Autumn Skies: 3 (A Bluebell Inn Romance) Page 2

  She clacked away, hitting wrong keys and backing up to delete her mistakes. She was vaguely aware that his gaze shifted around the lobby and the connected living room. She had a feeling if she asked him to close his eyes and recount the visual details of the rooms, he might score better than she did.

  “All right, Mr. Jennings,” she said when she finished. “We’re all set.”

  “It’s just Wyatt.”

  When his eyes returned to hers, the full impact of his attention made her lungs empty. His brown eyes were set deep beneath a pair of masculine brows. He was neither frowning nor smiling. She wondered briefly what that might look like. The smile, not the frown. She already knew she didn’t want to see him unhappy.

  She slid his key across the desk. “Wyatt, then. I’m Grace, one of the owners. Maybe I already said that.” She paused, but when he simply slid the key into his back pocket, she went on. “Let me give you a little tour before I show you to your room. You can leave your bag behind the counter if you’d like.”

  He didn’t really seem like the tour type—or the inn type for that matter—but he followed her down the hall anyway.

  “The Bluebell Inn was built in 1905 and was the town’s very first inn. It featured ten bedrooms. Early on it was a stagecoach stop, then for years it housed the post office, till it was sold in 1978 and turned into the governor’s summer home.” She nearly added that he shared a last name with the governor, but that seemed like the kind of trivial detail he wouldn’t care about. “My parents purchased the home when my siblings and I were young, so we had the pleasure of growing up here.”

  Unlike Levi and Molly, she always skipped over the part about their parents’ deaths and their desire to fulfill their parents’ dream. She could do without the pity.

  The hallway’s walls closed in, the space almost buzzing with Wyatt’s presence. She was grateful to enter the more open space of the library.

  “My brother, sister, and I run the place now, and I also run an outfitters business in my spare time.”

  He gave her a long look, which she felt to the tips of her lime-green toenails. Her gaze fell to the duffel bag he’d carried with him.

  “Um, this is our library, obviously, and you’re welcome to use it and borrow books if you like. Let me show you the restaurant.” She gave him a smile—unreturned—as she passed him on the way back out. A clean masculine scent wrapped around her and, unwittingly, she drew in a deep breath.

  She gestured toward the back door. “The lake’s out that way, of course. We have a small boat that’s available on a sign-out basis and a pier with a bench, a favorite spot to watch the sunset.” He did not seem like the sunset type.

  “I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the area’s natural attractions, but pamphlets are in the lobby, and someone is almost always at the desk. We’re happy to help with recommendations, directions, or anything else you need.”

  As they passed through the lobby she gestured toward the small glass dome on the desk. “Our cook, Miss Della, is famous for her sweets. Every afternoon you’ll find complimentary cookies here.” Remembering his stellar physique she added, “And also, fresh fruit.”

  They proceeded through the living room, and she stopped at the French doors leading to the restaurant.

  He scanned the space, still saying nothing.

  She headed back toward the lobby. “Breakfast is included in the cost of your room, and we also have a lunch and supper menu, which comes in handy. You’ll find a lot of restaurants close during the week or on rainy days or, you know, when the owner has a hangnail.”

  Very professional, Grace. She winced.

  “If you’ll follow me upstairs, I’ll show you to your room.”

  When she made the turn to the second floor, she paused, mostly to make sure he was still there. “Any questions so far?”

  “Is there a workout room?”

  “Um, no, but we have an arrangement with Jim’s Gym. You can use it since you’re staying here. Also the yoga studio in town.”

  His eyebrow arched, he gave her a long, steady look.

  Okay, no on the yoga. “There’s a pamphlet downstairs with details.”

  She continued up the stairs, then down the hall, and stopped at the first door on the left, room seven, tucked into a little alcove.

  She gestured toward the door, giving her best professional smile. “And here we are.”

  He slid past, almost brushing her in the tight space.

  Her smile wobbled as her breath caught. “Um, please let me know if I can be of any assistance.”

  He gave a nod.

  Grace turned away, fighting the strange urge to scurry back down the hall.

  Chapter Three

  Grace had two tasks in mind as she hunched over the laptop’s keyboard. Okay, three. One, she needed to find an affordable space for her business, preferably in downtown Bluebell. Two, she needed to know at which sites to list the inn. Three, she had to distract herself from the noises coming from Wyatt’s room overhead. She’d already figured out from the repetitive noises he must be working out. She briefly considered bringing him that gym pamphlet, but there was a line between helpful and overbearing, and she liked to stay on the right side of it.

  Why was he at the inn? He wasn’t their usual customer. They catered mostly to couples from young to elderly, or sometimes families with small children. Maybe he was here to hike—there were certainly plenty of trails to keep him busy. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to bother with an Airbnb. Maybe he liked starting his day with a full stomach.

  And maybe it was time to get down to the real question at hand: Why was she so fascinated with him? It wasn’t just his pretty face. She’d come across many of those. Perhaps it was the confidence he exuded. Or the way he seemed so at ease—not with his environment necessarily but with himself.

  And how could she even know these things from their brief encounter?

  Grace scowled at the screen. She was failing monumentally at number three.

  She slipped off the stool and wandered into the dining room to see if Miss Della needed help in the kitchen. When the siblings decided to open the inn, Mom’s best friend graciously offered her outstanding cooking skills—and, occasionally, some unsolicited advice. But that was mostly reserved for Grace, the baby of the family.

  She found Miss Della rolling out a lump of pie dough, her dark hands working the roller with expert precision. Her short, wash-and-go hair called attention to her wide-set brown eyes and high cheekbones.

  “Need help with lunch, Miss Della?”

  “You’re just in time, sugar. I need your steady hands. Wash up.”

  Grace did as asked and joined her at the floured-up counter where a flat circle of dough awaited.

  “Grab the pastry cutter and make me some nice strips for the lattice top.”

  Grace took the fluted wheel by the handle and started slow, precise lines through the dough, listening to Miss Della talk about a new roast recipe she was trying out for supper tonight.

  The wheel in Grace’s hand swerved out of line, and she winced at the crooked path. She wanted to fix it, but reworking the dough would make the crust tougher. She’d do it anyway, except Miss Della would disapprove.

  When Grace finished the job, she carefully wove the strips into latticework while Miss Della buzzed around the kitchen, stirring pots, whisking gravy, and checking the oven. Grace made sure the strips were evenly placed across the cherry pie filling. Four strips in, the dough ripped and Grace gritted her teeth as she gently pinched it back together. But there was no making it perfect again.

  When she finished, she surveyed the uncooked pie with a scowl. “All finished.”

  “Thank you, honey, that looks splendid.”

  “It looks terrible.”

  Miss Della surveyed the pie from the stove where she was stirring the green beans. The imperfections were so obvious Grace didn’t bother pointing them out.

  “Honey, it’s just the way I wanted it. If it was perfec
t it’d look like it came from a Sara Lee box.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.” Miss Della scooped up the pie and placed it in the oven. “And now it’d be a big help if you could fold napkins for me. Jada got held up at her other job.”

  When Grace slipped into the dining room, Molly was already setting the tables.

  She looked up as Grace began working alongside her. “Oh, good. I could use the help. Did you get a chance to look into listing the inn?”

  “I found some promising sites. It’ll probably take hours to do the listings. We should set up a few more professional shots too. We’ve made updates.”

  “Good point. I can write something up for the listing. It’s hard to believe we’ve finally reached this point. In one way it seemed like forever, but in retrospect, it went quickly.”

  Their parents’ deaths had forced them to make a decision: sell the house and move or finish the remodeling their parents had started and open the inn. It had been a monumental task, and they’d all sacrificed a lot to make it happen.

  Grace folded a cloth napkin with military precision. “Now you can spread your wings and fly—all the way to Italy. Is Adam still on board with your plan?” Molly’s dream of running a bed-and-breakfast in Tuscany went back a long way, but there were two of them now.

  “He supports my dreams 100 percent. He can write from anywhere, and he can fly back for book tours.”

  Adam Bradford was a writer of love stories, perennial bestsellers, with one of his novels made into a movie so far. He was also one of the most down-to-earth people Grace knew. And he really brought out the best in Molly.

  “It’s been quiet around here this afternoon,” Molly said. “Anyone check in?”

  “Just the guest who arrived as our meeting was winding down.”

  “How long are they staying?”

  “It’s only one guest—and he wasn’t sure how long. A few days or a few weeks. He’s leaving it open-ended.”

  For the dozenth time in the last hour, an image of Wyatt Jennings flittered into her mind. Those dark eyes, so serious and observant. Did he make everyone feel like an ant under a microscope? She tried to tell herself it had been an unpleasant sensation, but that wasn’t entirely true. Otherwise Grace wouldn’t be anticipating their next meeting, now would she?

  “That’s interesting,” Molly said. “What brought him to the area?”

  “He didn’t really say.” But judging by his well-used duffel, the tennis shoes, and yes, the physique, she guessed his idea of R & R included a lot of exercise.

  Molly was staring at her, head tilted in that knowing way.

  “What?” Grace asked.

  “How old is he? Is he married? Single?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  Molly gave a smug grin. “So, young and single.”

  Grace gave her a wry look.

  “That blush told me everything I needed to know.”

  “I’m not blushing.” Grace ignored the heat flaring in her cheeks as she grabbed another starched napkin and started folding. What had gotten into her? And who was this man who’d had such a ridiculous effect on her?

  “A blush and a vehement denial.” Molly was studying her face. “Very interesting. I gotta get a load of this guy. I’ve never seen you react like this to someone you’ve barely met.”

  “I’ve had boyfriends,” Grace said a titch defensively. She was twenty-one after all.

  “I’m not saying you haven’t. I’m just saying no one’s really swept you off your feet yet.”

  “My feet are firmly on the ground and will remain so. There’s only room for one romantic in the family, and that spot’s already taken. And now Levi has joined the ranks of the happily-ever-after crowd, and that’s fine. But leave me alone. I’m happily single, and I want to focus on getting my business off the ground.”

  “So what’s he look like?”

  “Did you hear a word I just said?”

  “What’s his name? You have to know that at least.”

  “Wyatt Jennings.”

  “No wedding band? Or telltale white line around the ring finger?”

  Grace spared her a glance.

  “What? That’s important information.”

  “I don’t think so,” Grace finally said. “Not that it matters.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “We exchanged all of fifty words, Molly.” And about forty-nine of those had been hers.

  “Well, your first impressions then. Come on, dish. We never get to talk boys.” Molly’s intense look told Grace she wasn’t letting this go.

  “Fine. I don’t know. He was quiet.”

  “Ooh, the strong, silent type. Did he ask any questions about the area? That can tell you a lot about a person.”

  “He asked about using the gym.”

  Molly waggled her brows. “So he’s fit then?”

  The image of his muscular biceps leapt into Grace’s mind, complete with the little bit of ink peeking from his sleeve. What was the tattoo?

  “Eye color?”

  “Brown.” Grace let that slip before thinking twice.

  Molly’s eyes gleamed with glee. “You noticed.”

  “You can’t help but notice.” Grace turned her attention to the napkin. “You’ll see.”

  The silver stopped clinking as Molly stilled. “Okay, you can’t not explain that comment.”

  She was like a lion chewing on a bloody carcass. Grace expelled a breath, trying to formulate what it was about him. “I don’t know, he’s very . . . intense, I guess. He takes in everything.”

  “Including you?”

  Grace ignored her.

  “So he’s an observer?”

  “Yes, but not just that. It’s like he’s, I don’t know, wired for 240 or something.”

  “What does that even mean? He’s hyper?”

  “No, the opposite. Wired on the inside, like super alert or something. He’s actually kind of eerily still and quiet—and maybe a little guarded.”

  Molly arched a brow. “That’s a lot of impression from fifty words.”

  Grace started to reply just as Molly’s gaze darted past Grace to the doorway.

  Just as a throat cleared. A very male throat.

  Grace sucked in a breath. Please, no. Her eyes widened on Molly, hoping against hope it was their brother with a frog in his throat or something.

  Molly’s eyes, equally wide, swung back to Grace. Her expression told Grace everything she needed to know.

  How long had he been standing there? How much had he heard? And why on earth hadn’t they shut the door? Grace’s face heated a degree or ten. It had to be a veritable beacon by now.

  “Is the restaurant open for lunch?” he asked, in that low, yummy drawl.

  Molly gave Grace an Oh! look before her eyes swung back to Wyatt, her lips curving into a professional smile. “Of course. Come on in and have a seat anywhere. I’ll let Miss Della know you’re here.”

  Grace gave her sister a pleading look, nuanced with desperation. Don’t you dare leave me! But Molly raced for the kitchen as if a swarm of bees were on her heels.

  Thanks a lot, Grace telegraphed to the back of Molly’s head.

  Grace resumed folding the napkin, her fingers now trembling. She messed up and started over. She kept her back to the doorway, giving the flame in her face time to extinguish. She heard a chair scrape the floor in the corner of the room. Heard it squeak as his weight settled into it.

  She glanced toward the kitchen door, willing Molly to return quickly.

  She didn’t.

  Long seconds ticked by. One napkin folded. Two. Finally, the last one. She placed it on the table and turned to leave, lifting her chin a notch and arranging her expression into a bland smile.

  Wyatt was facing the entry, so she could hardly avoid eye contact without being rude.

  “Have a nice lunch,” she said as she scuttled from the room.

  “Will do.”

  She
could’ve sworn the corner of his lips twitched before the menu came up to block his face. When she’d dreamed of seeing his smile before, this wasn’t at all what she’d had in mind.

  Chapter Four

  Wyatt stared at the unfolded trail map from the comfort of his car. It was possible he’d underestimated the difficulty of his objective in Bluebell. He thought he’d find the place he was looking for in the court records or in the police station’s records. But the former hadn’t turned up the details he needed, and the latter had been destroyed in a flood.

  The desk sergeant he’d spoken with was eager to help once Wyatt showed his badge, but there was nothing the man could do. The file was gone, and the officer on duty all those years ago had since passed away.

  Wyatt surveyed the trail map. He’d forgotten the thousands of acres that surrounded the little town. Had forgotten how many miles of trails wound through those mountains. He’d only been twelve that summer and was following his mom, not paying attention to where they were going.

  But he knew there’d been a waterfall nearby. And a rock formation he could still see in his mind’s eye. That was how he’d found his way . . . afterward.

  He looked up at the trailhead, at the sign that read Lone Creek Falls. Had to start somewhere.

  He exited his car, shouldered the backpack, and checked the position of his Glock. He didn’t anticipate trouble, but he’d learned long ago that a weapon was excellent prevention.

  He started up the trail, glad for the absence of tourists. His company this evening came in the form of nattering squirrels, tweeting birds, and scurrying chipmunks.

  The sun was still burning hot, and the shade of the woods was a welcome reprieve, as was the breeze that rustled the treetops. The air was heavy with the scent of pine and the earthy smell of decaying leaves. Strangely, these were not the smells that triggered him. Instead, it was the scent of wood smoke on clothes, which thankfully wasn’t present at the moment.

  He turned his thoughts to the lake house—the Bluebell Inn now. Though the exterior looked largely the same, the interior had undergone radical changes, particularly the upstairs. Still, it had been easy enough remembering his mother trotting down the stairs or his dad lounging on the front porch with a book. They’d spent a lot of time outside during those summers, Wyatt swimming or fishing, his mom never far away. And of course, they’d also gone camping regularly.