Page 3 of Small Town Secrets

No sooner had he pulled out and opened his wallet, then she shot out a hand and snatched out a crisp fifty.

“There’s an outlet along the outside wall there, facing your house.” She stabbed her thumb in some vague direction to her left. “I’m sure you’ll find it easily enough.”

Here he’d been, hoping to win her trust, only to question her doubts about having him inside her house. He’d never needed to be “in her house.” Not with an outdoor outlet, anyway.

Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Asshole.

Could he even find fault in her money-swipe when he was just as bad for using cash to coax her? Also, he was in Harlow to do a job, so maybe her curt approach served him well after all.

With every passing second with this strange new neighbor, he found himself questioning his past assumptions on small town hospitality. And with every question, he found himself even more intrigued to know what her deal was.

“Thanks.” He made sure his short expression of gratitude dropped hard like a lead balloon, the strain taking over his body only easing as he observed more details.

The tuft of messy hair sticking out from her ponytail. A tuft not there during his first glimpse of her on her driveway…

“Oh.” He honed in on the light indented lines over her left cheek. “I woke you?”

Her brows bowed, like she didn’t understand, so he pointed to the lines on her face. “You have pillow marks right there.”

She startled back a step, blinking and pressing a palm to her cheek, her pupils wide like him noticing her fatigue left her mortified.

Why? Why would she want to hide being tired?

He nodded and made sure to soften his expression, exchanging his earlier forced gratitude for something more genuine. “I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your way.”

“No!” Though breathy, she dropped her hand and her brows dipped again, denoting confusion. “It’s okay.”

Now her lips bent as though she maybe hadn’t meant to be so forgiving, though the softened tension over her cheekbones said she second-guessed that reaction too. “Laila. My name’s Laila.”

A long and heavy pause held while they stared at each other, the dart of her gaze seeming to question everything about this moment, perhaps none more so than why she even offered her name. She’d been reluctant just moments earlier.

To be fair, he couldn’t figure it out either, except to say that for some reason, his observation on her napping seemed to throw her. That said, he knew enough people who didn’t like to admit they were human. Her reaction wasn’t wholly unusual, except that he was more used to that reaction from battle and street roughened men. Not some sweet seeming lady living in a quiet, country town.

No doubt this one has a story…

But he’d asked far too much already, so he gave a small nod and stepped back, already walking away as he spoke one last time. “Nice meeting you, Laila. I’ll see you around.”

Two

Rochelle Ferrara pulled her hire car over outside the welcoming orange lights of Maynard’s Tavern, lights that failed to brighten the anxiety that kept her body stiff all over.

Just thirty minutes earlier, she’d stood out front of the large wooden sign belonging to Harlow’s one and only B&B, suitcase in hand, the establishment not at all what she’d expected. First off, a handwritten note taped to the door stated that the aging building was Under New Management. Second, the door in question had been locked!

No entry for her. Or anyone else with a booking. Not that there’d been anyone else around. Not even the door’s note offered any further explanation. Not a phone number to call. Nor did the one listed in the email from her initial booking work.

Trying her best to restrain her frustration and panic, she’d returned to her car, then sat there staring at the circular Mercedes badge for a quiet moment, only to realize her car commented on her wealth and made her stick out, and therefore made her feel even more vulnerable. She had nowhere to go. No one to call. She was stranded.

The only person she knew in town was Emilia Bonacci, and she wasn’t about to bother her on the eve of her wedding. An attempted internet search showed slow network coverage, followed by literally no other places that might take a last-minute weekend booking. That’s when she’d seen Maynard’s Tavern listed as a place of interest. She’d passed the venue on her way into town, had noted its heavenly lights….

Now, heart heavy, she pushed her car door open and approached the large venue—one stranded at the edge of a giant and empty paddock, but her best bet at this late hour.

Despite all hope, a quick glance through the front window showed no customers conversing at tables and no music was heard playing through the glass.

What if there’s no one inside?

Still, she pushed at the weighty wooden door and the thing surprisingly swung open. A warm atmosphere engulfed her on entry, complete with dim lights and old-style furnishings that melted a portion of the strain compressing on her chest.

She took a deep breath and stepped toward the bar. After a decade in high-end furniture dealing, she could tell her oak from her ash wood, rococo from art deco, and right now she took in the details of bentwood chairs tucked under mid-century style, square timber tables, along with mahogany-brown leather booths filling the spaces along the sidewalls. Indeed, no other customers remained, and the tavern did seem closed, but even as her heart sank, she clung to the small positive detail that the door had been unlocked.

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