Page 5 of Moonlit Hideaway
As he tapped on the keyboard, he sensed the woman moving tentatively toward the front desk. Mom had excused herself to dust the bookshelf—she was one who could never stay still.
Hank schooled his face into a friendly professionalism as he acknowledged her.
“Let’s start over with a proper Hattokwa welcome. Hank Whitman. And what will you need this fine morning?”
“I’d like a room with that warm welcome,” she responded with a ghost of a smile.
He tapped the screen to the reservation page. “How long will you be staying, Ms.…?”
She swallowed as if the question was difficult but, in a show of strength, met his gaze squarely. “As long as I need. I’m a songwriter and am using the off-season to catch up. I heard this island offers a lot of inspiration.”
Since he didn’t quite believe her cover story—an off-season songwriter as pretty as her didn’t need a botched dye job or old clothes—he didn’t ask for more detail or try to sell her on the island's amenities. Anything he said, such as, “You came to the right place,” or “We can help you with inspiration,” would sound like he was flirting with her, and that wasn’t the impression he wanted to give—although as a man, he would have to be dead not to feel the stirrings of attraction.
She was drop-dead gorgeous and too young for him. His gaze lingered long enough to note the color shift in her eyes, like the sea’s surface changing with the weather. And the way she carried herself, like velvet and steel, showed she was no stranger to tight situations. A city girl accustomed to mean streets but also well pampered and taken care of—judging by the flawless makeup, manicure, and the confidence to stare him down on the ferry.
“It’s fifty bucks a night, but you get breakfast, and during the off-season, you’re welcome to join us for lunch. If you pay by the week, it’s three hundred, and we put a hundred dollar hold on your credit card—fully refundable after you check out, provided you didn’t break anything.”
She peeled out three Benjamins and laid them on the counter. “Keys? I’d like the most private room you have in the back.”
“What name should I put on the registry?” he asked.
A tic on her left eyelid gave her away as she replied, “Jane will do.”
“Just Jane?”
“Just the keys will do,” she reiterated, adding, “Sorry, I’m exhausted from the all-night drive. It’s Jane Dolan, and I’m not usually this rude.”
“We’ve all been driven to dawn’s door at some point. Consider yourself among friends.” He rummaged in the drawer for the room key. “Room 5. You’re upstairs; turn at the landing and toward the back.”
He didn’t add that the tiny cubby with the balcony was his wife’s favorite hangout.
Jane covered a yawn, and some of the tension melted as she gave him a weak smile. “I already skipped breakfast and might sleep through lunch.”
“We won’t disturb you,” he hastened to add. “But if you’d like us to save a sandwich, we’ll do that.”
“Thanks. I’d like that.” She took up the key and turned toward the front door.
Hank hurried around the counter. “Let me help with your things.”
She didn’t say “no,” so he walked with her in silence to her pickup—a 1990s Silverado extended cab. As he’d noted before, the condition was poor, with rust around the wheel wells and underbody, a missing front hubcap, and scratches, dents, and chipped paint.
“My stuff is in the extended cab.” She struggled to unlock the door by jiggling the key. It was clear she was used to keyless entry.
“Did you want to leave the rifles on the rack? Or I can clean them for you,” he offered.
“Oh, the rifles… Uh, sure, but is that extra?” she asked as if it would be an item on the price list.
“For you, it’s on the house…” he caught himself before launching into flirtation territory. “I mean, as a songwriter, you’re probably more… never mind.”
Those green eyes of hers turned smoky. “What makes you think I don’t know how to shoot?”
“Uh, hey, it’s fine.” He rubbed the back of his neck as sweat erupted on his forehead. City girls had sharp tongues, and her accent placed her from the Northeast—not as far up as Boston or New York, but softer than Jersey—maybe mid-Atlantic or Philly—although it was extremely slight and polished as if she’d spent years erasing it, which figured as a songwriter.
“What kind of songs do you write?” he asked when he spotted the large guitar case. The leather exterior was embossed with intricate designs that spoke of custom work, and he wondered if the axe inside was as fancy as Just-Jane’s designer purse.
“All kinds of songs.” She speared him with the “Are you always this nosy” glare.
“You’ll find the room very amenable to your tasks,” he said, remembering his place. He was the innkeeper and at least ten years her senior—a widower and a single dad. Without another word, he hefted her luggage while she took her guitar. He noticed the box of ammo and bit his tongue. Someone had sold her shotgun shells, not the bullets she needed for the pair of bolt-action Winchesters left by the last owner of the dilapidated truck.
