggle when she comes back to the counter.
“Got us a pretty one today. When was the last time you went on a date?”
My scowl deepens. This is exactly how gossip starts. “You’re pushing it, Nell.”
The multiple rings adorning her fingers click as she types lighting speed on the computer, working whatever magic it is that keeps the lodge running smoothly. “Then I know I’m asking the right questions. People tend to get all riled up when someone pokes the spots they know are tender. Missing female company lately, Boss?”
“At the current moment, I’ve got all the female company I can handle, thanks.”
Nell harrumphs, then smiles triumphantly. “I’d say you do,” she replies.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Yep, this woman is definitely all kinds of trouble.
I used to be good at trouble, once upon a time.
Turning to the counter, I bathe my tongue in a combination of toxic sludge and lava and grunt as Peyton shifts from foot to foot.
“Hi. I was wondering if you could recommend a trail for a novice. Something that won’t get me lost. Preferably one that leads up into the mountains, if possible.”
I raise a brow, but pull out a pamphlet and mark a couple options with a pen. Pointing to the first, I say, “This one will lead you on a trek around the lake. Nothing much by way of views, but it’s about impossible to get lost. The one to the north of the grounds will take you through some baby hills. The mountains are a bit of a hike, but if you leave now you should make it back by dinner time. That’s this trail here.”
Her perfectly arched brows pucker as she studies the trails I’ve indicated with crudely drawn marks on the map. Leaning over the counter the way she is, I can smell the expensive perfume she must have doused herself in. It’s been two years since my last tour in Afghanistan, but I’m as celibate now as I was then.
“I think I’ll take the mountain trip. Send help if I’m not back by dark,” she jokes. When I don’t answer, her face falls and she clears her throat. “Right, well, thank you for your help.” After giving Nell a little wave, she adds, “Have a good morning!”
“Smooth,” Nell comments from behind me. “You aren’t gonna rectify getting a woman if your pickup skills are that rusty.”
Turning to face her, I give her a mental shove to say one more smart-mouthed thing. It’s not a normal day if I haven’t fired her at least a dozen times before lunch. “That could be because I wasn’t trying to pick her up.”
Nell’s eyes twinkle mischievously. “Sure. So that’s why you couldn’t stop staring at her. Well, at least you’ve got a second chance. She left her wallet.”
Cursing lowly, I snag the trendy, frilly thing off the counter and hurry to catch her before
she disappears into the woods. By chance I see a flash of blonde hair out of the corner of my eye. I shout her name, but she’s either in her own little word or doesn’t want a damn thing to do with me. I wouldn’t blame her.
“Peyton!”
When I get close, I tap her shoulder with a hand and she flies nearly a foot up in the air, whirling around, eyes wild.
“Whoa, there,” I say and take a cautious step back. “It’s just me.”
Panicked, wheezing gasps heave out of her lungs. “Jesus, you can’t sneak up on people like that.”
She’s got the wide, panicked eyes of someone afraid of death. I’d seen it enough in my own to recognize it in someone else. Who had hurt her? What had she been through to make her come to Nowhere, North Carolina? “Is everything okay?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I regret asking the second I see her hands clench by her sides.
The fear in her gaze hardens and whatever ghosts she was remembering disappear behind her narrowed eyes. She pulls a pair of earbuds out of her ears. “Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. Did you need something?”
I don’t miss that she takes a step back as I get closer and it’s a battle to keep myself from scowling automatically. In the years since I’ve been a civilian again, I’d gotten used to a variety of reactions. Hero-worship, disdain, disgust, but the one that really gets me is horror. If Peyton’s shoulders get any closer to her ears, she’s gonna create a spontaneous black hole and swallow herself. Her peaches and cream skin has gone ash-white. If I hadn’t seen her the day before, I would have thought she was sick or something.
She flinches when I thrust her wallet in her direction and this time I don’t bother holding back the scowl, which only makes her shrink into herself all the more. “You forgot this back at the lodge.” If my tone comes out harsher than I intend, I decide fuck it. Pretty little princess wants to play explorer, she’s got worse things to worry about than a beaten down former Marine like me. I may look like a tank, but the last thing on my mind is hurting anyone—especially a woman. Whatever happened to her in the past isn’t my fault.
Traitor (Last to Leave Book 1) Page 2