Page 23 of No Room in the Inn
Nixon hands me the album almost reverently, and I take it to the small kitchen table, pulling out a chair and sitting. Nixon sits next to me, leaning in so he can see too. His scent washes over me once more, and I refrain from burying my face in his neck and smelling him like a total weirdo.
Seriously, though—he smellsthatgood.
“Have you seen this before?” he says, reaching over and opening the photo album. His arm brushes mine as he moves, and I give my body firm orders toget it together. Obnoxious or not, the man is attractive.
“A long time ago,” I say.
Nixon nods. “She kept it under her night stand. She pulled this out on a regular basis, Willow. Look”—he flips through the pages for a second before stopping and pointing to one photo of a bunch of people in front of a Christmas tree—“this was taken at one of her annual Christmas Eve party. She has pictures in here of all of those dinners—every year. And somewhere back here—”
“Wait,” I say, putting my hand on his to stop him from turning the page, because I’ve just seen a photo I want to look more closely at. “Wait,” I say again. I point at a picture of a gap-toothed little girl in front of the fireplace. “That’s me.”
Nixon leans forward, a reluctant smile teasing his lips as he looks at the photo. “Nice shirt,” he says, looking over at me now.
I glance back to the picture. My shirt really is horrible—some sort of crinkly green fabric with puffy sleeves. I smile at him. “It’s pretty bad,” I agree. “Green’s not my color.”
“Nah, green looks great on you,” he says absently, surprising me.
But he doesn’t seem to realize what he’s said; he’s still skimming photos, turning the pages slowly. It’s sort of cute to watch, in a way; this pillar of masculinity, hunched over my Granny’s old photo album. Too bad he’s a pain in the patootie.
“And here,” he says, pointing to a series of photos that show the interior of the inn decked out for Christmas. “Every year she took pictures of her Christmas decorations.” He looks over at me. “And—” But he breaks off abruptly, just staring at me—at my lips.
“What?” I say, trying to quell the sudden rise of nerves within me, because when an attractive man stares at your lips, even if he is a total stranger—an obnoxious one, at that—it makes you think things.
Nixon shakes his head. “Nothing. You’ve just got—” He stops speaking and points to his own lips. “Whipped cream,” he says. “I just noticed. At the corner—no, not there,” he says as I wipe my lips with my thumb.
I try again. “Did I get it?”
He shakes his head again. “Here.” He lifts one hand, moving slowly as though to reassure me he’s not going to hurt me, and swipes one thumb over my bottom lip. His eyes are intent on his work, and I’m glad, because I don’t know what it would be like to meet his gaze while he’s right in front of me, touching me, smelling and looking like some sort of male model.
His thumb lingers a fraction of a second longer than it needs to, and the air between us thickens in a way I truly didn’t expect. My brain doesn’t seem to have gotten the message that it neither knows nor likes this man.
Nixon pulls his hand away, but his eyes stay on my lips a moment longer until his guarded gaze flits back to mine.
And then, without looking away from me, he licks the whipped cream off his thumb. Then he holds it up. “Got it,” he says, his voice light.
Got it?Got it?Yeah, andIgot a heart attack.
“Um, thanks,” I say. It’s not my most eloquent moment.
Nixon just looks at me for a second longer before blinking, and the spell is broken; he scoots his chair away suddenly, filling the kitchen with a loud scraping noise, and I clear my throat.
“See?” he says, gesturing to the photo album as he stands up. “You can’t get rid of this place. She loved it.”
I clear my throat again, trying not to show how flustered I am. “Look, I love this place too.” I point to the album. “These are just pictures to you, but they’re memories to me. Don’t think I don’t understand; I do. But it’s not in the cards. I have to go,” I add quickly before he can protest again, though he does get out a sort of frustrated growl. “You can stay here until this place sells. I’ll be staying upstairs anyway. But Iamselling.” I speak gently, because I can tell that for whatever reason, Nixon truly does care about what happens to the inn.
“We’ll talk about it later” is all he says, and I shrug.
“If you want. I’ll be back in a bit.” But I know my answer isn’t going to change.
Chapter 12
Willow
Icall a home repair company on my way back to Sarah’s house, and we agree that they’ll come by the inn tomorrow to take a look at the damage. After that, I get Sarah on the phone.
“I found him!” I say as I enter Sarah’s house.
“Found who?” she says, sounding distracted. These words are followed by a muffled, “No, Travis, don’t put that in your mouth, please.” Then, more clearly, “Okay, I’m back.”
