Page 3 of Unpacking Secrets
Tearing my gaze away, I managed a smile for Mrs. Gregson. “Can I see some of the rooms, if any are free?”
With a tender look, Mrs. Gregson led me out of the dining room and continued the tour. We stopped briefly in the impressively modern kitchen at the back of the inn to meet Sally, then headed upstairs to peek into one of the unoccupied bedrooms on the second floor.
“The inn has ten suites in total,” my tour guide informed me, “each with its own full bath. We get a good number of honeymooners, anniversary trips, that sort of thing. Our busiest seasons are spring and summer, but we do quite well throughout the entire year.”
Making a noncommittal noise in my throat, I followed her silently throughout the interior of the inn. Everything was lovingly decorated; I had yet to spot a single thing that looked mass produced.
My grandmother had clearly put her heart and soul into this place.
For the first time since learning about Nan’s existence, I was struck by a deep, penetrating sorrow. Part of me felt like I had no right to grieve for someone I’d never met, but the timing of it all seemed so tragic.
Mrs. Gregson glanced out a window at the top of the stairs. “Oh, good. Henry is back. I’ll bring you by the office to meet him, then Gerard will take you over to the cottage.”
The cottage. My new home. A flutter of anticipation rose up inside of me through the shadow of grief. My throat was still too tight for speech, so I just nodded.
Against that eager flutter, I tried to ignore the ball of dread in my belly at the thought of meeting Henry, though whether because Gerard had mentioned me taking over the job or because he must be closer to my age than the rest of them, I wasn’t sure.
Maybe he was a sweet, nerdy type who liked numbers more than people. Maybe he was older than I envisioned, a middle-aged dad who valued family above all else.
Those images didn’t reassure me as much as I would've liked.
Mrs. Gregson ushered me down the stairs and toward a little office tucked away across the hall.
“Good afternoon, Henry,” she called, peeking around the doorframe.
I sucked in a steadying breath and followed her into the room.
“This is Juliet Morrison. Juliet, this is Henry Walker, our general manager.”
The man behind the desk was not at all what I expected. He was absurdly handsome, with deep olive skin. Locks of hair so dark it bordered on black hung just long enough to fall over a brooding brow. His beautiful hazel eyes were a rich shade of green flecked with amber, but they regarded me with a coolness that ratcheted my anxiety to the next level.
I guessed he was somewhere in his mid-thirties, give or take a few years. He wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal sculpted forearms. This guy was definitely neither a geek nor a middle-aged dad. In truth, he looked polished and elegant, which made me feel frumpy and intensely unsuited to owning a business of any kind.
Mrs. Gregson, still lingering in the doorway, remained blissfully oblivious to his frosty gaze. She cheerfully called out something about leaving the young folks to it and disappeared before I could beg her to stay.
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” I said, offering my hand as I summoned a polite smile.
When he leaned back in the chair instead of clasping my palm, increasing the distance between us, I let the hand drop and clenched it into a fist.
“Right,” Henry replied shortly.
His pointed scrutiny traveled over my haphazard road trip outfit. Embarrassment welled inside me as he surveyed the paint-splattered jeans and old college sweatshirt I’d thrown on that morning. The clothes were casual and comfortable for driving hours on end, but not exactly the height of sophistication.
When his gaze returned to my face, I was taken aback by the open hostility in his expression.
“The long lost heiress comes to claim her rightful place,” he bit out. “Aren’t we fortunate you’re here to save us?”
My jaw dropped at his audacity. His deep voice was sharp, lending an aristocratic edge to his derision, even though he didn’t share his grandfather’s posh accent.
“I beg your pardon?” I sputtered.
“I’m sure you must have plenty of experience running a business,” he went on, his tone brittle and condescending.
What the hell?
I scowled at him as my temper flared. It was one thing for me to doubt my own ability to take this on, but this jerk wasnotgoing to question my qualifications. He didn’t even know me. Nan’s will, as far as I understood, prevented me from actually running the place anyway, but if Henry Walker wasn’t aware of that, I wasn’t going to tell him—not while he was being an asshole, at least.
I forced my features to relax, though it took a gargantuan effort.
