Page 6 of The Mafia King's Baby

Aleks had that same quality of alert observation, though he tried to hide it behind polite small talk about travel delays and appreciation for my accommodating his late arrival.

I wonder what he does for a living. His clothes and overall presentation suggested significant wealth, but he’d chosen my modest guest room over the luxury resorts that dot the Lake Tahoe area. Maybe he values privacy over amenities, or maybe there’s something about high-end hotels that doesn’t suit his needs.

The thought sends a little shiver through me. What if he’s running from something? What if he chose my listing specifically because it’s new and unlikely to show up in whatever search his pursuers might conduct?

I shake my head against the pillow, annoyed with myself for letting imagination run wild. I’ve clearly read one too many Lee Child books during my stint of unemployment. This is how conspiracy theories start, with perfectly innocent situations that get filtered through too much late-night speculation and not enough actual evidence.

Aleks is probably just a businessman who had meetings run late and needed somewhere to sleep before continuing his travels, though his relaxed attitude about timing suggests he might not be in as much of a hurry as his initial booking message implied. The intensity I sensed might simply be jet lag combined with the stress of unexpected schedule changes. The expensive clothes could indicate success in any number of legitimate fields that require professional appearance and international travel.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I grab it hoping for a distraction from my spinning thoughts. Instead, I find a text from my mother, Loretta, sent twenty minutes ago:“Saw yourlisting online. Very proud of your initiative, honey. Make sure you keep your bedroom door locked. Love you.”

The message makes me smile despite my restless anxiety. Mom’s ability to be simultaneously supportive and worry-inducing is a talent she’s perfected over twenty-seven years of motherhood. I’m touched that she took the time to look up my QwikRent listing, though I’m not surprised that her first concern involves my personal safety.

I glance at my bedroom door, where the new deadbolt I installed two weeks ago gleams in the dim light from my alarm clock. The hardware store clerk had recommended the most secure option available for interior doors, a solid steel mechanism that would take considerable force to break. I’d practiced with it multiple times during installation, making sure I could lock and unlock it quickly even in the dark.

The precaution had seemed reasonable when I was planning this venture in abstract terms, but now that there’s actually a stranger in my house, the deadbolt feels both reassuring and inadequate. What if Aleks has intentions beyond a simple overnight stay? What if my background research missed something important about his identity or history?

I text Mom back:“Door is locked. Everything’s fine. He seems nice.”The words feel both true and insufficient, but I don’t want to worry her with my middle-of-the-night doubts.

Her response comes immediately:“Trust your instincts. If something feels wrong, call 911. Your safety is more important than any booking fee.”

That’s Mom in a nutshell, protective and practical in equal measure. She and Dad raised me to be independent and self-sufficient, but she also made sure I understood independence doesn’t mean ignoring warning signs or taking unnecessary risks. Dad, with his security background, was also a stickler for trusting his gut and taught me to do the same.

The problem is that I can’t decide if my instincts are telling me something legitimate, or if I’m just nervous about this whole hosting experiment. Aleks hasn’t done anything inappropriate or threatening. He was polite during our interaction, respectful of my space, and seemed genuinely appreciative of my willingness to accommodate his late arrival.

Was that intensity even real?

Or just me, nervous about a stranger in the house, coloring how I saw him?

I try to remember exactly what felt off about our interaction, but the details get fuzzy when I examine them closely.

He thanked me for accommodating the late arrival and followed me upstairs without crowding or making me feel uncomfortable. He complimented the room and assured me it was perfect for his needs. Those are all perfectly normal guest behavior that gives me no real reason for concern.

The accent was unusual but not inherently suspicious. Lake Tahoe attracts international visitors, especially during ski season. His expensive clothes might simply indicate success in whatever field brought him to the area. The late arrival could be explained by any number of legitimate travel complications.

I’m probably overthinking this because it’s my first booking, and I’m naturally anxious about whether I can handle the responsibility of hosting strangers. Tripp always said I tended tocreate problems where none existed, to analyze situations until I found reasons to worry.

“You look for complications because you’re more comfortable solving problems than accepting that some things are just simple,” he’d said during one of our arguments about my supposedly excessive caution. “Not everything needs to be dissected and understood before you can relax.”

At the time, I’d been hurt by his criticism, but maybe there was some truth to it. Maybe I am letting my analytical nature transform a straightforward business transaction into an elaborate mystery that exists only in my imagination.

Aleks booked a room for one night. He’ll sleep, probably grab coffee in the morning, and leave to continue whatever brought him to the area. In twelve hours, this will all be over, and I’ll have my first successful hosting experience behind me along with the payment that will help cover this month’s mortgage.

It should be boring and uneventful, exactly the kind of unremarkable interaction that will build my confidence for future bookings. I’ll probably never see him again after he checks out tomorrow morning, and within a week, I’ll have trouble remembering his face clearly.

This is what I signed up for when I decided to become a host, after all. My life will become a series of brief intersections with strangers. I need to get comfortable with the inherent uncertainty that comes with opening my home to people I don’t know.

The alternative is to cancel his booking and refund his payment, which would mean admitting I’m not cut out for this business before I’ve even given it a real chance. That feels like thekind of premature surrender that would haunt me for months, especially if I end up having to move back in with my widowed mother because I couldn’t find any other way to generate income.

It would be stupid, and I’m not that silly.

I roll onto my back again and focus on the sound of rain pattering against my bedroom window. The weather matches my mood, unsettled and unpredictable, but there’s something soothing about the rhythm of water on glass. It’s the kind of night that makes indoor spaces feel especially cozy and secure.

Somewhere upstairs, Aleks is probably settling into the bed I made with fresh linens this morning, maybe reading the welcome note I wrote with local restaurant recommendations and hiking trail suggestions. He might be appreciating the small touches I added to make the room feel welcoming, or he might simply be grateful for a clean, quiet place to sleep after what was obviously a long day of travel. I hope he’s having better luck falling asleep than I am.

He’s just a handsome traveler who needed accommodation, and I’m just a host providing a service. Whatever mysterious energy I thought I sensed was probably nothing more than the natural awkwardness of strangers interacting in an intimate setting.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up to make breakfast for my first guest, and hopefully, everything will go smoothly. Maybe he’ll even leave a positive review, though with a brand-new listing, I shouldn’t expect too much.

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