Page 30 of Four More The Merrier

"What's not right?" Lyle asks, though his expression tells me he already knows.

"Her spending Thanksgiving alone. Especially after how dickhead one and dickhead two have been treating her."

"You thinking what I'm thinking?"

I'm already reaching for my jacket. "Get her plate ready."

The hotel lobby'stoo-bright fluorescent lights make me squint as I approach the front desk. A blonde with perfectly manicured nails taps away at her computer, looking up with practiced charm when I clear my throat.

"Can I help you?" Her eyes widen with recognition.

"Yeah, I'm looking for Quinn Dupree's room number."

She leans forward, batting her lashes. "I'm not really supposed to give out guest information..."

"Please?" I adjust my hat, uncomfortable with the attention. "She's part of our tour. Just want to make sure she's doing okay for the holiday."

"Well..." She draws out the word. "Since you asked so nicely. Room 412."

"Thanks." I turn toward the elevator before she can try to slip me her number.

The hallway on the fourth floor stretches out in both directions, identical doors with brass numbers marching intothe distance. My boots sink into the worn carpet as I make my way down, counting numbers.

410... 411... 412.

I raise my hand to knock, but pause at the sound coming from inside. A muffled sob catches in my ears, followed by a shaky breath. Through the door, I can hear her voice, thick with tears.

My hand hovers by the door, caught between knocking and retreating. The sound of her crying makes my chest ache.

I finally rap my knuckles against the door, and the crying stops abruptly. Shuffling sounds come from inside, followed by footsteps.

The door cracks open, revealing Quinn with mascara-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. Her hair's pulled up in a messy bun, and she's wearing an oversized Nashville tourist sweatshirt.

"Beau?" She swipes at her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Saw your car in the lot. Thought you were heading home for Thanksgiving?"

"Oh. That." She lets out a shaky laugh. "Change of plans."

"Can I come in?" I ask, fully expecting her to decline.

"Sure, I guess…" she says meekly.

Her room's cramped, with clothes scattered across the bed and an open notebook on the desk. The TV's playing some Hallmark movie on mute.

"Sorry about the mess." She kicks a pair of boots under the bed. "Wasn't exactly expecting company."

"Why'd you tell Lyle you were going home?"

She sinks onto the edge of the bed, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Easier than explaining the truth, I guess. My parents..." She shakes her head. "Let's just say they think music is a hobby, not a career."

"Why are you crying?"

"Mostly." She gestures toward the window. "Not that they'd want me there anyway." She wipes fresh tears away. "Last time we talked, my dad said I was throwing my life away chasing pipe dreams in Nashville."

My heart sinks watching her try to hold back tears. The TV flickers silently behind her, showing some happy family gathering around a turkey dinner. The contrast makes this whole situation even more gut-wrenching.

"I'm sorry about your folks." I shift my weight, uncomfortable with seeing her hurt like this. "That's... that's really rough."

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