Page 22 of The Hot New Bachelor in Town

“Hey,” I say, clearing my throat.

Her shoulders sink as she notices what I’m looking at, but she smiles playfully as she approaches the mantel. “Oh, jeez. What are you gawking at?”

I chuckle. “High school graduation?” I assume.

She confirms. “High school graduation.”

“You look... smart.”

“Smart?”

“Yeah, like your head is full of knowledge, just waiting to spill out.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I’m high as a kite in this picture, so you’re not wrong.”

I make a shocked face. “No way!”

“Yes way.”

“Never would have pegged you the type.”

“Eh.” She waves a hand. “Everyone does it.”

“You holding right now?”

She laughs. “That, my dear guest, is not part of our standard turndown service package.”

“Upgrade me to deluxe, then.”

“I’ll make a note.” She eyes me curiously, a smile tucked into the edge of her lips. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” I say.

Mika crosses the room toward the front desk. I give the photos along the mantel one more glance before following her, and she leads me back behind the desk and down a hallway.

As we go, she points out various rooms and their purposes. Her father’s office. The laundry room. The linen and supply closets. All the way to the end to the door marked Kitchen.

We walk in. As Mika beelines for the refrigerator, I stop and look around. I can instantly see it; a full kitchen staff hustling about, fixing lavish meals for Small Town tourists, baking pastries and whipping up sauces from scratch. All the appliances are here, lovingly set on the shelves along the wall, but closer inspection reveals the thin layer of dust on the surfaces. They haven’t been used in weeks.

“So, Mr. Cartwright,” Mika says as she twists around the open refrigerator door, “what do you like on your sandwich?”

“What do you have?” I ask.

“Well, I stopped by the butcher on the way back from my shift, so we are stocked. I’ve got honey ham. I’ve got smoked turkey. Salami. Bologna.”

“Turkey sounds good.”

She grabs it and sets it on the island counter behind us. “Cheese?”

“Swiss if you got it.”

“I’ve got it.” She opens a drawer and takes out a package of swiss slices. She quickly grabs a head of lettuce, a fresh tomato, bottles of mayo and mustards, and sets it all down on the counter.

“White, wheat, or rye?” she asks, her eyes narrower than before.

“Is there a wrong answer to that question?” I ask, noticing.

Mika waits for my reply.

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