Here to Stay (Where Love Begins Book #2) (3 page)

“Find me when you’re off the phone,” she whispered, then headed for the dining room. Might as well check another to-do off the list while waiting for Harry. Guests received a complimentary breakfast in the table-dotted room, and it operated as a restaurant four evenings a week—for guests and the occasional community member who still remembered the inn existed.

Ten minutes later, she’d just about finished polishing the room’s baseboards. She paused at the squeak of the swinging door leading into the kitchen, the sight of Betsy’s purple old-school Nikes tapping to her side.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, kiddo.”

“Kiddo?” Autumn looked up from her kneeling position, the lemony scent of Old English wafting around her. “You’re only nine years older than me, Bets.”

“Yeah, but as your self-appointed big sister or maybe aunt—pick your surrogate family member of choice—I’m entitled to an endearment or two.” The inn’s chef straightened the apron cinched at her waist. “I saw Harry come in to catch the phone. Before he answered he said Dylan cancelled. How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

Betsy tilted her head, black pixie hair held in place by a lace headband. “How fine?”

Autumn capped her bottle of Old English and stood. “So fine someone should write a song about it.”

“Autumn—”

“Why stop at a song? Why not a whole musical?”

Betsy’s eyebrows peeked under her swooping bangs. “With dancing?”

“And outlandish costumes.” She handed Betsy her rag and bottle, then reached around to pull a small notebook from her back pocket. Autumn plucked the pencil from behind her ear, drew a line through the second to last to-do on her list, and added,
Oil kitchen door hinges.

“I think you’re avoiding the topic at hand.” Mild reprimand lingered in Betsy’s voice. Which is what made Betsy less girlfriend and more nagging babysitter in times like these.

Sometimes Autumn didn’t mind it. After all, her own big sister hadn’t stuck around to play the role. But today . . . no thank you.
I don’t need advice or a
listening ear. I need guests. I need to catch up
on mortgage payments. I need Dylan to turn his car
around, say he changed his mind. I need that job
in France.

Any or all of it would do. Just some tangible signal God hadn’t forgotten her.

“Autumn.” Betsy tried once more.

Autumn turned away. Surely Harry was off the phone by now. She tracked toward the lobby, skirting around tables that probably wouldn’t see guests tonight. “Don’t you have cookies in the oven or something?”

“I think you’re more bothered than you’re letting on.” Betsy trailed behind her.

She sniffed the air as she passed into the lobby. “I think I smell something burning.”

Betsy’s voice followed her through the doorway. “I think seeing Dylan again, hearing he’s booking the hotel instead
of the inn, and finding out Blake Hunziker is back all in the same afternoon is enough to fluster even you.”

Harry had managed to mention all that before answering the phone?

“You’re not even listening to me anymore, are you.”

Autumn tugged her hair free of her ponytail, and it fell in a mess of tangles to her shoulders. She sighed. “I’m listening, Bets, I’m just choosing not to let this turn into an impromptu therapy session. Because, seriously, I’m fine.”

Betsy’s eyes narrowed. “You do realize each time you say it, I’m less inclined to believe it.”

Autumn angled around the check-in desk. Truthfully, seeing Dylan again had been more humiliating than anything. Especially when he’d made that comment about her “fitting them in” the day after Thanksgiving.

Oh, if he could only see her empty appointment book. Almost as empty as their reservation spreadsheet—and that alone would be enough to make her financial advisor swallow his dentures.

But her financial advisor wasn’t the one charged with keeping the Kingsley Inn open. No, that had fallen to her. And the responsibility seemed just as heavy now—maybe heavier—as the day Mom had presented her with the deed. A surprise birthday gift two and a half years ago.

“
I know your Dad would’ve been proud to
hand down his family’s inn to you if he
was still alive today.”

It had been all Autumn could do that day to clamp down her shock and plaster on a smile in a display of pleasure she didn’t feel. Because Mom hadn’t known about Autumn’s hopes to leave the Kingsley Inn and all of Whisper Shore in the dust as she took off on the trip of a lifetime. Her greatest dream had been to land an international job. It was the reason she’d called off her engagement in the first place.

Instead, she’d ended up with a commitment that often felt just as weighty as marriage. What was that Proverb about hope deferred?

Betsy leaned across the counter, voice dropping to a whisper since Harry still spoke on the phone. “Okay, so Dylan didn’t bother you too much, but what about Blake?”

A clawing irritation finally scraped past her calm. “Closed subject.”

“Autumn—”

“For the sake of what little calm I have left, Bets, drop it.” She heard the dark tone of her tight words, saw the flinch Betsy tried to hide with a pause and a shrug.

And then, “Consider it dropped.”

Betsy retreated into the dining room, the apology Autumn should’ve called after her struggling to get out from under the weight of a desperate desire to avoid the topic of Blake Hunziker.

She groaned as she replaced the cleaning supplies in a hidden shelf and then leaned over the surface of the desk, elbows propped, forehead in her hands. She heard the beep of Harry ending his call.

“What’d you say to her?”

Autumn only shook her head.

“You two bicker enough I could almost believe you really are related.”

Autumn lifted her head. “Wasn’t her. It was all me. I hate it when I’m like this. Snappish and . . . and . . .”

“Irritable?”

“Really, I’m irritable?”

Harry pushed his keyboard out of the way and balanced his elbows beside hers on the counter. “You actually want me to answer that?”

“Not so much.”

“Well, this ought to cheer you up. It’s what I came outside to tell you.” He tilted his computer screen to face her. “Check out who booked the third-floor suite next month.”

Autumn leaned in to read the name on the screen. “Dominic Laurent.” She straightened, tapping her finger against her chin. “Dominic Laurent, why does that sound . . . ?”

“Think about it. The Laurent family? Ring a bell?”

“Oh my goodness.” The screech exploded from her. “Laurent Lodging International. He’s one of
those
Laurents?”

“It sounded familiar, so I Googled him as soon as I got off the phone. Definitely one of
those
Laurents.”

The ones who owned hotels all over the world—mainly Europe, but lately in the U.S. too. Hadn’t they just invested in a resort in Maine, turned it into a five-star destination? “He’s staying
here
? Do you think it means . . .” Autumn’s words rammed into each other as they tumbled out.

“Yeah, I do.”

“But how . . . ?” Autumn broke off at the sight of a pile of mail stashed beside Harry’s computer keyboard.

“Maybe they saw our website,” Harry said as she reached for the mail. “Or wait, we placed that ad in
Travel International
a few months back. Perhaps they want to invest? Or even buy you out.”

Autumn fingered through the envelopes, heart racing and hands suddenly clammy.

“Except you wouldn’t really sell, would you?”

Autumn stopped at the oversized envelope with the foreign postage. The words
Par Avion
stamped over the address. The name of the Paris hotel in the corner. This had to be it.

“Oh, this is a weird day.” The words came out a whisper. “A weird, weird day.”

Everything was happening in twos:

The thorns: Dylan and Blake.

The roses: Dominic Laurent and the envelope from France.

“Autumn?”

Harry’s voice pulled her from the fog, and she slipped her fingers over the envelope’s return address. She hadn’t told him about the job possibility, the phone interview two weeks ago. The nerves eating away at her as she waited to find out if her whole life might change by the time the new year rang in.

“You wouldn’t sell, would you?” he asked again.

Focus.
Just until they’d finished this conversation. And then she could run home, tear into a bag of Reese’s Pieces, and rev herself up to open the envelope.

She looked up. “I-I don’t know.” She chewed on her bottom lip, hope and excitement and just a tinge of fear tangling into an untidy knot. “But any investment from LLI could keep us from going under. When’s he checking in?”

“December 20.”

Her breathing hitched. Three and a half weeks to get ready.

Three and a half weeks to save her inn.

Before finally saying good-bye.

2

S
o does he still look like a Ken doll?”

Autumn choked on her OJ, giggles pushing through sputters until she finally swallowed. “Ellie Jakes!”

Her best friend leaned over the peninsula counter in Autumn’s kitchen, blond curls flowing over her shoulders. “You can’t deny Dylan’s got the Mattel look down pat.”

“Then it’s no wonder we didn’t last. I’m not Barbie material.” Not with her rust-colored hair and freckled cheeks. “Anyway, it may be true, but I’d never say it out loud.”

Ellie cupped her hands around her coffee mug. “I think you sorta just did.”

Morning sunlight filtered through sheer curtains over the sink and danced in patterns over the peachy-orange wall opposite the window. The room might be small, but between the black-and-white checkered floor and mosaic backsplash, it had personality.

Autumn had made the tiny home her own since moving in shortly after taking over the inn. It had felt like a consolation prize. If she was going to postpone quenching her travel aspirations, at least she could do so in her own space rather than in her childhood bedroom back in town at Mom’s. Plus,
the two-bedroom cottage was located on inn property, which made for an awfully convenient commute.

What would happen to the place if her still-unopened letter—tucked into the napkin holder on her kitchen table—said what she hoped?

The click of her waffle maker signaled its readiness. “Breakfast time.”

Ellie pulled out one of the barstools at the counter, groaning as she hefted herself onto the seat. Her stomach swelled under her polka-dotted maternity shirt. Only two months until Autumn’s second honorary niece or nephew was born. “I can’t tell you how happy I was when you called this morning. I love my family, but for once it was nice to leave Tim to coax Oliver into eating his breakfast. I don’t know what that kid’s problem is with oatmeal.”

Autumn poured a cupful of batter into the waffle maker. “Um, it’s oatmeal. And he’s two. That’s your problem right there.”

“Says the girl who still eats Lucky Charms.”

“Hey, am I or am I not making you Belgian waffles
with
blueberries
with
homemade maple syrup?” Fine, so the blueberries were frozen and she’d bought the “homemade” syrup at a local market.

Autumn wiped her hands on her yoga pants, turned, and plucked the letter from the napkin holder. “Here. This is why I invited you over.”

“You mean it wasn’t for my sparkling company?” Ellie flipped the envelope, hazel eyes scanning the return address, understanding dawning in her gasp and grin. “The Paris Hotel Grand?”

Autumn nodded, folding her sweatshirt-clad arms and leaning back against the fridge. “Sabine said I’d hear within a few weeks. I was beginning to wonder.”

Sabine had come to Michigan from France as an exchange student back when Autumn was a sophomore in high school. Though she’d returned to Paris after the school year, they’d stayed in touch through the years. So receiving an e-mail a month back from Sabine hadn’t been a surprise.

But what it contained—information about the job opening at the high-end hotel where Sabine worked—had been. So far, Ellie was the only person who knew about the possibility.

Ellie slapped the envelope against the counter top. “And you waited this long to mention it?”

Autumn popped a grape in her mouth from the bowl on the counter. “Thing is, once the letter finally came, I couldn’t make myself open it.”

She’d tried three times last night, had even gotten so far as to slide her finger under the flap and make the first tear. But it’d stopped there, nerves throwing down the gauntlet and her determination coming up short.

Because a
no
might mean disappointment. But a
yes
 . . .
? Who knew a dream potentially coming true could feel so . . . scary. And yet, how long had she prayed for an open door? Somewhat doubtfully, perhaps, but maybe after all this time God was finally throwing one ajar.

“You want me to open it?”

Autumn snatched the letter back. “No, I will, silly. I just want you here to squeal with me if it’s good news and cry with me if it’s bad.”

“It’ll be good, and you know it.” Ellie slid off her stool and placed one arm around Autumn’s waist. At only five foot two, she barely came up to Autumn’s shoulders. “I promise I’ll do my best to be happy for you—but, Num, if you leave, I’m going to miss you.”

“Only Oliver gets to call me Num.” She leaned her head on Ellie’s. “And thanks.”

Ellie straightened. “So you going to open it or wha . . .” She sniffed. “Do you smell—”

“Ahhh, the waffles.” With a jerk, Autumn flipped the lid up on the waffle maker, steam—or was that smoke?—billowing in her face. “Ah, man. The first time I make a real breakfast in weeks and—”

Ellie’s eyebrows lifted.

“Fine, months, and it’s ruined.” As in, inedible. The waffle was stuck in charred chunks to the inside of the waffle maker. She’d need an ice pick to clean the appliance before she could make another batch. And it’d need to cool first . . . “So, how do you feel about Pop-Tarts?”

Ellie’s snickers faded to an exaggerated sigh. “Beats oatmeal.” She nudged past Autumn and opened a cupboard, frosted-glass pane rattling. “Let me toast ’em. You open that letter.”

“But Ell—”

“No buts. You’ve waited too long to open it as is. Besides, I don’t trust your recent history with appliances.”

Autumn nodded, lips pressed, the taste of resolve mixing with the smell of her burnt breakfast. “Okay. All right.” She slipped her finger under the flap. “Here goes nothing.”

She ripped into the envelope and pulled out the letter before she could think twice, heart staccato-ing as she scanned the words.

Dear Miss Kingsley . . . Thank you for
your time . . . enjoyed the interview . . . reviewed your experience . . . pleased to
offer . . .

At Autumn’s shriek, Ellie dropped the box of Pop-Tarts. “You’re in?”

A second piece of paper, narrow and telling, floated to her lap. An airline voucher.

“I’m in.” She skimmed the rest of the letter. “They want me
to start on February 1.”
Oh Lord
.
Which would mean moving in January. Less than two months. She dropped onto one of the table’s mismatched chairs. “I’m going to have to start packing. I need to renew my passport.” She hadn’t dared renew it earlier for fear of jinxing the job opportunity. “I have to tell Mom. . . .”

Ohhh. Telling Mom.
If she contemplated that too long, she’d give herself hives. “And all this on top of Dominic Laurent coming to the inn.”

Ellie plugged in the toaster. “Explain that to me again. You think his company might be interested in acquiring the inn? Becoming a majority investor? And you’d get, what? A seal of approval or something?”

Autumn nodded absently, mind spinning as the letter fluttered to the table. “We’d become part of their brand, which would up our standing in the industry. I started Googling investment proposals and packages last night.”

If it came to fruition, she wouldn’t have to feel guilty leaving for France. The Kingsley Inn would stay intact and her employees would keep their jobs. She’d find a manager to take over her role. This truly could work out perfectly.

She heard the sound of foil crinkling, the toaster lowering, but breakfast had suddenly shifted into a nonissue.

Ellie lowered into the seat opposite her. “I’m proud of you, Autumn. I’ll miss you like crazy, but I’ll never forget how disappointed you were when things fell through the first time.”

She’d had it all planned out after breaking things off with Dylan three years ago. She would quit her job as the inn’s night manager—a position she’d held all through community college—take out her savings, and finally see the world the way Dad had always encouraged her to. Maybe she’d find a job at a travel agency or write for an international magazine.

But then Mom had shocked her by handing over the entirety of the inn operation so she could focus on her growing
role on the state tourism board. And Autumn hadn’t been able to hand it back—not knowing all her mother had already lost, not with the strain already between them. Not when she was the only Kingsley left to take the reins of the family business begun by her father’s grandfather.

Well, besides Ava.
But her sister hadn’t looked back once after leaving town. Autumn blinked away a wince.

“So when would you leave? Would you at least come home for holidays? Have you prayed about this, Autumn?”

The toaster popped.

What was there to pray about? When your dream finally hit the “come true” part, you ran with it, didn’t you? “Let’s not talk about it now, Ell.”

Ellie stood and walked to the counter. “The biggest thing to happen to you since, well, Dylan, and you don’t want to talk about it? You don’t want to hear my sage wisdom and sound advice?”

“I have Betsy for that. You’re the one who’s supposed to indulge my reckless avoidance and need for distraction.”

Ellie harrumphed. “I think I was just insulted.”

Autumn rubbed her palms over her knees. “I just need to let it sink in before talking details.” Did her voice sound as shaky as she felt?

Ellie handed her a napkin-wrapped Pop-Tart. She tousled Autumn’s still sleep-mussed hair. “All right. Sometimes I forget you like your mental and emotional space.”

The toasted pastry warmed her fingers through the napkin. She took a sugary bite, chewing as the crumbs of a dozen to-dos scattered through her mind. Ellie was right. She did need to talk about her plans—with Mom. She needed to whip the inn into better shape than it’d been since she could remember, and she’d have to break the news to Harry and Bets and . . .

Ava.
But would her sister even care? After all, she’d been
back home all of what, five or six times since leaving town six years ago?

“So what do you want to talk about instead?” Ellie topped off their orange juice. “Ooh, I know. Guess who’s back in town.”

Her Pop-Tart stuck in her throat. “I heard.”

And for one needling moment, twin pangs dueled. Which was worse—the thought of all the geographical and emotional distance between her and her sister? Or the sudden lack of distance between her and the youngest Hunziker?

“Can you believe it? Blaze Hunziker, brave enough to come back to Whisper Shore. And his dad throws him a welcome home party? What do you want to bet he paid the guests to come?”

“Not nice, Ell.” But possibly entirely plausible. Who faked a marriage with a home-building show host? Blake-also-known-as-Blaze Hunziker’s reputation in Whisper Shore had been rocky enough before he got himself tangled up in a celebrity scandal that read like a reality-TV script.

Autumn only wished she could get as caught up in Blake’s most recent shenanigans as the rest of the town. She’d take that any day over the other memories. Ava’s tears. Mom’s anger. An entire town grieving the loss of its golden boy football star—Blake’s brother, Ryan.

And Blake, who could’ve stopped it all if he’d only listened.

“I changed my mind, Ell. Let’s go back to talking about LLI and France and how I’m going to pack and how much you’re going to miss me.”

And how she’d do everything she could to avoid Blake Hunziker.