Now I understood the flirty lilt that had slipped into Shelly’s voice when she’d talked to the man on the phone.
Clayton was tall. That was the first thing I noticed about him because I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
Those dark, moody eyes assessed me in moments, then dropped to my blazer and caught on the company logo embroidered on the breast pocket.
His expression instantly went from guarded to cold.
“Insurance, huh.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.
I straightened instinctively, pulling my professional armor around me like a shield. “That’s right, Rachel Williams of HomeGuard Insurance. The lodge called about a room.”
“They did.” He didn’t move from the doorway.
Clayton growled, “Insurance usually means someone’s about to get shorted.”
“Or that someone’s trying to bill for a gold-plated roof,” I snapped back. The words came out sharper than I intended, but I was tired of being looked at like I was the enemy. That vibe followed me to every town I visited.
His jaw tightened beneath his beard. For a long moment, we just stared at each other, and I was acutely aware of the rain soaking through my blazer, and the way his eyes kept drifting down my body before snapping back to my face.
“Should I go?” I asked as I patted my wet hair, trying to make sure my bun hadn’t come loose. Even while drenched, I wanted to look put together.
He gave me one more look, slow and deliberate this time, taking in my wet clothes and my overnight bag clutched in my hands.
Something shifted in his expression, though I couldn’t have said what.
“No.” Clayton eyed me hard. “Stay.”
His words were spoken in a gravel-hard voice that told me he was the kind of man who was used to being in charge.
He took a measured step back, and I followed him in.
As he turned I saw that he had long, shaggy hair tied back with what looked like a leather cord. It was the kind of hairstyle most guys grew out of before they graduated college.
This man seemed to have skipped that stage despite being in what looked like his late thirties. But I guess it doesn’t matter what kind of hairstyle a man has when he lives somewhere as remote as Red Oak Mountain.
I visited a lot of rural areas, but this place had practically fallen off the map.
Even though Clayton’s home was humble, it was a relief to be in a warm house out of the rain. I took a hasty glance around as he led me down a narrow hallway to a small bedroom at the back of the house.
The house wasn’t really decorated in the traditional sense. Everything looked utilitarian.
But an old couch that sat in the living room caught my eye.
It was a tragic Early Americana holdover from the 1980s, in all its country glory. It had an autumn harvest color scheme with an old watermill design surrounded by flowers.
I couldn’t help it. I started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” he asked as he showed me the room I’d rented for the night.
“Oh, I think my parents had that same couch when I was growing up. I never thought I’d see one like that again. It’s a real relic.”
He scratched his beard lightly and scowled at me. “It came with the house.”
“Mm, it’s lovely,” I added, hoping he didn’t think I was laughing at his home. I’d just been so startled to see it.
I turned my attention to the bedroom he’d led me to.
The bed was neatly made, and the furniture sparse but clean. It would do for one night.
