Here to Stay (Where Love Begins Book #2) (6 page)

Definitely not booming. Autumn could picture the rows of rooms fingering each direction from stairs opening into the
second floor. Empty, empty, occupied, empty, empty, empty, occupied, empty . . .

Too many rooms in the inn. Mary and Joseph should have been so lucky.

“Truth is, Char, things are tight. But I have a meeting with our accountant tomorrow. We’re going to go over our financials.”

She watched the concern ebb and flow over the faces of everyone in the room. It showed itself in twitches and pressed lips, fidgets and clenched fists.

“But I’m sure . . . at least I’m hopeful, things will turn out fine.” Her words did little to restore the earlier jovial mood. Or to persuade even her. With every visit to her financial advisor’s office, she left less and less convinced she ever should have been handed the reins to the inn. “Well, that’s it for the meeting.”

Chairs bumped against the hardwood underfoot as the staff rose, quiet in place of the ruckus from before. Autumn dropped into a chair and turned to Harry. “I finally tamed the squirrely masses. Are you proud of me?”

He folded his arms. “Not sure it was you as much as reality dawning on everyone.”

She tapped his arm with her clipboard, injecting all semblance of nonchalance she could muster into her voice. “Don’t talk like that, Harry. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Whatever you say, Pollyanna.”

“I’m serious. Think about it: Dominic. Laurent. He fell into our lap right when we most needed a miracle. If that’s not divine intervention, I don’t know what is.”

His eyebrow quirked. “You think God is sending Laurent to us?”

“I sure don’t know who else would.” Anyway, it’s what she wanted to believe. Especially after too many months of
wondering if He still remembered her—the girl with the travel itch she couldn’t scratch. Autumn stood and tugged Harry up. “Buck up. Good things are on the horizon for the Kingsley Inn.” Maybe if she said it enough, she’d believe it.

“And . . . for you.”

At that cryptic comment, she met Harry’s eyes. He
knew
. “How . . . ?”

“The man from the Paris Hotel Grand accidentally called the inn rather than your cell phone on the day of your interview.”

And he hadn’t asked her about it in all this time. Was that hurt in his eyes? She lowered her voice. “I’m sorry, Harrison. I was going to tell you. I was just . . . waiting for the right time.”

“What’s the position?”

“Assistant to the head of guest services.” A step down from manager, to be sure. But she’d have volunteered to wash dishes if it meant the opportunity to live in France. To reside in a little flat on a quaint street. To walk to the hotel along the Seine and work every day in a building with a view of the Eiffel Tower.

And on the weekends she’d take the train to surrounding countries. Maybe Sabine would come along and they’d explore historical landmarks and picturesque scenery. And she’d keep her promise to Dad.

“Make sure
to see the world, Autumn. You’ve got the same
traveler’s blood I do. Promise me you won’t
make the world wait too long for you.”

She couldn’t have been more than ten at the time. Dad’s stories of his own travels—when he’d worked as a photographer for several years before returning to his hometown, meeting Mom, and taking over the inn after his own father retired—had always seemed so magical.

The magic might have worn off as she got older—as Dad’s restlessness started affecting their once-happy family—but not the desire it sparked.

“I received the official job offer last Friday,” she said now, waiting for the reprimand or disappointment she was sure to see on Harry’s face.

Instead, resignation, and maybe a smidgeon of pride, hovered in his smile. “Of course you got the job.”

“Could you not tell anyone? For now?”

He started to nod but was interrupted by a shriek from the other side of the dining room window. They both glanced to where Betsy waved on the opposite side of the glass, urging them outside. “What in the world . . . ?”

Betsy knocked on the window, mouth moving, voice muffled.

Harry chuckled. “Is she saying ‘wolf mess’?”

Betsy spoke again.

Autumn’s mouth dropped. “No, ‘wasp nest.’ She found a wasp nest on the porch.” She hurried out of the dining room, Harry’s footsteps behind her.

The foamy fragrance of Lake Michigan breezed over her as she spilled onto the porch, cold rustling over her bare skin. Should’ve grabbed her sweater. “Where is it?”

Betsy pointed over her head to where a tangle of netted twigs balled against the overhang. “What do we do?”

“Don’t disturb it,” Harry said from behind. “Call animal control.”

Autumn’s laugh was a half snort. “You don’t call animal control for a wasp, Harry.”

“Well, we can’t leave it there. Next thing we know some guest gets stung and has an allergic reaction and we get sued.” Betsy fit her hands into a pair of mittens.

“Guys, this is not that big of a deal.” Autumn pointed to the nest. “It’s cold, which means if there’s any wasps in that thing, they’re probably dormant. Right?”

Neither Betsy nor Harry wore a look of assurance. “It hasn’t been cold for that long,” Harry said.

Autumn slipped back into the entryway, pulled an umbrella from the wicker basket just inside, and returned to the porch.

“You are not going to use that.” Harry shook his head as he spoke.

“I’m just going to give it a little poke to see what we’re dealing with here.”

Betsy backed up. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

Autumn climbed onto a rattan chair. “Yeah, well, you used to have a bad feeling about kale, too. Remember that?” She gave the nest a tentative tap.

“I don’t trust greens I can’t easily identify. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, except now you eat kale every day in those healthy smoothies you make.” Another poke. “So just because you have a bad feeling—”

The nest jiggled.

“Did you do that?” From the corner of her eye, she saw Harry backing up toward Betsy as he asked the question.

“Uh-uh.”

And . . .
Uh-oh.

Suddenly it was alive, moving as a buzzing wasp—or five—kamikazed from the nest. Autumn’s scream pierced the air as she jerked, rattan chair wobbling beneath her. The wasps dipped and dived, and she swung the umbrella, losing her balance, Harry and Betsy both yelling behind her.

“Don’t let any inside, guys.”

She heard the pounding of footsteps on the porch stairs along with the slam of the front door. She crashed into the chair and then felt it—a sting. Fast and harsh in her upper arm. She squealed, standing, gaze darting in search of the offender. The umbrella still dangled from one hand.

“Are you all right, Autumn?”

She whirled at the voice, umbrella pointed like a sword.

Blake Hunziker. Looking for all the world as if he’d just witnessed a comedy routine but was under orders not to laugh.

Perfect, just . . . perfect.

“Are you allergic to wasp stings?”

Blake looked from Autumn back to the nest now scattered on the porch floor. A chair lay tipped on its side, and wind chimes dangled from the curved cornice overhead.
And are you off
your rocker?
Poking a wasp nest? Why not just take a stapler to her arm? Same effect.

“What?” Autumn glanced around, probably looking for the other two people he’d seen on the porch when he drove up. But they’d abandoned her the second the nest wobbled.

“I said, are you allergic to wasp stings?”

“I-I don’t think so. Why do you have an ice cream cone?”

Oh yeah. That.
He held the cone in one hand, stickiness dripping down the side. Probably totally un-genius, buying the cone in town and expecting it to last on the mile drive out to the inn. But it’d been the only bribe he could think of.

Because obviously ice cream would be enough to not only wipe out their rocky past but also convince the woman to help him with the festival
. Right.
“Did you get stung anywhere besides your arm?”

“No.”

“You can put the umbrella down, you know. I think the wasp’s gone.”

“Maybe I’m protecting myself from you.”

“Ha, funny. What were you thinking, poking that nest? That’s like something . . .”
I
would do.
But she didn’t need to know how many times he’d been stung, bitten, or snapped at in the course of getting too close to an animal’s habitat.

All in the past.
Risk-taking Blake was gone, and in his place . . .

Well, so far just a guy with ice cream dribbling over his hand.

“Can I look at your arm?”

She held it up, and with his free hand, he fingered the soft skin around the red spot. Good, the wasp’s stinger hadn’t stuck in her skin. “You should put some ice on it. Sometimes they swell up. And you need to get inside. It’s cold, and you don’t have a coat.”

A
whoosh
of lakeside air breezed around him as he opened the inn’s front door for Autumn. He nudged some stray leaves back outside with his foot and followed her in.

“Sorrysorrysorrysorry,” a woman in a white apron flustered as soon as they crossed the threshold. “I know we shouldn’t have left you out there, but the wasps . . . ” She stopped at the sight of Blake—or maybe the ice cream cone in his hand. Probably both. “Oh. Hi.”

“By which Betsy means, can we help you?” the man behind the desk tacked on.

Blake jutted his elbow toward Autumn. “Ice pack?”

“In the kitchen.” The man leaned over the counter, a smirk covering his face. “Most guys opt for flowers, by the way.” He eyed the ice cream.

“Harry.” Pure irritation laced Autumn’s tone. Hopefully directed at he-who-must-be-Harry, but by the way she looked at Blake now, he wasn’t so certain.

“Come on, let’s find that ice pack.” He looked around. “Kitchen?”

Both Harry and Betsy pointed the way, and as they stared, he tugged Autumn along by her unstung arm. Dude, kind of an ogling crew she had.

“Y-you brought me ice cream?” she asked as they crossed
the empty dining room. Must not be serving dinner tonight? Or were there that few guests staying at the inn?

A row of sconces along the wall offered the only light in the space, the sky’s drifting clouds momentarily covering the lingering sunset.

“I felt bad about the other night. Didn’t know what flavor you liked, and Kevin wasn’t talking, so . . .” He waited for a laugh as he stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Even a chuckle. Okay, a shadow of a smile would do.

But she only stared.

“Anyway, it’s kind of melted.”

She blinked, finally seemed to focus. “Oh, yes, I . . .” She accepted the cone and brushed past him into the kitchen. “Kevin’s your dog?”

“Mine for the moment, I guess.” Should he tell Autumn she had dirt from her tumble on the porch all over the back of her white shirt? “I think he’s a stray. Funny thing is, I randomly started calling him Kevin and he actually responds to it.”

“As in . . . Bacon?”

“No, the kid from
Home Alone
.”

She nodded from her spot in the middle of the kitchen. She held the cone awkwardly, ice cream melting over the edges and from the bottom of the cone.

“It’s plain old chocolate, by the way.”

She bit her lip. “Chocolate’s good.”

And suddenly he felt all kinds of stupid, which is why he hung back in the doorway as Autumn went to the island counter in the middle of the room, pulled a bowl from a dish rack, and deposited the cone. The kitchen had the feel of a restaurant operation—stainless steel and pots and pans hanging from hooks in the ceiling—and yet, it retained a lakeside quaintness with honey-colored walls, wicker basket decorations, and a chalkboard menu.

The lingering scent of something savory and appetizing set his stomach growling.

Autumn stood over the sink now, running her hands under water, shooting him a questioning glance over her shoulder. He approached her, jutting his sticky hands under the water beside her.

“You really should ice your arm.”

“If you say so, Doc.” She shook her hands dry, crossed the room, opened a deep freeze, and pulled out an ice pack. She draped it over her arm, then gave him a “now what?” look.

He glanced at the bowl holding the mess of ice cream and soggy cone. “You going to eat that?”

“Well . . .”

“I did drive all this way, Miss Kingsley.”

“A whole mile out of town. However did you make it?”

He chuckled at the tease in her tone. Would’ve been a lie, in that moment, to deny the attraction that crawled up his chest. Between those amazing blue eyes and the flush in her cheeks . . .

Man, remember who she is.
Yes. And why he’d come.

“Listen, I didn’t stop by only to bring you the cone. I . . . ” He watched as she lifted the bowl with her free arm up to her lips.

She paused. “What? You told me to eat it.”

“You’re going to lap it up like a cat?”

She held the bowl out for him to see inside. “It’s practically soup.”

“Which most people eat with spoons.”

She rolled her eyes. “Then I’d have to wash the spoon.” She slurped from the bowl. “Mmm, good stuff.”