Page 10 of Snake

“Oh. Thank you!” Autumn liked to sleep in a very cool room and then make a nest and bury herself under a bunch of blankets to be warm and cozy. She had trouble sleeping without some weight on her, but weighted blankets were far too heavy. Layers were better.

She hadn’t asked for extra bedding to be waiting in the room for her, and she wouldn’t have, but the past two or three times she’d been here, she had called down for more pillows and blankets. A note must have been made somewhere that it was a preference.

Shannon completed the check-in, and Autumn signed on the line. As Shannon pushed the key across the desk, she said, “The dining room opens at six, and Chef Nate is preparing a Parmesan-encrusted walleye served with braised mixed squash and buttermilk biscuits.

Autumn cocked her head. “I’m sorry—walleye? What is that?”

The smile that shaped Shannon’s perfectly tinted lips might have had a snarky pinch. “It’s a fish that’s local to the area. Substantial and delicious. We get them very fresh from local anglers.”

“Ah, okay. Actually, though, I’m planning on spending the evening in town, so I’ll get something at Marie’s later.”

“Marie’s is always an excellent choice, of course. Do you need help with your bags this afternoon?”

“No, thanks. I’ve just got the one bag this time. I can manage it myself.”

Shannon didn’t press the point. “Very good. Is there anything else I can do for you at the moment?”

“Nope, I’m good. Thank you.”

“Of course. Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.”

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~oOo~

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Her usual ‘suite’ wasn’t really a suite as a major hotel would classify one. This was a spacious room with a very nice bath and a nook that served as a seating area. The décor had a feminine cast to it, with lots of flowers and warm pastels. It was the nicest room here, and probably where the bridal party headquartered on wedding weekends.

Autumn really liked it. If she had any intention—or for that matter potential—of getting married, she’d want to do it somewhere like this: elegant but not ostentatious, quaint but still classic.

That was a silly schoolgirl daydream, however, and her schoolgirl days were long past her. She hadn’t been serious with a man since her twenties, and that unmitigated disaster had set her priorities and her expectations firmly in place. Work was the thing in her life that fulfilled her, so it came first. And she would never again allow a man close to her who had even the faintest flutter of a red flag.

So she would be alone. And that was fine.

She opened her bag and selected a change of clothes. No one around here took her seriously if she dressed for work. Though she considered shoes with a heel lower than three inches to be basically sneakers, and sneakers to be appropriate for exercise only, she now had a couple pairs of lower-heeled (two inch) Frye boots and a cute pair of Ferragamo wedge loafers.

And jeans. Actual jeans. Until a few months ago, she hadn’t worn jeans since undergrad. Now she had three pairs.

All so she could fit in a little better with these hicks who thought she was Cruella DeVil, Ursula the Sea Witch, and Cersei Lannister, all packed into one five-foot-two Indianan.

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~oOo~

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About half an hour later, dressed as much like a local as she could tolerate, her hair even in a ponytail, Autumn went down the impressive staircase to the lobby. The aromas of dinner in the making wafted from the kitchen. Walleye was definitely fish, which was definitely not her favorite, but the overall medley of scents was quite appealing. Nate Jensen was an excellent chef, trained at the Culinary Institute of America.

She smiled lightly at the pleasing scents, and then froze solid, halfway through her step off the staircase. A member of the Horde sat on a sofa, scowling at his phone.

Last year, when the Horde had thrown themselves bodily in her way, Autumn had taken the time to get to know the whole club, hiring an investigator to compile oppo on them all. She had their full names, their birthdates, their skill sets, their criminal and/or military records, the names and birthdates of their so-called ‘old ladies,’ of their kids, their parents, everything. She’d memorized the details for the club leaders.

It was Daniel Cox sitting in the lobby. Not a club leader, so she had to rifle through her mind to grab some of his details. He went almost exclusively by his surname, so: Cox. In his late thirties, as she recalled. A notoriously sour personality—as she’d experienced firsthand. Even with his anger, the man had no serious criminal record, which had to mean he kept his violence at home, where his ‘club’ could bury it.

A licensed mechanic specializing in heavy machinery, his ‘official’ job was head mechanic at Signal Bend Construction—a surprisingly legitimate company with a good rep in the region, and not simply a front for illegal business. She’d been shocked to learn that.

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