I glance down at the mess and groan. Among the fallout, several crisp hundred-dollar bills lie scattered like autumn leaves. How does this even happen? I scoop them up and stuff them into the back pocket of my jeans. Add “currency explosion” to the list of daily absurdities.
It’s a snapshot of my life: full of potential, vaguely expensive, and a chaotic mess I pretend I have under control. But I don’t. Not really. Lately, it feels like I’m juggling too many flaming swords with one hand tied behind my back. Work, expectations, pressure—hell, just being me feels like an Olympic event some days.
I’m shifting gears today however, leaving Wellington for the tiny town of Portree and staying in a motel, secured for me by none other than Grant Taylor; at a time when a rodeo is on and a town-wide festival is taking over the entire region, meaning accommodation is scarce to nonexistent.
The man does know how to work miracles, I’ll give him that. And since I’ll never see him again, I make a mental note to arrange a “Thank you” fruit basket delivery to Taylor PR, once I get back home to NY.
That little town of Portree has been living in the back of my mind ever since the flight fiasco. From my limited research, it seems charming enough in that curated-small-town way: pastel-painted houses, a river that looks like it was designed by a mood board, and zero honking, zero swearing commuters, and absolutely no chance of getting elbowed in the spleen by a latte-fueled Wellington businessman.
Tossing my Tote and laptop bag in the rental, car I’m about to slam the trunk shut, when I hear a sound like someone gargling gravel.
What the—
I whirl around. A police horse—an actual mounted patrol—is making an ungodly noise beside me. I jump so hard I nearly crack my skull on the open trunk door.
Seriously? Who evenrideshorses in the middle of a city? I swear, if the horses start plotting against me too, I’m going full conspiracy-theorist.
Shaking it off, I punch the Portree motel address into my GPS and hit the road. The longer I drive, the quieter everything gets.
The city just melts away behind me, replaced by long stretches of road and open skies. The hum of the engine and the soft purr of tires on asphalt settle my nerves like a lullaby.
When I finally reach Portree, it's unlike anything I’d been expecting. It's small—much smaller than I anticipated—with a main street lined with western-style buildings, a few restaurants, and what appears to be a town square centered around an old courthouse.
By the time I park my car at the motel, my jaw has unclenched for the first time in days. Pastel buildings sit neatly along the river side like they’ve been hand-painted. The sun kisses the rooftops, and everything smells like blossoming flowers, clean air and the absence of panic.
“Well, this is... quaint,” I mutter to myself, parking outside what looks like the town's only hotel.
The Sunset Motel is exactly what you'd expect from a small-town establishment— cozy in a single-story building with real-wood-floors, cozy-blankets-on-the-bed kind of way.
The woman at the reception desk—Ava, according to her name tag—greets me with a smile that's both knowing and kind.
“You must be Mia,” she says, sliding a key across the counter. “Room 8. Already got a call about you. No ID needed.”
“Thank you,” I say, relieved. “I appreciate you making an exception.”
“Honey, when Grant Taylor asks for a favor, people in Portree tend to say yes.” She winks at me. “He said you were pretty, but he didn't mention those eyes. No wonder he's interested.”
Heat rushes to my face. “It's not like that. We barely know each other.”
“Mmhmm.” Ava looks thoroughly unconvinced. “Well, the room's paid up for three nights. There's a robe and some toiletries in the bathroom. The diner across the street opens at six if you want breakfast.”
“Three nights? I only need one—”
“Take it up with your cowboy,” she interrupts with another wink. “Coffee maker's in the room. WiFi password is 'sunsetview,' all lowercase, no spaces.”
I want to protest that Grant isn't “my cowboy,” but I'm too exhausted to argue. I thank Ava again and make my way to Room 8, which turns out to be surprisingly clean and comfortable despite the outdated floral bedspread.
The room is small, with a window that overlooks the river. I stand there, watching the sunlight skip across the water, and feel something I haven’t felt in too long.
Peace.
Real, honest-to-God peace.
My mind wonders to a stranger with laughing eyes and a smile that somehow makes me feel both annoyed and alive, as I move towards the bed.
But even as I sit down on the edge of the bed, that old familiar ache curls up beside me. The restlessness. The guilt. My phone buzzes from the bed. Emails. Work. A reminder I’m supposed to be writing. I pick up my phone and dial Bre.
She answers on the first ring. “You're alive!”
