Page 8 of Surrender

I nod while keying in her information.

Whitney Thompson.

She said she was from around here, but the last name is unfamiliar. Her birthdate places her several years younger than me.

I flick my eyes from her license to her face. She’s too busy speaking quietly to her toddler to notice my surreptitious glance.

She’s beautiful. The winter cold pinks her skin in a natural blush, and from this angle, her long black eyelashes fan against her cheeks in a startling contrast. I bite back a grin. It’s no surprise she’s saddled up with two kids. The good ones always get scooped up quickly.

“Here’s your license back. I’ve put a hold on your card, and the full amount will be charged at the end of your stay.”

“Thank you.” She slides the items into the back pocket of her jeans.

“If you need to stay longer, don’t hesitate to let me know. I know I said we’re booked, but if you’re here long term, we might be able to work something out.”

A piercing wail comes from the carrier by her hip. She starts bouncing her entire frame up and down. A flush covers her neck as her eyes connect with mine again. “I will. Thank you.”

“Follow me, and I’ll show you to your room.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary.”

But I’m already shouldering her bag and leading her up the stairs.

My number-one rule is that the comfort of the guest is priority. That means we carry luggage up the stairs for women and the elderly. We also offer for anyone else, though we’re usually turned down.

“Third door on the right.” I slip the key easily into the lock and swing the door wide, setting her bag just inside on the plush carpet. “Enjoy your stay, Mrs. Thompson.”

She lets out a sound between a gasp and a scoff. “Please. Call me Whitney. I feel old enough as it is.”

I smirk. “Have a good stay, Whitney.”

Her shoulder brushes mine, gifting me with a whiff of her flowery perfume before the door shuts behind her and her kids with a gentle click.

I stare at the oak door separating. A strange feeling twists in my chest. Something unfamiliar but not unpleasant takes residence behind my sternum.

After a moment, I banish my curiosity and return to my post downstairs.

3

Whitney

A road trip with babies alone is a special sort of challenge, but it has absolutely nothing on sleeping in a motel with them.

My afternoon consisted of a repeat phone call with Alice to assure her we’ve settled in nicely, followed by no less than three same-day delivery orders for lunch, dinner, and a pack of diapers because I didn’t bring enough and Bennett had a blowout.

Then Lucy escaped the room while I was cleaning her brother off in the bathtub and was returned by a guy working at the front desk while I held a dripping, naked babe wrapped in a white towel, sweaty hair sticking to my forehead, and my own tee shirt soaked.

After a small amount of pleading, Lucy finally surrendered with a quiet movie on the television around seven, and Bennett fell asleep beside her after finishing his bottle.

The light from Lucy’s show flickers across the shadowed room. I massage my temples. A headache set in about an hour ago. The kind I know won’t leave until I get a good night’s rest. By the heavy way Lucy blinks, I might just be able to commence sleep with the two of them soon.

After picking up a few toys and dirty clothes, I collapse into the recliner and toss my phone onto an end table.

As if I wasn’t enough of a hot mess and my life wasn’t already in shambles, I wound up staying at the motel owned by none other than my teen crush. Jack Powell.

I didn’t factor seeing him into my grand return.

Crush is too light of a word for what I felt at sixteen. Pure infatuation describes my feelings for the boy four years older than me. I haven’t seen him in over a decade, but I’d know those gray eyes anywhere. And the genuine smirk almost always used to set my heart aflutter.

---