“See, wasn’t this easier than an argument?” Mason says with a smile and lifts his hand to pat me on the back. When I lock angry eyes with him, he thinks better and lets his hand fall to his side.
Smart move.
7
NORA
IT ONLYtakes two days of being cooped up in my room at the bed-and-breakfast before I start to feel pent up. I’ve got two contemporary romances and one period-piece romance manuscript to edit, so I’m not without something to do. I just can’t focus like I need to.
I even spent several hours yesterday researching my car and the lights that came on in my dash that night. Reading all the negative reviews from other owners about their similar experiences, and the costly repairs, made my anxiety even worse.
Being without my car makes me feel trapped with no out and has me stopping to listen at each creak in the floor and slam of the front door. I think I’ve spent more time pacing in front of the bay windows, watching all the people on the main street, than working.
Sliding my laptop across the surface of the bay window seat, away from me, I lean against the wall and watch out the window. Again. It’s lunchtime, and the sidewalks are busy with people. Just from my window, I can see boutiques, a sandwich shop with cute little bistro tables on the sidewalk, a pub, and an art studio.
My stomach rumbles, and my gaze moves back to the sandwich shop a few buildings down the street. I’ve been eatingall my meals in the kitchen downstairs since they are included in the room rate, but a hot ham and cheese sounds fantastic right now. And I need to find out where I can restock my sour gummies.
“Oh, Ms. Abernathy.” Allison’s voice comes from the dining room behind me just as I reach the front door.
I’ve noticed Allison’s style changes daily. Yesterday she looked like a young 80s Madonna with a bandana tied around her head holding her wild curls back, and lots of makeup and red lipstick. Today she’s more toned down and soft in jeans and a sweater over a T-shirt. Minimal makeup and clear gloss instead of lipstick.
“Yes?” I walk back to the check-in desk.
“Have you had a chance to get your driver’s license?”
When I checked in, Allison asked for a credit card and didn’t seem too surprised when I told her I would pay with cash, but she wanted to copy my driver’s license, and I told her I left it in my car and would have to get it the next day.
I should have stayed in my room.
“Oh, uhm, I haven’t. I don’t even know where my car is.” I try to laugh it off to hide my anxiety. “Is it okay that you don’t have it?”
I really don’t want to chance her copying it and uploading it into some kind of bed-and-breakfast online system, or whatever.
Tipping her head to the side with a smile, she scrunches her nose. “Unfortunately, my insurance requires me to keep an ID for every guest, well, at least one person staying in the room — it’s a stupid policy. I can give you the address of Ryder’s garage so you can get it.”
Shit.
Most hotel clerks gladly accept an extra twenty when I ask them to keep everything at a cash exchange, the last thing I wantis to leave a digital trail of any kind. But I didn’t consider how the rules could be different for a small-business owner.
How did things get so complicated in such a short amount of time? I wonder how long I can string her along before she tells me to find another place to stay. In another life, I might feel like shit for lying, but I can’t afford to worry about that in this one.
I wonder how hard it would be to get a fake ID to give to her. Except she already knows my name…
“Yeah, sure, does it have to be today? I’m on a deadline, and I was going to check out the sandwich shop across the street. Can I go get it tomorrow?”
She smiles as she grabs a small notepad and starts writing the address to Ryder’s garage. “Of course, as long as I have it before you check out.”
Stepping out of the sandwich shop later, I now know why I’ve seen so many people going in and out. It was amazing, and the owner was charming and nice, just like everyone else in this town. Well, except forTucker, even the voice in my head condescendingly draws out his name like he’s some sort of villain.
A pleasant slight breeze blows some of my loose hair across my face, and I turn my head to shake it off, my line-of-sight landing on a sign in the pub’s window a few businesses down the street.
Part-time Help Wanted.
Hmmm. It’s perfect, actually. Only a five-minute walk from the B&B, part-time, and maybe the owner would let me work for cash. It never hurts to try, right?
The lunch rush has thinned, and I cross the little alleyway to walk down the sidewalk lined with flower planters around pretty streetlights to the all-brick building that says ‘Stony’s Pub’ over the door. The two stone front steps are set in an alcove to the front door.
People are seated at some of the little tables scattered around the open part of the room near the front door, and the warm, comforting smell of burgers and fries fills my nose. I’m surprised they serve food and see a door to the kitchen at the back of the long room.
