by Zoe York
She headed out into the hallway, where she promptly slammed right into Mr. Miller, who’d been heading…well, somewhere else. And now his hand was on her elbow and he was standing in front of her and looking down at her and she couldn’t breathe again and…
Chapter 7
Stetson
Jennifer crashed into him just as he was heading to the guest bathroom to clean up. Instinctively, he reached out to steady her, and then his hand dropped like he’d been burned.
Don’t touch the enemy!
He’d never felt so off balance in his life and he hated the feeling with a passion. He wasn’t about to show weakness in front of this woman though, so just as instinctive as steadying her had been, he now looked down at his watch theatrically. “It’s 5:05,” he informed the stupidly beautiful thief in front of him, who was sadly not in possession of a single mole, hairy or otherwise, on her nose. Damn the bad luck. “Didn’t I tell you to be gone by 5:00?”
Even as the words were leaving his mouth, he knew he shouldn’t. He knew he was being an ass. But today seemed to be the day for saying things that he knew he shouldn’t, and regretting them even as the words were coming out.
Well, at least the one thing he had going for him was consistency.
Her brilliant green eyes snapped open in shock and just as she opened her mouth to tell him her thoughts – in great detail, no doubt – Carmelita’s voice thundered through the house. “Stetson Byron Miller!” she yelled, advancing towards them in the already crowded hallway. He tried shrinking up against the wall, but his cowboy-turned-chameleon act didn’t work any better the second time.
“Your parents would be ashamed of you!” She poked him in the arm, glaring up at him, eyes flashing. He gulped. “You apologize to Ms. Jennifer—” She stopped and turned towards the thief in front of him. “What is your last name, dear?” she asked kindly, at total odds with the tone of voice she’d just been using with him.
Stetson wanted to thump his head back against the wall. Didn’t Carmelita know that this woman was trying to ruin five generations of Miller farmers? Whose side was she on, anyway?!
“Kendall,” the petite woman said politely, as if they were in a drawing room and being introduced over tea. Stetson glared down at her. She smiled angelically up at him.
“You apologize to Ms. Jennifer Kendall right now!” the housekeeper bellowed, not missing a beat as she turned back towards him, arms akimbo.
Stetson tried hard to stifle his groan. Voicing it would not help his case. “I apologize, Ms. Kendall, for my rudeness.” He wanted so badly to end that with, “I should be kind to those who are trying to destroy my life,” but somehow, through an inhuman act of self-restraint, he managed to swallow those words instead. He was rather proud of himself, really.
Jennifer seemed to be waiting for him to finish, as if she could sense there was more that he wanted to say, but when he stayed quiet, she nodded once in acceptance. “I will be here at 8 a.m. sharp tomorrow morning,” she informed him cooly.
With that, she turned sideways and shuffled past him, heading for the front door. Stetson flattened himself against the wall again, but still, her body traced a sizzling hot line across his where they brushed against each other.
Chapter 8
Jennifer
Jennifer drove down the long gravel pit Stetson apparently considered to be a driveway, heading back towards town. She’d blown through Sawyer on the way out to the Miller place that morning, but it was time to find her hotel – no, motel – room and some food. In that order.
There was a huge, fancy hotel on the edge of town that Jennifer had first spotted online when making reservations for this audit, but the price per night…it was definitely geared towards tourists, not bank auditors. Greg would’ve laughed himself off his chair if she’d asked for a $250-per-night per diem for a hotel room.
So Drop-Inn Motel it was.
Please don’t let the whole room be decorated with bugling elk.
She wasn’t sure how many more of them her fragile psyche could handle right about now. She sent the silent plea up to the heavens just as her phone buzzed in her bag. Keeping one eye on the gravel road as she fished around in her laptop bag, she finally snagged and pulled the vibrating phone out.
Paul Limmer, iMessages informed her.
Jennifer dropped her phone like she’d been scalded. Paul? Paul?!?!?!
“You do realize we’re not dating anymore, right?” she said aloud, and then felt ridiculous for talking to herself. She could read his message in a minute and decide how to respond then. For now, she needed to concentrate on where she was going. She’d made it back to town surprisingly fast; the drive had felt much longer that morning. She looked around as she drove through the tiny town, smiling a little as she went. Quaint brick buildings lined Main Street, leading up to a stone monument in the town center, flowering petunias planted around the base. It was…adorable.
She came to a stop at the only stoplight she’d spotted thus far and waited for it to turn green. Compared to Boise and the Treasure Valley area as a whole, it felt like a portal through time to drive down these streets. At least traffic wouldn’t be a problem with this audit. Honestly, no traffic and Carmelita’s cooking were about all this audit had going for it so far.
She refused to admit that Mr. Miller’s good looks were another plus towards the audit. Now, if he had a personality to match those good looks…
Eventually, she came upon the little motel, the low buildings lining a central parking lot. The Drop-Inn sign jutted out over the sidewalk and under the name, a smaller sign proclaiming “Color TV” creaked in the breeze, slowly swinging back and forth.
Jennifer studied the motel with a critical eye. It was straddling that fine line between quaint and rundown, and was teetering dangerously towards the later.
Please no elk decor, please no elk decor, Jennifer chanted to herself.
The hardest part of checking in was waking the little old lady in the rocking chair behind the counter. Once Margaret shook off the sleepiness, though, checking in was a simple matter of signing the guestbook. Jennifer was surprised when Margaret used an attachment on her iPhone to charge Jennifer’s company credit card.
“We may be a bit rundown, dear, but we’re not completely cut-off,” Margaret said in response to the look on Jennifer’s face. The cloud of blue hair bobbed up and down with Margaret’s forceful nod for emphasis.
“Th-hank you,” Jennifer stuttered, smiling politely as she accepted the key. An honest-to-God key with a heavy metal fob, the number “6” inscribed on it. She couldn’t remember the last time a hotel gave her a real room key. Maybe never.
“I hear you’re doing some accounting out at the Miller place,” the older woman continued, pinning Jennifer down with an inquiring stare.
“Oh, uh yeah,” Jennifer stumbled, not sure how much this lady already knew, or how she knew it. Were all small towns like this? She wasn’t sure if this was creepy or charming.
“Well, you set that boy straight. He’s a damned hard worker, but I don’t think he’s very good at keeping the books. He’d much rather be out driving a tractor than running an adding machine,” Margaret said, before wandering back to her television.
Obviously the “You’re here to take his farm away” part hadn’t been passed on to Margaret. Thank God for small favors.
Jennifer found the room easily enough. With only one floor and 15 rooms total, it wasn’t exactly difficult. It was so close to the office, she decided to just pack her stuff to it instead of re-parking the car.
Within a few minutes, she was set up. The room was nothing to get excited about, although it was thankfully free of elk decor. Instead, there were prints of ducks on the wall. Jennifer stared at the faded pink and baby blue duck prints for a moment, not sure if they were really an improvement over elk or not. The threadbare carpet was brown and suspiciously stained a darker brown in a couple of places. The queen-sized bed was just a bed and that was the best that co
uld be said about it.
Overall, it was a place to sleep.
Livin’ the life.
Somehow, when she’d been working her way through college for a second time, this hadn’t exactly been what she thought she’d get as her prize at the end. On the other hand, there were a lot of aspects of her life that had turned out wonderfully, so she shouldn’t complain too much.
Just because she shouldn’t didn’t mean she didn’t want to, though…
With a groan, she kicked off her conservative pumps and plopped down on the bed. Now that she’d gotten checked in, she needed to find a place to eat and then call Bonnie and commiserate. Bonnie’s job was just as awful as hers, so they had lots to commiserate about.
And really, what were best friends for?
Jennifer grabbed her phone and swiped to open so she could do a Google search for a restaurant, when iMessages opened instead, Paul’s message in front of her, demanding to be taken care of.
She wrinkled her nose in disgust. She’d been happy to forget all about the text message and live in ignorance, thankyouverymuch, but now that it was open, she ought to just deal with it and move on. Her eyes flicked down the long message once, twice, and then she started at the top again, reading more slowly this time. Surely this isn’t right…
I know this is hard for u Im sorry ur so confused about what happened Im willing to giv u a second chance to work this out U have to understand that as a dr i have to work closely with nurses other doctors & patients that r female. Ur jealousie is a prob but im willing to let you come back as long as ur working to control that jealousie.
He was willing to forgive her?!
Her thumbs hovered over the messaging app as she debated what to say, finally typing, “You’re drunk. Stop texting me,” and hit send.
It was pretty damn early to be that drunk, but on the other hand, this was Paul. He’d probably been dumped by yet another woman, and had started to make the rounds on his ex’s, hoping to find someone who would take him back.
He was nothing if not consistent, considering this was his third attempt at this game. Maybe he thought the third time really was a charm?
Happy to concentrate on something else, she closed the messaging app and switched over to Google Maps. She found a Betty’s Diner listed as being on Main Street, which meant she drove right past it on her way in. Whoops. Well, this would give her a chance to go admire Sawyer’s Main Street again. She grabbed her wallet, keys, and cell phone, and headed out to her car. Hmmm…food, wine, and then she could call Bonnie.
Order of operations. It was a thing.
She headed back down Main Street, this time focused on the names of the businesses instead of being overwhelmed by their overall cutesiness, when she spotted the sign. Betty’s Diner, with an electronically waving woman in an apron clutching a wooden spoon. How had she missed this on the way in? She must’ve been sidetracked by the bakery just down the street – The Muffin Man. She’d have to be sure to check that one out, too.
She pulled up into a parking spot in front of Betty’s Diner just as her stomach gurgled loudly. The OPEN sign was off, though, and the lights were too. Jennifer got out and walked up to the front door to stare forlornly at the business hours listed there. Open until two o’clock every afternoon.
Two? What kind of restaurant closes at two?!
Stomach still rumbling loudly, Jennifer climbed into her Honda and did another Google search, this time with urgency tingeing her movements. Surely there was another restaurant in town. Surely…
Nothing.
She drove back to the Drop-Inn, this time looking at the town with fewer stars in her eyes. Somehow, she’d found herself at the ass-end of the earth, where restaurants weren’t even civilized enough to stay open past mid-afternoon. What did people do around here – eat dinner at home every single night? Wasn’t that a little…old-fashioned? Who had time to cook every day, day in and day out?
She pulled up in front of the motel’s lobby and got out, stomping over to the front door with a little less cheer in her step than she’d had before, and woke the blue-haired lady up with an emphatic ring of the bell on the counter. Margaret moseyed on over to the front desk with a cheerful smile, leaving Wheel of Fortune on full blast behind her.
“Yes, dear?” she asked, blinking owlishly at Jenn.
“Do you have the take-out menus for the restaurants here in town?” Jennifer asked, a little desperate at this point. Maybe there was a side street she hadn’t driven down, and a wonderful restaurant would be located there, and it would be open, and for whatever reason, they had simply never registered themselves anywhere online.
That was totally possible.
“Take-out menus?” Margaret blinked again, obviously struggling to comprehend the question. “Betty’s is the best place in town for breakfast and lunch. I don’t know anything about their menus being taken out the front door. I’ve certainly never stolen one. But past two o’clock, you have to drive to Franklin.”
“How far is that?” she asked, choosing to ignore the “stealing” comment. She had food to find, dammit.
“’Bout thirty minutes away. Opposite direction from Boise.”
Which would explain why Jennifer hadn’t spotted it on the way to Sawyer this morning. She checked her phone. It was edging towards 7 p.m. She hadn’t planned on having to commute an hour round-trip just to find food.
“Is there any other place around here that sells food?” she asked, a note of desperation in her voice.
“Well…” the older lady said thoughtfully, “O’Malley’s Bar serves dinner. But only during the fair each year, and that ain’t until next month. You should come back for it. It’s the second weekend of August every year.” She paused, waiting for a response, and Jennifer forced a smile onto her face, her hands balling into fists at her sides. She could tell she was on the verge of hangry, which meant it was about to get ugly. “Oh! There’s the Muffin Man,” Margaret finally continued when Jennifer said nothing. “But it’s just donuts and cakes and it closes at five, so Gage has gone home now. You probably shouldn’t go to his house and ask him to make you food.”
Jennifer just stared at the woman.
I. Will. Kill. You.
“I guess you could probably find something over at Frank’s!” she finished triumphantly, excited to suggest something that was actually open. “It’s on the main road outta town towards Franklin. On the left. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” Jennifer ground out, and practically ran out of the motel office before she found herself spending the night behind bars for homicide.
Turned out, Frank’s was not gourmet food, unless you happened to be a horse. The full name of the business was actually “Frank’s Feed & Fuel,” where they sold bags of alfalfa pellets next to bags of potato chips. Jennifer settled on a thing called a “tortaco,” a fun-sized bag of tortilla chips, and a bottle of generic-brand orange juice.
Returning to her room, she didn’t even try to lie to herself about dinner. There was no way to get excited about a tortaco – whatever the hell that was, and especially not one that looked old enough to vote – and there was certainly nothing fun about the fun-sized bag of greasy chips.
She sank down on the bed, kicking off her heels again, when she realized a major flaw in her shopping trip: She hadn’t managed to get a hold of a bottle of wine anywhere along the way.
Well, she was just too damn tired to go out looking for one now. She’d have to search for a liquor store tomorrow. If the ass-end of the earth had such a thing. She was starting to doubt that it did.
Optimism. It was also a thing. Just not a right-now thing.
As she crunched into the tortaco, she looked over at her phone, exhaustion seeping out of every pore. She’d call Bonnie tomorrow. Although friends were there to listen and commiserate, there was only so much complaining someone should have to listen to, and Jennifer was pretty sure that tonight, she’d be serving up an overly large portion.
She’d c
all her bestie tomorrow, when she could be more positive. No reason to ruin Bonnie’s night, too.
With that, she flicked on the grainy TV and settled back to watch reruns of Home Improvement and eat greasy chips.
Yup, living the life.
Chapter 9
Jennifer
At 6:30 a.m., the alarm on her phone went off, and Jennifer blearily beat it into submission. No one should have to be awake at this time of day – it should be positively unlawful, actually – but she managed to push herself out of bed anyway. She wasn’t about to give Mr. Miller a reason to make another snarky comment by being late to work. She’d get out to the Miller farm at 8 o’clock on the dot if it killed her.
As she studied the motel room’s coffee pot, flicking the power switch off and on forlornly, it finally penetrated her non-caffeinated brain that it was totally refusing to turn on or do anything even remotely useful – like, say, make coffee.
Getting to work on time just might kill her after all.
After a hot shower, she felt slightly better about the world – although things were relative at this point – and got dressed. She pulled on her standard audit outfit: A black pencil skirt, black shirt, and black heels. It was hard enough to have farmers take her seriously; dressing the part could only help. It was a little on the severe side, but hey, at least it was professional.
She headed out the door, patting herself on the back for still being on time, despite the lack of caffeine, when she saw the rain that was pelting down. Dammit. Her mind flashed back to the long gravel “driveway” out to the Miller farm, and gulped. Hard. She drove a Honda Civic, not a Jeep 4x4.
Tossing her laptop bag into the passenger seat, she headed straight for the farm, deciding to forgo her planned stop for coffee at the Muffin Man. With muddy roads, she’d have to take it slow, and coffee just wasn’t meant to be. She could totally live without it for one day.
