Page 8 of Call it Fate

With a groan, I flopped back on the bed and threw my arm across my eyes as if it could block out the past ten minutes. Not a chance.

She was more beautiful than I remembered. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back into some kind of fancy braid with a few tendrils framing the sides of her face, softening the look. She looked polished but approachable. Even through the stylishly bulky sweater she wore, her curves looked more womanly. Her eyes still glowed with warmth and a welcome—at least, until she recognized me. My brain reacted with disgust, but my body responded differently—my heart beat faster, my breath felt more shallow. And let’s not forget how my dick sat up and took notice of her.

Our weeks together when she’d been at a cooking school and I’d been a student at the prestigious Edonton University in Charlotte had been a whirlwind, although, in that short amount of time, I’d felt a stronger connection to her than I had with anyone before or since. She’d been so sweet, so open and honest, and had a smile so big and bright I found myself doing anything to earn it, which hadn’t been hard, at least then. I’d been attracted to her from the beginning, then completely charmed by her wit and sweetness. I thought we were happy.

All these years later, I was no closer to understanding what happened. We’d been at my Spring fraternity social. We’d had sex together for the first time. I’d had to leave to take care of some fraternity business, but when I’d returned, she was gone. She never responded to my texts or phone calls.

I tried to push Emalee from my mind, but I was exhausted, frustrated, and powerless against the rising tide of memories that came flooding back from almost seven years ago, of how I’d panicked when I couldn’t find her. Why had the girl I was falling in love with disappeared? What had I missed?

At first, I worried something terrible had happened to her. Maybe she’d been in an accident. I called hospital after hospital. I tried to get the police involved, but they’d assured me no one else had listed her as missing, and they had found no one matching her description, injured or dead. They not-so-gently told me I’d been duped and dumped. When I realized I was beginning to look like a stalker, I backed down. I spoke to my father’s private investigator from his firm, but Julio laughed at me for wanting to waste his time tracking down a “bit of fluff” I’d only known for a month. Maybe they were all right.

Sometimes, I wondered if meeting Emalee had been a blessing or a curse.

The sound of a snowplow roused me from my memories. It was completely dark outside, but inside was toasty with the warm glow from table lamps and a gas fireplace that had been lit prior to my arrival. I hadn’t even noticed any of it when I’d first walked in.

I glanced around my quarters for the rest of the week. The walls were painted a pale blue that picked up similar tones in the soft carpet in front of the bed. The narrow plank floors had a reddish-brown finish, making everything feel warm despite the snowy day outside. White crown molding and long, heavy navy curtains gave the room a polished and homey feel. A white fireplace in the center of one wall tied in the rest of the colors of the bedding and the armchairs flanking it. A modest chandelier, a desk, a couple of tables, and some nicely framed art of what I guessed to be local scenery finished the decor.

I tried to find fault in it, not wanting to like anything associated with Emalee Dawson. I came up empty. The richness of the room felt elegant yet comfortable, a stark contrast to the cold and museum-like home I’d grown up in despite the enormous amount of money the designer had charged.

My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, not wanting to risk the roads worsening if I stopped. As much as I didn’t want to confront her again—or did I?—I pushed off the comfortable bed where I knew, under different circumstances, I’d sleep well. But knowing Emalee was so close was bound to cause a restless night.

I washed up in the en suite bathroom—also tastefully and comfortably outfitted—and made my way downstairs. A sign on the desk stated management had gone home but could be reached by the listed phone number in case of emergency. It was hard to sort if I felt relieved or disappointed not to see her.

It was late, but a couple of small lamps had been left on as if waiting for a wayward guest. I glanced around the rest of the entranceway into the other rooms. It was obviously an old home, but modern finishings were so well crafted into the design they appeared almost like they’d been there from the beginning.

The same warm, polished wood flooring carried throughout the entire area. Wood-paneled walls—shiplap, I think I’d once heard it called—were painted a soft, pale yellow, adding just enough color without taking away from the contrasting blues of the furniture. Embers of a dying fire glittered in the fireplace.

Much like the second floor, the first floor was beautiful—simple, yet tasteful and welcoming. Someone had worked hard to make it feel like a home away from home.

Upstairs, I could hear the footsteps and murmurings of other guests, causing me to wonder where Emalee lived. I hoped she was as lost in her memories—and guilt—as I’d been ever since my arrival.

“Are you looking for Emalee, dear?”

I turned toward the unfamiliar voice and saw an older woman coming from the dining room with a steaming mug.

“Actually, yes. Have you seen her?”

“I think she went home. She leaves a number for guests to call if they need anything. Didn’t she give it to you?”

That was probably the last thing she wanted to give me.“I must have missed it. It’s not important.”

She moved closer, peering at me closely. I wondered if she was making some sort of connection between me and Emalee, but that was impossible. To anyone else’s knowledge, I was just another guest.

“She’s a sweet girl. She even made sure I had a pot of tea before I went upstairs.” She held up her cup and gestured behind her. “She always makes sure there are snacks for her guests and anyone who happens to stop by if you want something to eat. Tonight, she even made us a light supper so no one had to go out in the snow. She’s always taking care of everyone. I don’t know what’s left, but she always makes sure the fridge is well stocked. There’s a microwave if you want to warm something up.”

The older woman moved toward the stairs where I still stood. Her eyes appeared to assess me, frowning, and it was all I could do not to squirm. “Yes, sir, she’s a keeper, that one. Can’t for the life of me figure out why someone hasn’t snatched that girl up. Makes one curious. I wish my Charlie could meet her.”

She started past me but paused, running her eyes up and down me before they lingered back on mine. “But then, I guess my Charlie isn’t the one for her.” She started up the stairs. “Have a good night, young man.”

I stared after the lady, her words giving me pause. The description sounded a lot like the Emalee I once thought I knew, but I’d learned the hard and painful way that appearances could be deceptive.

Trying to shake my thoughts from her, I made my way into the dining area. Four small tables covered in cheerful blue tablecloths sat empty, already set for breakfast. A large sideboard, which looked to be easily over a hundred years old, stood against one wall. A note on top informed me I was welcome to anything. I peeked inside a mini-fridge and found several sandwiches neatly labeled with familiar handwriting.

I warmed some tomato soup, grabbed some cheese and crackers, and snagged a BLT and water before heading back to my room. Enjoying the warmth of the fire after my long drive, I ate a few bites. One thing hadn’t changed, Emalee was still an excellent cook. Somehow, even the simple food tasted several steps above the norm.

An hour later, after watching a little TV, the soft comfort of the bed lulled me to sleep, only to be disturbed by memories masked as dreams.

CHAPTER5

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