Page 24 of Room for Us
He tilts his head, unnervingly focused on my reaction. I can’t explain why, but get the feeling he’s testing me. Or maybe he’s one of those people—the difficult kind. Never satisfied. Someone who gets off on causing problems. Pushing people until their breaking points. I could have sworn he was giving me The Look just seconds ago, but he’s back to condescending jerk.
My molars grind, my mind races.
“I don’t have any substitutes on hand,” I say with admirable calm. I have a grocery budget, asshole, and you said you liked halibut. “But there’s plenty of leftover roast from yesterday. It won’t take me long to heat it up.”
Another subtle shift in his eyes. His lashes, long and inky black, fall as he issues a small sigh. “That’s all right. I think I’ll walk into town. Check things out. Is there somewhere you can recommend for a good burger?”
My gaping mouth closes. Opens. “Blue Fire Grill,” I finally say.
“Thanks.” He turns, then pauses to glance back. His eyes gleam, the challenge in them unmistakable now. “I’m curious—what did you do with all those baked goods from this morning?”
The words are laced with subtle rebuke, like maybe I hadn’t realized it was too much food for one person. Like I’m a fucking idiot.
Even though it’s anatomically impossible, I’m convinced my head is about to pop off. What is with this guy? Maybe he’s bipolar and came to Idaho to wean off his meds. With my luck, it’s probably true.
I want to yell and throw something, but in recent years I’ve become skilled at faking… well, everything. So I smile like I mean it. “I took them down to the local family center this afternoon.”
He nods, like I’ve confirmed a private analysis. “For future reference, I don’t eat much for breakfast. Toast with butter is my go-to. Multigrain bread. Bacon and eggs on the weekends only. And espresso.”
I smile even wider. “Of course. I’ll go ahead and replace the sheets on your bed now. Eight hundred thread count, as requested.”
He watches me another moment. “Okay then. Good night, Ms. Kemper.”
I watch him leave. Tall and graceful. Broad shoulders in that stupid sweater, jeans hanging perfectly from his lean hips. Dark hair curling just slightly against his neck.
“It’s always the pretty ones who are the craziest,” notes my aunt.
When he’s gone I sag against the counter, my head shaking in bafflement. My expectations of welcoming and serving my first guest were clearly off base. Hell, they were off planet. So far nothing has gone remotely like I thought it would.
Never, in all my younger years of hanging around Rose House and observing the ebb and flow of guests, did I see Aunt Barb have trouble like this with anyone. Overwhelmingly, the people who came to stay were friendly, chatty, and easy to accommodate.
I still don’t know why Ethan Hart is in Sun River alone for six weeks. What was he doing in his room all day? My working theory is he’s here for the upcoming film festival, but it isn’t for another three weeks. Is he an actor? He certainly has the face for it. Though he could be a screenwriter. The latter would explain the well-worn laptop bag.
“I had a few tough nuts in my day, but this guy is uniquely annoying.”
“What am I supposed to do?” I whisper.
My aunt continues like she didn’t hear me. “One time, a woman asked me if I could have a pint of fresh oxblood delivered to the inn. Come to find out she read some wacky article online and wanted to use it in her skincare routine. Crazy bat.”
“Gross.” I turn back to the cutting board and pop a misshapen lump of bell pepper in my mouth. “How am I going to get through the next six weeks?”
“Kick his ass out and sell this lump. Spend a few months in Tahiti.”
“Not helping.”
“Fine. If you want to keep torturing yourself, keep doing what you’re doing. But mark my words—this won’t end well.”
I don’t respond. She’s wrong.
She has to be.
16
Today was about as unproductive as a day can be, which is to say I slept through most of it.
So far, the change in scenery has had fuck-all effect on my creative dry spell. After chugging the Americano this morning, I spent a solid hour staring at a blinking cursor, unable to think about anything but her. Her contradictions and complications. The bright, fake smile and customer service voice. Her shocked eyes right before I closed the door in her face this morning. She’s catnip for my twisted mind—a hapless victim whose only crime is being near me.
I fell asleep thinking about her and unsurprisingly, she plagued my dreams all day. Those long legs and her smooth, creamy skin. Wild, dark-honey curls I want wrapped in my fist. Her heart-shaped face and too-full lower lip that thins when she’s thinking.
