Page 3 of The Prodigal

Good gracious, she actually puffs out her chest, while sitting on the counter, but that’s not the most ludicrous sight at the moment. “The dress code seems a bit too casual,” I say, ignoring her temptation comment—because, please. There are no words for such ridiculousness. This girl wouldn’t sample temptation if it begged her. She seems wholesome —which, I have to admit, is disappointing.

It takes Eden all of three seconds to track my gaze to her mismatched fuzzy socks and to jump down from the counter, scattering the items from her purse onto the floor in front of me. “You caught me on a break,” she lies, seemingly innocent. “It’s a twelve-hour shift, and my feet get tired.”

“From sitting?” I tip my chin to the chair I found her in. “I hear you can get insoles to help with that.” I doubt ridiculous socks give her much arch support. But then again, she’s full of shit. This woman got comfortable and settled in for a paid nap.

She straightens, placing a hand on her hip. “How can I help you, sir?”

I raise my brows. “I’ll be honest; I don’t hate the moniker. It has a certain plea to it.” And I enjoy a bout of begging almost more than a cigarette.

“What do you want?” Ah, how the unprofessional have slipped further.

Holding her angry gaze, I ignore the zip of pleasure I get from her attitude as I squat down and pick up the fallen items from when she nearly tackled me to get her ID. “I need a room,” I say, tossing the tampon and old mints onto the counter like the asshole I am. “Can you manage that, sweetheart, or should I wait for the morning shift?”

She snatches the items and throws them behind her, not even caring that the impact dislodges the lid to the mints and scatters them everywhere. “You should probably shove that ‘sweetheart’ right up your—”

“Ah. Ah,” I chide. “You wouldn’t want to offend me even more than you already have, would you? I don’t know about your boss, but mine is a stickler for keeping customers happy.” Which is bullshit, but I let Vance think I actually care what he wants.

Ms. Da Luca inhales and looks to the ceiling, likely remembering the reason she needs this job in the first place, and sighs. “Would you like a single or double bed?”

I can’t hide my grin. “I want the one with a patio chair.”

You would have thought I asked for turn-down service with the look she gives me. “All the rooms have an outdoor chair.”

It’s like she doesn’t even work here. “No. You only have two rooms with a chair.”

Unlike Ms. Employee of the Decade, I did my homework when I pulled in and scoped out the place, noting each room with a chair out front. One seems to be occupied, if the car parked in front of it is any indication of occupancy, but the other appears to be vacant. You don’t live with plastic surgeons for two years and not grow accustomed to the finer things in life.

Eden looks down at the wooden counter like there’s a reservation log there. “Shoot. Looks like both are booked. My apologies. May I suggest the motel down the street instead? I hear their chairs sit better than ours anyway.”

Now, she’s just making me hard with this petty behavior.

I pull out my wallet with a chuckle. “I’ll take whatever you have available, then.” Unfortunately, the motel down the street lacks the one amenity I need—her.

Eden cuts me a disappointed look, but she takes my cash. “I’ll need your ID, too.”

Is that excitement I detect in her tone? Is Ms. Petty eager to learn my name? She should be because it’s a name she will never forget.

I hand over my license and watch as she schools her features. “Remington Jude Potter from Bloomfield, Texas.” She grins like she really has something on me. “Are you visiting Georgia for business or for pleasure?”

Any other time, I’d tell her that my comings and goings are none of her damn business, but I rather enjoy this game we’re playing, so I offer her an olive branch. One truth that she should always remember. “I’m only here long enough to return a favor.”Or obtain vengeance. Same thing.

After Eden slides me an actual metal key to Room 101, I walk out, feeling her scrutinizing gaze on my back. She didn’t ask me any other questions. She simply went over the rules—which I ignored—and had me sign an agreement I didn’t bother reading.

I’m simple like that.

I don’t need to know the rules because I won’t abide by them anyway, and I don’t care if I get my deposit back because I spend more on a night of takeout than I paid for that silly deposit.

Finding Room 101 is more like just looking to my left, but seeing how Eden was petty, I bypass my room and head for the first room with a chair, which just so happens to be the one that has the car parked in front of it. I grab the cheap, plastic chair by the armrest, and drag it back up the walkway, pausing only briefly to give Eden a thumbs-up through the lobby window.

Let this be a lesson to her that challenging me is my favorite type of foreplay.

When I want something, I don’t accept no for an answer.

No one, not even a terrible employee, will come between me and my chair. Just ask my uncle, Vance, who has tried tossing dozens of chairs by the road for trash pick-up, only to discover another one in the morning. The chairs are my signature—and were once the only thing I could call mine.

But that life is behind me now.

That boy no longer exists—but his chairs still do.

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