He froze.
Miss Dahlia, standing outside on her suite’s private porch, yelled up at him in her East Tennessee twang as if he were her wayward son.
“You get down from there. You’re gonna fall, and I’m not going to catch you.”
The breath he let out sounded like a growl. He took the next branch. Then he heard his name again, called from two or three different areas of the patio, the voices unfamiliar.
Fine. Let them talk. Let them look.
Almost at the window now, he glanced down.
Just in time for a dozen or so guests to get a great candid shot of Caleb Kennedy, lead guitar in the famous Drake Hamilton Band, climbing a forty-foot tree and breaking into his own hotel.
Maybe he should have prayed differently. Because the moment he saw Miss Dahlia on that porch, he’d realized what a fool he was. And he had no choice but to keep going.
He raised the window and climbed inside. With no time for nostalgia or sentiment, he strode to Mom and Dad’s room, opened her cedar chest, and grabbed his mother’s fresh-lavender-scented sheets and towels. Then he took the steps to the ground floor at a slower pace.
From a young age, he’d known how to miter sheet corners and roll washcloths and towels. So within half an hour, he had the beds made and linens ready, called a locksmith for the third-floor apartments, then ushered his old friend Isaiah Mackay into room eight.
“What’s this I hear about you climbing a tree, man?” The Jeff Bridges look-alike had barely walked into his room and sat in a burgundy leather chair, his ever-present glass of iced Earl Grey tea in his left hand and a stack of books under his right arm, before he brought up the touchy subject.
Great. Apparently, word had spread about his impulsive encounter with the old tree. How long would it take for Granddad to hear too and make his opinion known? Caleb also didn’t look forward to facing Miss Dahlia and hearing a lecture from her.
“I don’t know. I didn’t stop and think. It’s all because of that eccentric grandfather of mine. I had to get into my family’s oldapartment, but he hid the key.” He took the chair opposite him. “I just wanted to get the job done before my grandfather found out I’d opened this wing.”
“Dude. What was so all-fired important in a room you haven’t stepped into for the past twelve years?”
“Sheets for your bed,” he grumbled.
“I smell something. What did you do, spray perfume on them?”
“Lavender. My mom kept fresh lavender in her cedar chest.”
“Huh.” Isaiah placed his books and glass on the round walnut side table between them.
Caleb checked out the spines. A century-old commentary on the book of Daniel by H.A. Ironside. A historical novel calledSavannahby someone named Eugenia Price. AndMaster Gambitsby world chess champion Marco Accardi. A falling-apart King James Version Bible. Books as eclectic as Isaiah.
A light tap, barely audible, sounded on the door. “It’s me, Isaiah.”
Ariel.
If this room had a back door, Caleb would’ve run for it. Another window escapade, however, was out of the question.
“You want to face her or not?” Isaiah started for the door.
“Do I have a choice? I can’t exactly hide in the bathroom until she leaves, no matter how humiliated I feel.”
“Did it to yourself. Window’s over there.”
Right.
So he merely sat there, waiting to see the expression on that pretty face when she finally saw him hanging out here with Isaiah.
His friend opened the door. “I expected to see you still in your athletic clothes.”
So had Caleb. But instead, she wore a white, flowy dress that nearly touched the tops of her cowboy boots. Her hair downnow, the loose waves framed her near-perfect face, her flower scent reaching out to him across the room.
And that pretty face showed no judgment about Caleb’s ridiculous decision to climb the tree.
