Kirby turned back, smile still set in place, and handed his license back to him, belatedly realizing she’d been so distracted she hadn’t even looked at it. She’d check out the photocopy just as soon as she was alone.
She began explaining the rates, but he stopped her with, “I just need a single. Top floor if you have it. Doesn’t have to be fancy.”
She nodded and snagged a key from the hook under the counter. “One key will be okay?”
He nodded and palmed the key off the polished wood countertop. His hands were broad, tanned, and surprisingly well maintained. In fact, the brief flash she’d had of his long fingers, she’d have sworn he had a manicure. That…so didn’t seem to go with the rest of the persona. “How many nights?” She glanced up to find him looking at her, but she didn’t think he was actually seeing her. Hard to say. He was still wearing his sunglasses.
“Not sure. Is that a problem?”
So many things about this guy weren’t adding up. She could lie and tell him she was booked solid starting the coming weekend, but given the fact that he’d seen just how busy she’d been over the past month…or three, she didn’t think she could pull that off with the sincerity required. “No, that’s fine. How will you be paying? I take all major credit cards-”
“Cash,” he said.
She tried-and was certain she failed spectacularly-not to gape when he pulled out a wad of bills being held together with a wide paper band. The kind of band that looked like a bank band. What the hell did that mean?
He peeled off several bills and laid them on the counter. “That should take care of the next few days.” He wasn’t trying to flaunt it, nor was he coming off with any braggadocio or arrogance. In fact, he tucked the wad away as swiftly as he’d pulled it out.
“I-um, yeah, I mean yes,” she said, taking the bills-the one-hundred-dollar bills-off the counter. He hadn’t even asked her rates. “That will be fine. Wine, cheese, crackers will be available in the front parlor at five and I can direct you to several local restaurants for lunch, dinner, depending on-”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, sliding the strap of his gear back over his shoulder. “And don’t go to any trouble for me with the wine. I doubt I’ll be back down tonight.”
“Okay,” she said. Despite the mane of curly, wind-tossed hair, the beard stubble, and beat-up leather jacket, he seemed a rather decent sort. Quiet, mannerly. Then there was the wad of bills and salon-maintained hands. And the fact that she still hadn’t seen his eyes yet. Eyes said a lot about a person. She tried to pull her thoughts together. After sliding the bills into the cash drawer under the counter, she stepped out from behind the desk. “Let me show you to your room.”
He glanced at the key. “Number seven?” Then his lips curled briefly and he muttered something like “Lucky seven,” under his breath.
“Yes, top floor, back corner, nice view down the valley and the front range from your window.”
He curled the key into his palm and shifted his gear bag up farther on his shoulder. “I’m sure it will be fine. Thanks.” He gave her a nod, then started up the stairs.
She watched as he turned at the first landing and kept climbing, his heavy tread on the steps at odds with his otherwise quiet demeanor. She briefly thought that perhaps she should follow him up for security reasons, but it wasn’t like he wouldn’t have ample time to explore the place, and she couldn’t be everywhere at once. There were cameras installed discreetly in the top corner molding at the ends of each hallway, but they weren’t hooked up to anything yet. The guests didn’t have to know that, however.
As soon as she heard the creaking floorboards up overhead, she slid the paper from the copier and turned it over. “Brett Hennessey,” she read, then skimmed the rest of the information. He was from Las Vegas. And, noting he’d just turned thirty right before the holidays, he was ten years younger than she was. She smiled at herself and all her fluttery little hormones. So he was a little older than she’d thought, but the only other surprise was that he hadn’t ma’am’d her. If he’d noticed her reaction to him at all, he’d probably thought she was having a hot flash.
She penned a quick note on a small sticky pad, peeled it off and stuck it on the paper copy of his license, and then slid it in the fax machine and sent it off to Thad. Not that she was truly concerned, not really. Still, Las Vegas, long way from home, big wad of cash, dusty motorcycle-riding, road-weary, hunky rider in black chaps with a sweet ass and perfectly maintained cuticles…Yeah, that was not your typical inn guest. She might not ever find out what he was all about, but there was definitely a story.
That was actually, in part, her attraction to wanting to be an innkeeper. As a child, growing up in a small resort town in the middle of the Rockies, she’d always looked up at airplanes flying overhead and wondered where the passengers inside were going, what adventure or journey they were embarking on…or returning from. Of course, in her youthful fantasies, the stories were always fantastical. Nothing so mundane as a burned-out businessman heading back from a boring meeting on the coast. But, even in her far more mature, far less naive forty-year-old mind, she still found people endlessly fascinating and wondered what their story was, what path they were on. As someone who provided a way station along that path, she’d get to find out.
Like the group who’d stayed through the holidays. Three couples, each in their late twenties, all of whom had begun dating each other while in college together, had reserved rooms to attend the wedding of the fourth couple in their college quartet. Two of the couples were simply enjoying the reunion and time spent catching up, but the third woman had confided in Kirby that she was hoping that watching two of their oldest and dearest friends tie the knot would prompt her significant other to finally pop the question. Kirby had kept her opinion on the likelihood of that happening to herself, but she’d enjoyed the confided secret nonetheless.
Not that she was nosy-okay, she totally was, but she didn’t pry. Not exactly. Mostly because she didn’t have to. She’d grown up inside a ski resort, and had literally done every job conceivable along the way, from cleaning rooms and working registration, to busing tables and even running the ski lifts. One thing she’d learned was that if she was friendly and outgoing, and tried to make her guests feel at home-a feeling that she hoped her bed-and- breakfast-style inn would encourage-people talked, chatted, and generally shared far more with her, a complete stranger, than they sometimes did with those in their own party.
She looked at Mr. Hennessey’s license and wondered what his story might involve. Why was he such a long way from home…and where was he going from here? Why did he have such a big wad of cash? Had he gambled big in Vegas and won? Except he lived there according to his license. Had he stolen the money? And why had he biked cross-country instead of hopping a plane? Was he on the run? Or merely taking a long road trip, seeing the country? Plus, why did a guy wearing dusty biker leathers have the hands of a Wall Street investment banker?
She laid the paper down and entered all the information into the computer…and wondered if he’d be here long enough for her to find out.
Chapter 2
Brett Hennessey just needed a place to stop.
And think.
He was tired. Tired of running, tired of not knowing what the best course of action was, tired of worrying about the people he cared about. His life had never been normal, but he thought he’d finally gotten a handle on balancing the expectations that had been placed on him. Somehow, over the past six months, it had all spun out of control. He wasn’t even sure when it had begun unraveling, really. So many little threads, he supposed. Threads he’d let go and ignored because they annoyed him and he hadn’t wanted to deal with the bullshit they presented. None of them particularly important, in and of themselves, but collectively, they’d all seemed to unravel completely at once.
Easy to say now that he should have spent a little more time on the annoying bullshit part as it had come along, but he’d never been good at that part. He’d told them all that. The sponsors, tournament directors, media agents, casino owners, television producers. Repeatedly. They’d told him to hire people to handle the details. Delegate. But he wasn’t comfortable with having people counting on him for their personal livelihood. Hell, he hadn’t been all that crazy about earning his own livelihood that way. Not to mention the fact that the idea of people hanging around him all the time, looking over his shoulder, waiting to see if he would win big again, and thereby get to keep their jobs, would have driven him bonkers. There were already too many people, too much noise, too
