Page 2 of Cupid's Beau

I bite my lip to keep from smiling. At least he didn’t go with John.

I type ‘Smith’ into the system, playing along. “And how will you be paying, Mr. …Smith?”

He slides a black credit card across the counter. The name on it definitely isn’t Smith. I process it without comment, trying not to react to the fact that I’m holding Jack Ellis’s personal credit card. The same Jack Ellis who got his start in a super popular teen show before graduating to critically acclaimed blockbusters and eventually switching to directing. The same Jack Ellis who made my mother cry with his performance in “Broken Lines” last year.

The same Jack Ellis who’s now drumming his long, strongfingers impatiently on my front desk.

“Right! Sorry.” I hand back his card and grab a key from the rack behind me. “Let me show you to your room.”

I step out from behind the desk, suddenly very aware that I’m wearing old jeans and a wrinkled button-down shirt that’s seen better days. At least my canvas shoes are mostly clean. Not that I care what Jack Ellis thinks about my outfit. Nope.

“Follow me, please.”

He grabs his black designer leather duffle bag and falls into step behind me. His looming presence making the familiar hallway feel smaller.

“The stairs are a bit creaky,” I warn as we start up. “Historic charm and all that.”

He makes a noncommittal sound behind me.

“Oh,” I say, because apparently I can’t manage to shut it around this guy, “breakfast is from seven to ten. The dining room is just off the lobby.” We reach the second floor landing. One more flight to go. You can do it, Neneh. “And there’s always coffee in the kitchen.”

More silence. Okay…

The third floor is quiet since most of the inn is empty this time of the year. I stop at the end of the hall and unlock the door, flicking on the lights.

“Here we are.” I step aside to let him in. “Bathroom’s through there, extra blankets in the chest, and-” I notice him scanningthe windows. “Don’t worry, the trees block any view from the street. No one can see in.”

He turns his gorgeous blue eyes on me, and for a second I think maybe I made a mistake by making it clear I know who he is. But then he pulls down his thick scarf and I catch the edge of what might be a smile.

“Thanks,” he says, less gruff this time.

“Of course. Um, let me know if you need anything. I’m usually around. Writing. Or attempting to write. Or procrastinating about writing.” I’m rambling. Again. God, why am I rambling? “I’ll just… go now.”

I make it halfway down the hall before I hear his door close, then lean against the wall and let out a long breath.

Jack Ellis is staying in our honeymoon suite. My mother is going to lose her mind.

I practically float down the stairs, my mind racing. Should I tell my mother? He clearly wants privacy, but if she recognizes him… Though to be fair, she might not. Ma is famous for getting her celebrities mixed up. But then again…

Back in my office, I collapse into my chair and stare at my laptop screen. The cursor is still blinking. My manuscript is still empty. But now all I can think about is the way Jack Ellis’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when he almost smiled. God. He’s even more handsome in the flesh. Impossibly tall. Big as a house. Those strong hands with thick veins running at the back. That straight, masculine nose. The neatly trimmed beard framing hiscut jaw. His high cheekbones. That full mouth. And his eyes… gah! I think I can still smell the woodsy scent of his cologne.

“Focus,” I mutter, shaking my head. “He’s just a guest. A very famous, incredibly hot guest who probably needs a break from his very public life and- no. Stop. Write your book.”

“Neneh!” My mother’s voice carries up the stairs again. “Come help with dinner!”

I close my laptop. Writing’s clearly not happening today, anyway. Besides, I need to warn her about our new guest before she ambushes him with embarrassingly detailed local historical facts. Although watching Jack Ellis try to politely escape one of my mother’s monologues might actually be funny.

I find my mom in the kitchen, stirring something that smells like heaven. Peanut butter, vegetables and beef. Yup, it’s mafé - she always makes comfort food when it snows.

“So,” she says without turning around, “who was at the front desk?”

I lean against the counter, trying for casual. “Just a guest. Room 15.”

“Room 15?” Now she does turn, wooden spoon in hand. “The honeymoon suite? For one?”

“He wanted privacy.”

She raises an eyebrow. “He?”

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