Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology

by Anthony, Jane

  That may be true but I can use it today and I plan to since I haven’t thought of anything better. “Sorry, Dwight.”

  He shakes his head but takes one wonderful step away from my counter. “One day, Tara, I’m going to make you mine.”

  “Fat chance,” I whisper under my breath when he’s far enough away. I may not want to date Dwight, but I also don’t want the future owner to hate me. He is the nephew of the owner and the only relative with a desire to keep this place going. I rather like my job and I don’t want to lose it yet.

  Distance from my family wasn’t the only reason I moved from the West Coast to Pelican Bay. I also wanted to see a new place, and I’ve always loved the idea of working in an old renovated bed-and-breakfast. The history here is more than you ever find on the west side of America.

  Of course, in my dreams I own the bed-and-breakfast, but after getting my degree in hospitality management, this is the next best step. Until I can save up enough money to buy one of my own. A haunted one with Victorian era details. One I can work to fix up and restore to its previous glory.

  I arrived in Pelican Bay during the middle of the summer, when the temperatures were beautiful and I could spend my off time walking around the beach, and eating ice cream from the little shop on the shore. The weather conditions have changed drastically in the last six months. The summer breezes which cooled the place off, making the temperature wonderful, are now freezing cold. 6:30 in the morning it’s more often than not a negative temperature. Like below zero. Who in the hell believed temperatures went that low? I had to wear gloves this morning. It should be illegal to be so cold.

  Frostbite aside, Pelican Bay has been gorgeous. I’m not ready to be fired and forced to leave so soon.

  “Did you see him this morning?” The question comes from behind and I whirl around, abandoning my silent stakeout on the restaurant doors. Now that it’s 7:20 I’ve missed my favorite hotel guest walking in to grab his breakfast. Stupid Mondays.

  My slumped shoulders are my answer. “No.” It would be a day that Graham Kinney probably looks scrumptiously good, and I missed him. Ugh.

  Cammie leans against the counter, her eyes dreamy. “He did this new thing with the gel in his hair. It’s GQ worthy.”

  I swear little hearts are coming out of her head like you see on cartoon animals as she stares with dreams in her eyes at the wall.

  I have my own issues with the revelation. All sad. Gel. I missed GQ man wearing gel. Stupid Dwight. Stupid Monday. “If nothing happens, I can catch him when he walks out.” I don’t want to miss a good hair day.

  If I pretend to be busy with paperwork, there’s a chance I’ll be at the desk by the time he finishes eating. It never takes him more than twenty minutes. Anyone can stall that long.

  “Get your camera ready because you will want to memorialize this forever,” Cammie whispers as one of our regulars from town walks in the front doors. I wave to Mrs. Whitney as she comes on right to the dining room.

  I nudge Cammie on the shoulder. We only met six months ago, both of us new to the bed-and-breakfast, but we become quick friends. Pelican Bay is a small friendly town, but it’s better when you have a connection with someone.

  “I can’t take a picture. If I got caught, I’d lose my job.” I mean, if it was a great gel hair day it might be a risk I’d be willing to take.

  “It’s worth it. Trust me, today is total spank bank material.”

  “Shhhh.” I use a hand to try and cover her mouth in case someone is nearby as my eyes search the area with frantic sweeps, but there’s no one in sight.

  With Cammie twisting her body into an unnatural position so she can peek into the dining room, I mentally pretend she’s not blocking my view and shuffle Dwight’s stack of papers from the desk.

  Without warning she pushes against my shoulder, sending me sliding into the desk corner with pain spreading through my hip. “What the hell?”

  “He’s coming!” Cammie whisper yells. Then, leaving me high and dry to ogle Mr. GQ all by myself, she scampers off down the hallway behind the front desk.

  I slid fast, so I didn’t lose my chance, and stepped around the desk rubbing an open palm against my hip, trying to wipe away the pain from bashing into the corner but also smoothing out the long-sleeved navy and white polka dot dress I picked out this morning. Yes, I’m trying to impress him. There’s no other reason anyone would wear a dress in these ridiculous Maine temperatures. Even inside.

  Cut me some slack. Not a lot happens here in the winter. We all need a good distraction from time to time.

  The man I’ve been waiting for walks out of the dining room proving all of Cammie’s words true. His hair is gelled perfectly and flops just the right amount to the left side. I don’t know what he does for a living, but he’s never worn a suit and tie, yet somehow, he makes his tight-fitting jeans cradle his ass. You could probably bounce a quarter off of his tight butt cheeks. The long sleeve thermal shirt with an unbuttoned flannel on top is enough to make any girl soon. It’s like he’s a… Metrosexual lumberjack.

  “Good morning Mr. Kinney,” I say when he is two steps out of the dining room and then curse myself because I’m not playing it cool this morning. I fidget on my feet, trying not to send off stalker signals, but I’m guessing there are flashing warning sirens.

  Thankfully, he stops a foot from the desk before turning toward the front door and smiling in my direction. I should have grabbed my camera. This picture with him and his straight white teeth beaming at me would be worth losing my job. I’ll never question Cammie again.

  “Good morning, Tara,” he says and I swoon because he knows my name. Hot guy knows my name! This isn’t new information — he’s called me by my first name for two weeks now — but I still get a thrill over hearing him use it.

  The two of us stand there staring at one another and I realize he’s waiting for me to say something. But what?

  “Will you be staying another week?” It is Monday morning, after all, and he hasn’t checked out of his open-ended reservation.

  He nods once. “Yes, it seems I’m not quite ready to leave yet,” he says, the words trailing past his lips and each echo in my mind. I’m processing how he gets his hair to fall so perfectly when Graham turns on a heel and walks right out the front door of the bed-and-breakfast.

  I swoon. Again. Because I’m a crazy weirdo.

  “Girl, you’ve got it bad,” Cammie’s voice comes from behind.

  I wind around in her direction. “Where did you come from?”

  She laughs, her brown hair bobbing high in her ponytail. “I watched the whole thing go down in the hallway.”

  “What friend hides out watching me make a fool of myself in front of the hottest guy since Brad Pitt was in Legends of the Fall?”

  Cammie rolls her eyes. “First off, Brad Pitt was not hot in Legends of the Fall and second, you were fine. I wanted to give you and hot lover boy a few minutes alone. And it gave me a better angle to take a picture.”

  Wait, there’s a picture? “Go clean something.” I shoo her away with my hand and then yell as she walks backward from the front desk, “And send me the picture!” She better not be lying.

  Her laughter floats down the hallway as she passes the first three rooms.

  2

  “Are you going to eat that?” Cammie asks as she removes the golden-brown roll from my lunch tray.

  I mourn my favorite food in the world as it passes under my nose and lands on her plate. “No, you can have it.”

  Cammie shakes her head in dismay but wastes no time splitting the roll in two and slathering butter on one side. “How long do you think this no carb thing of yours is going last?”

  “I’m eating carbs.” You can’t give up carbs all the way even if you wanted. I’m pretty sure carbs waft around in the air waiting to be consumed when I breathe.

  “Tara, twelve net carbs a day is not enough carbs for a small mouse.”

  “It’ll be worth it during swimsuit
season.” At least I hope it will be because I miss bread. Bagels. Sandwiches. Bananas. Who in the hell knew bananas were loaded with carbs? It’s not fair. I’m sure last night I had a dream where Mr. GQ fed me a piece of whole wheat bread with bananas and peanut butter, and it was the sexiest thing I’ve ever dreamed.

  “At least this diet works out for me because every carb you won’t eat, I will, and it’s spectacular because I love these rolls.”

  I shake my head in her direction because it’s so true. The dinner rolls at the bed-and-breakfast are buttery soft, and fresh out of the oven. They’re included in every single employee lunch and dinner. The fact I’ve been able to withstand eating one for the last two-and-a-half weeks proves I have nerves of steel. If I can do this for another few weeks, I can do anything.

  “Just promise me if you have dreams involving bread you’ll consider other options.”

  “What?” I play down her comment. “Who would have dreams about bread? That’s ridiculous.”

  Cammie raises an eyebrow as my delicious roll pushes past her lips. “People do weird shit when they haven’t had carbs.”

  “I’ll be fine.” My face must be unconvincing from the glance she gives. “Really. I barely miss them?”

  “Uh- huh.” She shoves the other half of my roll into her mouth and closes her eyes while she wordlessly moans over the buttery flavor. Carb whore.

  I wonder how many carbs a stick of butter has? Too many.

  “You know what you should do to help keep your mind off your lack of real food?”

  “Cammie, how many times have I told you celery is real food?” I wave my half-eaten bag of celery in front of my face hoping it will make them more appetizing. It doesn’t.

  Cammie doesn’t buy it for a second. “Yeah, for a rabbit. But listen, that’s not important. What you should do to get yourself over the hunger pains is go check out Mr. Kinney’s room and see what he stashes in his drawers.”

  “No way! I would lose my job.” It’s one thing to talk about carbs the way she does, but a different thing to suggest I riffle through someone’s belongings — especially that someone.

  “My cousin Katy taught me how to pick a lock when we were twelve, but there’s no breaking and entering required. I have a housekeeping key.”

  “No.” Definitely breaking and entering, key or no key.

  “Come on. It’s time for my six-month review. Why don’t we head down the hallway and you can pick a room at random to inspect my work and then we’ll inspect his underwear drawer?”

  Another drawer joke? “No.”

  “He rolls them.”

  “He does not.” Graham isn’t a rolling guy. He’s a shove them on top of each other and slam the door closed guy. A woman can tell these things.

  Cammie nods her head. “Yes, he lines them up in a row.” How did she learn this? She’s been checking out his drawers.

  “Boxers or briefs?” I ask, ignoring the fact Cammie is breaking a lot of protocols by knowing how someone folds their underwear. Housekeeping shouldn’t open any drawers in an occupied room.

  One of her eyebrows raises higher, but she pretends to lock a seal over her lips and throws away the key. “I guess you’ll never find out.”

  “I guess not.” Under no conditions am I going to enter someone’s room and then look through their underwear drawer. “No, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later?”

  The housekeeping staff gets out of work two hours before I do, but Cammie normally stops to say goodbye when her shift ends.

  The rest of the day goes by fast, and I spend most of the time at the reception desk. Day-to-day management of the bed-and-breakfast is a busier job, but it’s been quiet. Before long the alarm on the desk reads 3:10. There’s at least two hours and fifty minutes before my favorite guest will be home, but the next alarm will sound in about an hour and a half to make sure we’re prepped for the dinner rush.

  It means I have time to waste. The worst expression I heard when I worked retail in college was, “If you have time to lean, you have time to clean.” It was the most annoying thing in the world, but now that I’m older and the boss I get it. There’s a stack of papers at the bottom of the front desk and I’m sure no one has touched them in ten years.

  I can busy myself with shredding while I wait for him to come back. Not that I plan my day around Graham’s schedule. That would make me a stalker. This is a convenient coincidence I’m helping to facilitate. There’s a difference. A big fat line in the sand. It’s like four feet wide, but don’t measure it, just trust me on this one.

  The radio hanging on the side of the desk squawks. “Front desk honey momma,” the voice calls and I shake my head while reaching for the walkie-talkie. I don’t know whose great idea it was to give ourselves codenames and I’m not sure how I ended up with front desk honey momma as my moniker. I thought if I ignored the name they’d move on but after three months that has not happened.

  “What’s up?”

  Tim, one of our younger maintenance guys, speaks again. “There’s a huge water leak coming out of room 112. You’ve got water gushing out a wall down here. You better check it out.”

  It’s the same gut instinct reaction I imagine you’d have if somebody said the garage was exploding or your car was burning. My heart kicks into triple overtime and I clutch the hand radio and race down the hallway to check on room 112. Water problems are one of the worst issues you can have, especially in these older buildings. It can cause hundreds of thousands of dollars in damage in a few unchecked minutes.

  “Get someone to the basement to shut off the main valve,” I yell into the walkie-talkie while running in the right direction. Yes, the guests won’t have water, but it’s quicker to turn off the whole building while we figure out what’s happening in the one room than risk more damage to the wood.

  I skid to a stop when I reach room 112, which happens to be Mr. GQ’s room. But that’s not my first clue something has gone wrong. There’s also the lack of extreme water gushing from any walls and the carpet is bone dry. Tim eyes his feet as he stands in the hallway looking like he’s about to get in trouble.

  “I’m sorry, but she paid me ten bucks,” he says with one shoulder slumped up to his ear before walking down the hallway like he’s an Olympic speed walker going for the gold.

  The door to room 112 swings open with a small creak from the hinges like we’re in a horror movie. Probably and early indication of my fate if I step inside this room.

  “Hurry and get in here,” Cammie says peeking her head out from the edge of the open doorway.

  I go into his room, but only for the sole purpose of making sure she gets out. Even as her friend I can’t overlook this. It’s unethical.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, flailing my hands around in front of me because when I get upset, I talk with them. A flailing hand helps to get the point across. For regular people, not always Cammie.

  “Now that I’ve got you in his room you have to look.”

  “Cammie, I won’t paw through his stuff. It’s against the law. Total invasion of privacy.”

  “Okay, fine. I’ll give you we shouldn’t open any drawers, but it’s like the police, if you can see it with the naked eye, it’s legal.”

  I spin around his room doing whatever I can to get her out of here. If that means I have to play along for a few minutes, then fine. “There, I’ve looked. Let’s go.” My twitchy elbow flicks out and knocks something off of the dresser as I come to a stop.

  “Oh crap,” Cammie utters.

  On the floor at my feet is a can of white shaving cream, except there’s something wrong with the bottle. The bottom of the can has fallen off and rather than create a huge mess on the room’s carpeting, the bottom lies on the other side exposing a fake compartment.

  “Cammie, don’t touch it,” I try to pull her back as she reaches for the can but she dumps the contents into her hand.

  “Look at this,” she says holding up a small three-inch device and a picture of
the bed-and-breakfast. It was taken from the outside, in the spring with trees full of leaves. “He’s not only hot. Graham Kinney is a spy.”

  “He is not.” Who would jump to that career choice right off the bat? I mean okay normal people don’t walk around with false bottom shaving cream cans and USB drives and pictures of the bed-and-breakfast I’m working at, but I can think of a lot of things he could be rather than a spy.

  Like a serial killer.

  Or better, a land developer from Clearwater here to bulldoze over the old place and build a new fancier hotel in its place.

  Nobody would go to spy first.

  “Only a secret agent would walk around with this stuff.”

  “I’m a security and surveillance expert, actually, although I wanted to be one as a kid,” a deep male voice thunders, walking into the room and stopping behind my back. It’s one of those out-of-body experiences when you’re aware the person is inches from you, but you don’t dare turn around and check.

  Cammie’s face pales and she drops the canister and USB to the ground, the picture floats slowly landing on top.

  Oh shit.

  3

  “What?” Cammie sticks her hand over her ear and looks into the hallway with wide frantic eyes. “I’ll be right there.”

  I reach out to grab her but she dashes by making her way out the door and leaving me alone with only my red hands and one pissed off looking GQ model who is definitely a spy.

  “Um, it’s not what it looks like.” I hold my hands up letting him see I didn’t take anything, but it doesn’t make Graham’s face soften.

  His lips form a straight line only broken when he speaks. “That’s interesting, because it looks to me like breaking and entering.”

  Bile tumbles around in my stomach, threatening to come up and land on the floor next to the broken bottle of shaving cream. “I swear it’s not that. There was a suspected water leak on the radio and I came in to check, but then Cammie left. Now you’re here and there’s no shaving cream on the floor so that’s good. Carpet is expensive.”