Call it Fate Page 3

  Mrs. Crawley looked up while she waited for her husband to make his move. “Oh, how wonderful, dear. This is just what this day needs!”

  I smiled at the older woman. “Thank you.”

  I put a couple of cookies on a napkin and brought it over to them, causing Mr. Crawley to beam and give me a wink. “Good thing I’m already married, or I’d be knocking on your door every day.”

  I laughed at his harmless flirting.

  “What did you say this game is called?” he asked as he moved a blue marble on the cross-shaped board.

  I was happy to see them playing one of the traditional Appalachian games I kept out on the coffee table. “It’s called Fox and Geese. It dates at least as far back as the eighteenth century. Folks here in the mountains used to play it with white and yellow corn on a cloth,” I explained. “It’s a game they brought over with them when they immigrated, most of them from Scotland. There’s even a record of one of the English kings ordering the game in the 1400s. You’ll find a lot of Scottish influences in the mountains.”

  “My goodness,” his wife exclaimed, helping herself to another cookie. “You’re so full of knowledge of the area,” she exclaimed. “I love it here. We’re definitely telling our friends about this place.” She dropped her chin and raised her eyebrows above the rim of her glasses. “Did I tell you about our Charlie?”

  She had. Several times, as a matter of fact. They were on their way to visit him on the other side of the state, and I could tell she was excited to see him.

  “Word of mouth is always appreciated,” I answered. Not wanting to offend her, I listened once again as she told me about their son. I loved to chat with my guests, but I’d learned from experience—since this couple arrived two days ago—that Mrs. Crawley could talk almost nonstop. She’d easily give Beverly a run for her money.

  Finally, I made my escape when she took a bite of another cookie. Since all but one of the incoming guests were checked in, I spent the rest of the afternoon planning my breakfasts for the following week, making more lists, and sweeping and mopping the entranceway that never ceased to have dirt tracked in despite the rugs at the front doors.

  “Mama! Guess what? It’s snowin’.” A blur of dark blue burst through the door along with a whirlwind of the flakes he was excited about.

  “Iain James Dawson, what have we told you about being so loud?” My mother rolled her eyes and shook her head as she followed him into the front foyer.

  “Sorry, Gramma.” His green eyes snapped to mine. “But this is big. Tommy Lee said we’re supposed to get so much snow tonight we might get buried. He called it a lizard.”

  It seemed Tommy Lee had been redeemed in Iain’s eyes since this morning with this new bit of information. I chuckled as I kneeled in front of him and helped unwrap his winter coat and scarf. “I think Tommy meant ‘blizzard,’ but I don’t think we’re going to have to worry about being buried.”

  “But maybe enough to get out of school?” he asked; hopeful eyes peeped up at me from where he was sitting on the floor trying to unlace his boots.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But never enough to get out of doing your homework and getting your chores done.” I looked up at my mom, who was picking up the pile of gloves, coat, and scarf my little whirlwind had dropped. “I’m sorry, Mama. I’ve got to keep an eye on some food I’m cooking for tonight and am still waiting for a guest to arrive. Would you mind keeping an eye on him?”

  “Of course not, honey. You know that. Whatever you’re cookin’, it sure smells good. Our guests are in for a treat tonight.” She glanced out the window. “I’m glad you thought of it, honey. I don’t know about a blizzard, but tonight is going to be dicey. It’s a night to be safe and sound at home.” She squeezed my shoulder before she carried everything toward the kitchen where the door to our quarters was.

  I looked back at my son, his cheeks still pink from the cold. “I left a plate of cookies for you in the kitchen,” I told Iain. “Your favorite. Gramma will get you some milk.”

  “Thanks, Mom!” His young arms wrapped around my legs. “Wow. Snow and cookies. This day is awesome!”

  I laughed and shook my head, same as my mother a few minutes earlier, as he ran through the dining area toward the kitchen. Slow wasn’t in his vocabulary, no matter how many times my mama and I had tried to teach him. But he was an incredible kid who always brought light and joy wherever he went, so I could put up with a few door slams and boisterous greetings.

  The guests who witnessed it were usually so charmed by him they rarely complained, although I did try to limit his activity to our quarters whenever possible. Someday, I’d have the time, energy, and finances to work on my dream of redoing the caretaker’s cottage at the back of our property so he could run and make noise with more freedom.

  By the time five o’clock rolled around, I was beginning to worry my last guest wasn’t going to make it. Already about four inches of heavy, wet snow had accumulated on the road in front of the inn and even more on the grass. I could hear the wind howl through the breezeway that connected the inn to our residence.

  Almost no one was out except for a few kids throwing snowballs and building a small snowman in the park. Most people would hunker down in their warm homes, and I’d already heard the rumor that the stores and restaurants were closing early, many already having locked up. I was glad I’d made supper for my guests.

  I busied myself in the kitchen making the grilled cheese sandwiches and frying up the bacon for the BLTs. I heated up a tomato bisque I’d made the day before since I knew it was my mom’s favorite and put together a charcuterie board of various cheeses, fruits, and crackers that guests could help themselves to, along with a plate of more cookies. It wasn’t much, but I figured it was better than nothing.

  I sent a text message to the guests, inviting them downstairs for an impromptu meal, and it wasn’t long before their doors opened, and the small dining room filled. I opened extra bottles of the wine I kept on hand for my evening wine and cheese hour, and using tidbits I learned about my guests, found commonalities and introduced them to the other guests.

  Soon, the downstairs common rooms were occupied by chattering new friends. I kept the trays full, glad I had doubled my recipes for the soups. The smiles of the guests as they helped themselves was worth the extra trouble, and all of them promised to leave a positive review on our website.

  The hours rolled by, and the guests returned to their rooms. I had done my best to keep up with the dishes and trash, but there was still a lot of cleaning up to be done so the kitchen would be ready to make breakfast in the morning.

  When I heard the bell signal that someone had come in the front door, I hollered loudly that I’d be right there. I quickly rinsed off the pan in my hands and hurried through the dining room. I was surprised to look up to see a tall man tug off his hat and run a hand through his messy, dark hair and over his cold-reddened cheeks.

  It wasn’t the woman I was expecting. I assumed he got caught in the storm and was looking for a place to stay. That was going to cause a problem since I didn’t have any extra rooms, but I couldn’t send him back out in that storm.

  I waited while he finished stomping the snow from his shoes, grateful he didn’t track the extra moisture across the floors I’d recently cleaned.

  “Looks like the storm really picked up out there.” The smile I had ready to greet him faded as he looked up.

  My hand shook. Dark green eyes crowned by a streak of gold stared at me; eyes that once had been a part of my past but also ones I saw every day. “Zach?”

  The hand reaching for his back pocket froze. Those beautiful eyes focused on me. I knew it all clicked for him when they widened briefly before he schooled his features, his eyes looking annoyingly blank, which only heightened my nerves. “Emalee. What a surprise. What are you doing here?”

  I swallowed hard. This was my nightmare come true. Things like this only happened in the movies or in the books I liked to read. “I manage this p
lace. What…” I cleared my throat. “What are you doing here?”

  His eyes continued to roam over my face. I didn’t think he was going to answer when he finally said, “I have a reservation.”

  What? That was impossible. My hands wrung each other until I willed them into a grip so tight, they turned white. “There must be a mistake. We’re booked for the night. I’m just waiting for my last guest to arrive. I thought you were her. She should be here any minute.”

  I felt like an idiot stammering out sentences like an automated machine, but my brain was firing in so many directions, trying to process the overload of surprising information.

  A flash of annoyance crossed his face. “Someone else called for the reservation, and this is the address she gave me. Believe me, if I’d known, I’d never…”

  I blanched at his caustic tone, grateful he hadn’t finished the sentence. He’d what? Never come if he’d known I was here? Rushed to me sooner? I’d long since given up on ever seeing Zach again. Weeks after I left the hotel, where we’d last been together, in such a hurry, I had tried to find him, only to discover Zach had also pulled a disappearing trick. Over the years, I thought about searching for him again to tell him everything that had happened, but I couldn’t risk it.

  I hurried behind the counter, glad to have a barrier between the two of us. I opened up my laptop, cursing myself for not double-checking the reservation Shannon had made. Sure enough, there was the name “Zach Abbot,” scheduled to stay a week. The soup and sandwich, which had tasted warm and comforting earlier, now sat like a rock in my stomach. I swayed slightly and grabbed the edge of my desk for support.

  “Are you okay?” He sounded more annoyed than concerned.

  No! “Yes, thanks. Just surprised by the turn of events.”

  He blew out a long breath and ran his fingers through his hair again, the dampness from the snow causing it to wave on the ends. I hated that my fingers wanted to join his, to play with the strands that were a bit longer than I remembered. The style suited him better, softening the once clean-cut, preppy appearance to better hint at the boyishly fun charm he’d used to win me over. I wouldn’t be so easily fooled this time, however. Not that he seemed inclined to win me over again.

  Those eyes that reminded me of my cousin Chase’s Christmas tree farm pierced through me. “Yeah, I could say the same. But look, it was a long, hellish drive. Maybe I could finish checking in, and we can talk another time.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course!” With shaking fingers, I swiped his credit card and handed him his key card. “You’re in the blue room, up these stairs, first door on the left. Breakfast is available between seven-thirty and nine-thirty each morning.” I didn’t point out my number in the brochure he could call in case of emergency.

  Grabbing his suitcase, he stomped up the steps, not even pausing to say thank you.

  “Welcome to Sterling Mill,” I called after him, not bothering to hide my sarcasm.

  More like welcome to my fresh hell.

  Chapter 4

  Zach

  * * *

  Upstairs, I dropped my bag to the floor and sank onto the bed. Between the hazardous drive and the unexpected reunion with Emalee, I was drained. What were the odds that after almost seven years, I’d ended up in the same small town, at the same bed-and-breakfast she was in? Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket tomorrow.

  For years, the thought of her name infuriated me. How could she have just left me, especially after the evening we’d shared? Why had she ghosted me? Had she been here the entire time? There were dozens of questions I was dying to ask her. I wasn’t so naïve as to believe she’d take one look at me and cry out an apology as well as an explanation. But nor had I expected once she got over her surprise for her to appear scared before her eyes flashed with fire, and she settled into a cold politeness. I was the one she’d wronged, not the other way around.

  I wanted to hate her. No, that wasn’t right; that took too much energy. I wanted to not feel anything, to not feel the unexplainable connection when I saw her again, just like the first time. I wanted to sleep without memories of her in my dreams. I wanted to not see her as “my sunshine” but rather as the storm clouds which had become my life after she disrupted it.

  I wanted to not want her anymore.

  With a groan, I flopped back on the bed and threw my arm across my eyes as if it could block out the past ten minutes. Not a chance.

  She was more beautiful than I remembered. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back into some kind of fancy braid with a few tendrils framing the sides of her face, softening the look. She looked polished but approachable. Even through the stylishly bulky sweater she wore, her curves looked more womanly. Her eyes still glowed with warmth and a welcome—at least, until she recognized me. My brain reacted with disgust, but my body responded differently—my heart beat faster, my breath felt more shallow. And let’s not forget how my dick sat up and took notice of her.

  Our weeks together when she’d been at a cooking school and I’d been a student at the prestigious Edonton University in Charlotte had been a whirlwind, although, in that short amount of time, I’d felt a stronger connection to her than I had with anyone before or since. She’d been so sweet, so open and honest, and had a smile so big and bright I found myself doing anything to earn it, which hadn’t been hard, at least then. I’d been attracted to her from the beginning, then completely charmed by her wit and sweetness. I thought we were happy.

  All these years later, I was no closer to understanding what happened. We’d been at my Spring fraternity social. We’d had sex together for the first time. I’d had to leave to take care of some fraternity business, but when I’d returned, she was gone. She never responded to my texts or phone calls.

  I tried to push Emalee from my mind, but I was exhausted, frustrated, and powerless against the rising tide of memories that came flooding back from almost seven years ago, of how I’d panicked when I couldn’t find her. Why had the girl I was falling in love with disappeared? What had I missed?

  At first, I worried something terrible had happened to her. Maybe she’d been in an accident. I called hospital after hospital. I tried to get the police involved, but they’d assured me no one else had listed her as missing, and they had found no one matching her description, injured or dead. They not-so-gently told me I’d been duped and dumped. When I realized I was beginning to look like a stalker, I backed down. I spoke to my father’s private investigator from his firm, but Julio laughed at me for wanting to waste his time tracking down a “bit of fluff” I’d only known for a month. Maybe they were all right.

  Sometimes, I wondered if meeting Emalee had been a blessing or a curse.

  The sound of a snowplow roused me from my memories. It was completely dark outside, but inside was toasty with the warm glow from table lamps and a gas fireplace that had been lit prior to my arrival. I hadn’t even noticed any of it when I’d first walked in.

  I glanced around my quarters for the rest of the week. The walls were painted a pale blue that picked up similar tones in the soft carpet in front of the bed. The narrow plank floors had a reddish-brown finish, making everything feel warm despite the snowy day outside. White crown molding and long, heavy navy curtains gave the room a polished and homey feel. A white fireplace in the center of one wall tied in the rest of the colors of the bedding and the armchairs flanking it. A modest chandelier, a desk, a couple of tables, and some nicely framed art of what I guessed to be local scenery finished the decor.

  I tried to find fault in it, not wanting to like anything associated with Emalee Dawson. I came up empty. The richness of the room felt elegant yet comfortable, a stark contrast to the cold and museum-like home I’d grown up in despite the enormous amount of money the designer had charged.

  My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, not wanting to risk the roads worsening if I stopped. As much as I didn’t want to confront her again—or did I?—I pushed off the comfortable bed where I k
new, under different circumstances, I’d sleep well. But knowing Emalee was so close was bound to cause a restless night.

  I washed up in the en suite bathroom—also tastefully and comfortably outfitted—and made my way downstairs. A sign on the desk stated management had gone home but could be reached by the listed phone number in case of emergency. It was hard to sort if I felt relieved or disappointed not to see her.

  It was late, but a couple of small lamps had been left on as if waiting for a wayward guest. I glanced around the rest of the entranceway into the other rooms. It was obviously an old home, but modern finishings were so well crafted into the design they appeared almost like they’d been there from the beginning.

  The same warm, polished wood flooring carried throughout the entire area. Wood-paneled walls—shiplap, I think I’d once heard it called—were painted a soft, pale yellow, adding just enough color without taking away from the contrasting blues of the furniture. Embers of a dying fire glittered in the fireplace.

  Much like the second floor, the first floor was beautiful—simple, yet tasteful and welcoming. Someone had worked hard to make it feel like a home away from home.

  Upstairs, I could hear the footsteps and murmurings of other guests, causing me to wonder where Emalee lived. I hoped she was as lost in her memories—and guilt—as I’d been ever since my arrival.

  “Are you looking for Emalee, dear?”

  I turned toward the unfamiliar voice and saw an older woman coming from the dining room with a steaming mug.

  “Actually, yes. Have you seen her?”

  “I think she went home. She leaves a number for guests to call if they need anything. Didn’t she give it to you?”

  That was probably the last thing she wanted to give me. “I must have missed it. It’s not important.”

  She moved closer, peering at me closely. I wondered if she was making some sort of connection between me and Emalee, but that was impossible. To anyone else’s knowledge, I was just another guest.