Page 22 of Resting Beach Face
“Yeah.” I zeroed in on the next critical comment. “Why did this guy open a B&B? He doesn’t even like people! I swear this guy has the worst case of resting bitch face I’ve ever seen. He’s more like a stern high school principal than a welcoming host.”
The words hurt. Not just because it was a critical review. Because it wastrue.I was all wrong for this kind of job. I’d taken the B&B because I had fond memories of staying with my aunt when I was a lonely, bullied teenager in need of an oasis. But I wasn’t my aunt. She was effortlessly warm and friendly. I was…rigid and withdrawn. Frigid even, if you asked some of my previous boyfriends.
“Ouch.” Nathan paused. “This might be easier than I thought.”
“What might be?”
“Talking you into coming to work with me.”
I groaned. “I told you before?—”
“Yeah, yeah. You own the B&B. I know. But what if you didn’t have to own it?”
I blinked. “Uh…I’m not sure where you’re going with that.”
“I’ve got some connections through my work. One of my clients is looking for lakefront property for a condo development. I think he’d love your spot in Swallow Cove.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “We haven’t had the best luck with big developers coming in.”
“I can vouch for this guy,” Nathan said. “He’s got money to invest, and this would be a smart way to go about it. You told me yourself that Swallow Cove didn’t have enough housing.”
“Well, that’s true,” I said. “It has been a problem for a lot of the locals.”
“Exactly,” he said. “It’s a win-win. You help the town and get out of the B&B business.”
“And come work for you?” I said dryly.
He laughed. “Well, hey, I’ve never hidden my own motives.”
“Fair point,” I said.
“Think about it, will you? You don’t sound happy there.”
I glanced up at a framed photo of Aunt Millie beaming a huge smile down on me. I loved her. I loved what she’d built. But I wasn’t her, and maybe it was time I accepted that.
My heart ached as I replied, “Yeah, I’ll think about it.”
The rest of the day went smoother, as did the next. Marigold’s snootiness worked in my favor since she and her husband went out for breakfast every day.
But the guests just kept coming. The slower winter season when I could forget I lived in a B&B for whole weeks at a time was a thing of the past.
Every morning I provided some sort of breakfast, though during the week it was usually a selection of baked goods from the new Hot Buns Bakery that’d opened a few weeks ago or biscuits and chocolate gravy from Tastes Like Grandma.
Then I spent time checking folks out, flipping rooms, doing laundry—the freaking laundry never ended—checkingmorefolks in, and digging up movies and games to entertain them in the evening while dodging their invitations to join in.
“Sorry, I’m headed out,” I blurted when a clingy older woman invited me to join her for a movie—for the third time. “Plans with a friend. You know how it is. See you all later.”
I snatched up my keys and wallet and darted out the door. I kept a small runabout boat docked behind the B&B, and I was already halfway down the shore toward The Rusty Hook when I realized I didn’t have my phone with me.
Shoot. There went my plan to call Hudson to meet up for a beer.
I docked behind the pub and crossed the back deck strung with lights. I edged between tables filled with rowdy tourists, their drunken laughter grating on my nerves.
The atmosphere inside was quieter. I swept my gaze over the crowd as I made my way to an empty seat at the bar.
Two members of the Weekend Hookers fishing group—Chester and Ansel—were sitting at the far end, nursing cheap beer and steadily working their way through a plate of onion rings.
I took a barstool a few seats down so they wouldn’t try to draw me into their latest complaint about fishing holes, tourism, or the price of gasoline.
