Do Anything (4 page)

I hesitate before saying, “To be honest, I have no idea.”

This statement results in a puzzled glance. “Well, you know how to reach me. Enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you,” I reply, watching the driver as he pulls away. I turn and walk in the direction of the inn, dragging my wheeled luggage behind me. I see a sign at the end of the bike rack that reads:
Bicycles Free to Borrow, property of The Three Horseshoes.

What a magnificent idea, I think. I smile, and laugh inwardly as I imagine someone trying to ride a bicycle while intoxicated.

“You find yourself rather amusing, don’t you, dear?” a voice asks from the right of me. I turn and look to find a tall and slender man walking in my direction. He reminds me of Jack’s grandfather. I’d never met the man, but I had seen pictures. Build was where the similarities stopped. This man is missing the hair on the top of his head, but what’s lacking is made up in the form of a full and bushy mustache. It trims his mouth and continues down the lines of his chin.

“Pardon me?” I ask, soaking in his disheveled appearance.

“Not exactly ladylike, are you?” The man laughs vigorously before taking my luggage from my hand. I was still processing his statement, looking down at my appearance, bewildered, wondering what on Earth he found so funny.

“Well, are you coming?” he asks, holding open the large wooden door, my suitcase at his heels, waiting for me to enter.

“Oh, yeah—” I gulp and move forward, jerking, rushing through the doorway.

Once I step inside I hear the man enter right behind me, my luggage wheels clanking over the transition. The door closes, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim room. Across from where I’m standing is a massive fireplace with two leather high-back chairs positioned in front of it. A dark painting of a countryside is propped on the mantel. To my right are wooden tables and chairs, and against the far wall a handful of booths.

As my eyes dart around the room, I fixate on the floor for a moment. The planks look like they belong in an old farmhouse from a hundred years ago, wide and riddled with knots.

“What have you brought us, Abner?” I hear someone call out from behind the bar to my left.

The man with my suitcase clears his throat. “She was outside, cracking herself up about passing gas.”

“What?” Initially I gasp, whirling around to stare at the old man. He’s grinning from ear to ear, splitting his face in half.

“Well, you were,” he insists, staring right back.

“I was not!” I snap.

“You weren’t what, passing gas or cracking up?” the faceless man remarks, causing a few people in the room to laugh.

Now I’m annoyed, and my face is hot. It’s one thing for a crazy old man to make a few annoying comments, but for some bartender to join in for a couple of easy laughs does not fly with me. I turn toward the bar, rushing forward, opening and closing my eyes a few times to adjust them completely to the new lighting.

“Just who do you think you—” My words freeze in my throat. I know my jaw is hanging low, but my brain can’t seem to communicate with my mouth at this exact moment.

I have a type; I’ve always had a type. Jack was my type. Tall, strong, dark, clean cut, it’s my type. This guy in front of me, he is nothing like what I look for in a man, but somehow my words halt, and my knees go wobbly. I take a step forward, gripping the bar to steady myself.

“Are you all right?” His accent isn’t as heavy as everyone else I’ve met here. His sandy hair falls down to his shoulders; a thick layer of stubble covers his strong jaw line. His eyes are blue, his chest broad; the t-shirt under his button-down flannel peeks out. The jersey fabric tight across his obviously firm chest. I wonder what it would feel like to have those strong arms grip me, but I immediately do my best to push the thought from my mind.

I stare at his full, peachy lips as he speaks again, “Miss, are you okay?” I can see him waving a hand in front of my face. I know I should say something.

I shake my head. “Huh?” I’m embarrassed again, but continue, “Yes, of course I am. I’m just tired.”

He laughs a low and sexy growl. I feel my cheeks flush as I realize once again he and several patrons of the bar are laughing at me.

“Is there a manager here?” I ask, focusing my glare, determined not to drool over this guy any longer.

“You’re looking at him,” he chimes with a smile, and I notice him looking me up and down. I’m not sure what this means. I’ve never been great at determining when a guy finds me attractive. So I assume he must be looking at me for a much more sinister reason.

“No,” I insist, shaking my head. “There has to be someone above you.”

“I don’t think so.” He smiles. “Unless I sold recently and forgot about it.”

“You own this place?” I see his expression shift from light and jovial to one of annoyance. My tone of disbelief has offended him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” he interjects. “You’re just tired, right?” He is not amused, and I pull my lips in tightly, then sigh. Leave it to me to make an enemy of the guy who owns the place before I even manage to get checked in.

“Is there any chance you have a room available?” I ask, pulling my shoulders up and trying my best to appear sweet and innocent.

The man walks away from me; I notice his backside is just as compelling as the front of him. Leaning through a doorway he shouts, “Bea, can you come here for a second?”

I can hear a bit of huffing coming from an unseen room, followed by some clanging, before an older woman sticks her head out. “What is it?” she asks, staring at the apparent owner.

“This young woman would like a room.”

“And what exactly would you like me to do about that, Holden?” the woman snarls in an agitated state.

“I’m sorry, Bea. I know I put a lot on your plate today, but can you please take care of her?” Now that I’ve heard it, I can’t quit thinking about his name. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with that name. It seems to suit him, I think.

He instructs me to follow the fuller-figured woman. Her silver hair twists into a bun on top of her head, and the lines around her eyes show a life full of stories. We climb a narrow and steep staircase to the left of the bar. I can hear her grumbling. I do my best to lift my suitcase up high enough, but it still bangs into every third stair or so.

A sigh of relief passes through my lips when we reach the top of the stairs, and I’m a little sad I’m so winded, while this Bea woman, who is clearly older than me, seems to be completely unscathed. I follow her to a side table in the hall where she flips through several papers.

“Now, we’re not too fancy around here—only four bedrooms and the common bath is at the end of the hall.” My heart sinks a little at that confirmation. “My husband, Abner, and I stay out back in the guest house if you need us outside of operating hours.”

Abner, the man with the mustache, who had carried in my bag. They seem like an odd couple, yet somehow so appropriate for one another. “Holden is in the last room on the left, but he doesn’t always wake up when you knock, so if you need something, you can always get me.”

“Holden?” I had figured this out, but for some reason I didn’t want her to think I had.

“The owner, you met him downstairs.”

I gasp. “Wait, he stays up here?”

“Well, yes, it’s his inn. Where else would you have him stay?”

“No, I mean …” I don’t even know what to say.

“I know he’s quite fit, is he not?” The woman smiles up at me, pulling out a piece of paper with details printed on it about the inn and the surrounding area. For the first time I see humor on her face, and I think I could like her.

“I suppose, fit enough, but I also found him quite rude.”

“Rude?” Bea seems puzzled by my statement. “That isn’t something I hear often about Holden. My Abner, now I hear it all the time about him.”

“I don’t think accusing me of passing gas is polite or mature,” I say, my face burning from the embarrassment.

“What?” Bea is suddenly bursting at the seams with boisterous laughter. “Did you happen to say ’Pardon me’ to Abner at any point?”

“Huh? I mean …” I think about her question, retracing the conversation. “I suppose I may have.”

“That’s one of Abner’s favorite jokes when we get Americans.” Bea gasps between laughs.

“What is?” I feel as though I’m the only one not getting an obvious joke.

“In Britain, when we say ’pardon me,’ it’s because of flatulence.”

“Oh!” My embarrassment falls away into laughter as I realize now what she’s saying. Then it goes right back to embarrassment as I think about Holden even jokingly imagining me farting. That is the last thing I want a man like Holden to think about.

“Don’t worry, dear, you’ll pick up on their humor quickly enough. Now, how many nights will you be staying?” Bea asks me, pulling out a set of keys.

“I have no idea,” I reply honestly.

“Are you running from something, sweetheart?” Bea laughs, and though I know to her it is just another joke, her words sting with truth.

I shake my head. “Just trying for a spontaneous adventure.”

“I see, well the nightly and weekly rates are all in the info I gave you.” Bea pauses, looking into my eyes as if studying me. Her glance shifts, and I can tell she sees something in me, but I’m just not sure what. She places the keys in my hand, wrapping my fingers around them. She adds, “Why don’t you get settled in, and we can run your payment in the bar later this evening? I have a kitchen to get back to.”

“I’m grateful; thank you,” I say in response and look at the key.

“Back down the hall, first door at the top of the stairs,” she instructs. The room is the farthest from the bathroom, but also farthest from Holden, which in the moment seems like a good thing.

I turn and make my way to the door, sliding my key in, and drag my luggage inside, thrusting it up onto the bed. Light drenches the room from the window on the left wall. I’m thrilled to see, just as I had desired, my room is one with the window box of flowers. There’s no dresser—just a small double bed, and nightstands that could double for clothing storage, if needed. On the far wall, opposite the window, is a wardrobe of chestnut colors. Shoved against the wall with the door I’d just entered through is a small desk. It isn’t fancy, but it is functional. I imagine how perfect the room would have been for Jane Austen to create one of her enchanting characters.

I’m not one to tire, but it seems as though I’ve felt the need to nap every day since leaving on this trip. Perhaps this is the jet lag I’ve heard so much about, but never experienced. Flying overseas is what it took to suck the wind out of my sails apparently. Of course, if I’m being completely honest, I’ve pretty much felt like this since Jack and I split. Kenzie keeps telling me I’m depressed, but I refuse to believe it. I won’t accept that a man could put me in such a state.

Hoping the embarrassment I experienced earlier will have slipped from everyone’s mind after a little time, I decide a nap is exactly what I need. Then I will slip downstairs for a bite to eat and some exploring. Now if I can quit thinking about Holden’s half-cocked smile long enough to fall asleep, I’ll be all set.

“Let me get this straight,” Kenzie starts, but I know where she’s headed before the words ever leave her mouth. “You’re staying right down the hall from an insanely hot guy, and you haven’t done anything about it yet?”

I laugh; I miss her smile and her inappropriate comments. “I’ve been gone less than a week, and you would already have me jumping in bed with the first hot guy I see.”

“First off, I’m sure he isn’t the first you’ve seen, and second, do you think a kiss would be so terrible?”

“I talked to him for two minutes, and it was completely embarrassing.”

“From what you’ve told me, it was harmless fun.”

“Harmless or not, most of the bar was laughing about my possible flatulence. Not exactly a great way to lead in to, ’Hey, you’re pretty hot, wanna make out?’”

“Not that you ever would,” Kenzie says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, defensive. But I know exactly what she means. I’ve never taken chances. My version of living on the wild side is walking from the bathroom to the bedroom without putting my robe on first. Yep, that’s right, naked. I’m not like Kenzie. She is able to throw caution to the wind and embrace life with every fiber of her being.

“Nothing, forget I said anything—”

“Uh huh, yeah,” I moan with sarcasm.

“Oh, before I forget, Jack has been poking around.” Her declaration startles me.

“What do you mean ’poking around?’”

“He came to the apartment, asking why I was here, where you were, all that fun stuff. You know how he gets, typical Jack, trying to bully the information he wants out of people,” Kenzie explains.

My chest aches, and my head is swirling. The idea of Jack finding out where I am makes me feel sick. I need time away, and my hope is the distance between us gives me the strength I currently lack around him. If I’m lucky, he’ll forget all about me. “You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

“Are you serious? Of course I didn’t.” From the tone of insult in Kenzie’s voice, I’m certain she’s being completely honest. “I did tell him that you were selling the condo and asked me to take care of the place while you work some things out. I swore to him that I didn’t know where you are though.”