It might be fun to imagine what would happen if we met again, but I wasn’t lying when I told Andrew I wasn’t interested. I’ve got enough in my life to figure out right now without adding a romance into the mix.
Myfirstfulldayat the inn passes fairly quickly, since Andrew stayed after breakfast and hung out with me until the evening. Now that he’s gone back to his place, though, I’m at a loss for what to do. So I’m sitting by myself on the inn’s front porch, because it’s way too early to go to bed.
As I sway back and forth on the wooden swing, I fight the urge to look online. I know I’m supposed to be here ignoring what the media is saying about me, but I’m afraid the not knowing is even worse than knowing. Or maybe not.
At least the view out here is nice. The front path is lined with sunflowers, and the grounds out back are gorgeous too. But the view can only do so much to distract me from the way my fingers are itching to curl around my phone.
Right as I’m about to give in, the inn’s front doors open and the woman from yesterday and this morning walks out of them. The head chef. Theone who apparently hates me already for reasons I can’t figure out. I’m surprised she’s just leaving now. She must have been here working through breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
“Wow, you’ve been here all day?” I call out. Although I don’t know what possesses me to do it. I could have simply let her pass by me without drawing attention to myself.
She stops halfway down the porch steps and spins back around. Her eyebrows go up, and I almost expect her to turn again and continue on her way. But then she nods and says, “So have you.”
“Well, yeah,” I say with an awkward laugh. “I kind of don’t have anywhere else to go.”
That’s not entirely true. I could always make Andrew pick me up and take me somewhere. Or use the inn’s shuttle service to get over to Main Street. But I’m still a little tired from my flight yesterday. And from the last few months of my life. Maybe the last few years of it, if I’m really being honest.
The woman climbs back up the steps and comes to stand in front of me, leaning against the porch railing with her arms crossed over her chest. She’s dressed informally for being at work. Jean shorts and a T-shirt with a logo I don’t recognize but am guessing is for a band.
I realize I don’t even know her name.
“I heard you’re here indefinitely,” she says. “Can’t imagine someone choosing Mayweather for a long vacation. I know tourists come for the festivals and whatever, but there isn’t much else to keep you entertained.”
“Believe me, I grew up here, so I know how it is,” I tell her. “After all the years I’ve spent in Nashville and touring, though, I think the quiet might be good for me. And...” I hesitate, fussing with the hem of my dress and wondering why I’m about to share anything personal with a stranger. “I wouldn’t really call this a vacation.”
She frowns. “No? What would you call it?”
An exile.
When I don’t answer out loud, she shakes her head and pushes off from the railing. “Never mind. None of my business.”
For some reason I can’t explain, I want to stop her from leaving. But I don’t. I watch her walk away, my eyes drawn to the large black and gray tattoo I can’t quite make out on the back of her calf. I think it’s a knife with flowers.
At the bottom of the steps, she turns back to me again. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here,” I tell her, a hint of a smile inching up on my face.
CHAPTER THREE
ADDISON
It’ssohotinthe kitchen today that I barely survive the breakfast service. The rest of the kitchen staff looks equally as miserable as we clean up and start getting things ready for lunch, which starts in thirty minutes. Everyone’s got damp towels wrapped around the back of their necks in attempts to cool off. But that’s not going to cut it for me. The heat is making me cranky, and I need a break before I snap at someone.
So I leave the kitchen and step out onto the back porch. The fresh air hits me immediately, and I breathe a long sigh of relief. Even though it’s summer, it feels cooler out here than it was in there.
Damn AC.I told Brenden last week that it’s been fritzing out on us, but since it hasn’t completely died, he hasn’t sent anyone out to fix it yet.
“Busy breakfast rush?” a soft voice asks.
Whipping my head to the left, I spot the annoyingly attractive redhead that keeps popping up everywhere as if the universe is determined to drive me crazy.
I suppose it’s not her fault I’m attracted to her. Or that I really don’t want to be. But itisher fault that she’s chosen to stay here instead of a fancier corporate chain that would be better equipped to accommodate fussy celebrity requests.
Okay. So maybe she hasn’t actually made any fussy requests. The syrup thing wasn’t that big of a deal. But something about her staying at the inn is keeping me on edge. And I’ve got enough to worry about in my job without the added stress.
“It wasn’t that bad,” I tell her, stepping closer to where she’s sitting at the top of the steps with a guitar in her lap. “Just ridiculously hot in the kitchen. I needed to get out of there for a minute.”
“Sorry,” she says, like she’s personally responsible for the heat.
