One
SKYE
There are two kinds of people who show up at a small bed and breakfast in a tiny off-the-beaten-track village the week before Christmas.
The first? Cheerful, adoring couples in matching wool sweaters who want mulled wine, fairy lights, and someone else to make their porridge in the morning.
The second? Thosepretendingto be cheerful, whose Christmas sweaters are nowhere in sight, who cringe at rooms filled with fairy lights, and who wouldn’t be awake before breakfast has been served to know there was porridge on the menu. In other words, those who were running away from something.
The man at my check-in desk was definitely the second kind.
The fact that he kept his head ducked and his hat waspulled low over his face pinged my radar before I even walked behind the small desk to greet him.
I grimaced at the sight of a guitar case at his feet, memories of long ago washing over me, and I kept my head down as I paged through my reservations book.
“Reservation for John Smith,” he said, voice low, leaning forward over the desk. Something in his voice sent a shiver down my back, but I brushed it away, putting my customer service smile on.
“John Smith,” I murmured, flipping to his reservation page. I’d been excited to get a last-minute booking. The winter months were my slowest, and I’d been more than happy to accommodate a month-long reservation.
His eyes lifted, just enough for me to get a good look. And that’s when the ground fell out from under me.
What. The. Hell.
Of coursethe universe would deliver my ex-boyfriend—the one who wrote a number-one single about breaking my heart—directly to my inn during the loneliest time of the year.
Noah Byrne.
Ex-boyfriend.
Arsehole.
Because clearly, the universe had a sense of humor and it was cruel.
I gripped the edge of the desk to stop my hands from shaking. “No.”
He blinked, an eyebrow winging up slightly. “No?”
“No, as in, no, Noah,youcan’t stay here. I don’t care if you book under John Smith, Santa Claus, or King of Bloody England. Pick your guitar up and get out.”
He gave me a slow once-over, and it felt exactly like it had fifteen years ago when we were rehearsing in a freezing garage. He’d looked at me like I was both his favorite song and the mistake he was about to make. My skin prickled with awareness and irritation.
“Hello to you too, Skye,” he said finally. His voice hadn’t changed. Still that husky, broken-in leather kind of sound that could make women scream or sob, depending on the chorus.
I hated that my knees went soft. I hated it more that I noticed he looked better now—taller somehow, broader, jaw shadowed with stubble. A few grays threaded his hair at his temples and somehow that made him even sexier.
But his eyes looked world weary, andoh sotired.
And I hated most of all that part of me wanted to ask if he was okay.
“Out,” I repeated, keeping my voice flat.
“Booked for a month,” he countered.Did he think we were haggling over the price of a pint?
How had I missed his name on the credit card I’d taken for this booking? Sliding a look at the reservation, I saw a different name—Matt—whose name was on the credit card for the booking. At the time, I’d assumed it was likely John Smith’s partner.
“Who’s Matt?”
“My agent.”
