Page 12 of Inn To You

“Not anymore,” Tessa replies.

I step closer to her, and she turns to face the window again.

“At one time, we allowed resident artists here. This was their studio.” Tessa pauses, and a faint smile curls her lips. Her fingers run along the dusty edge of the workstation. “My mother was such an artist. She loved nature. Painting was her medium.”

“What happened to her?” I already know her father passed away.

“She decided she couldn’t be kept in one place. Like the seasons, she needed change.” Tessa holds a hand in the air and ripples it through the dust dancing in the sunrays that float through the window. “My father always feared I’d feel pressured to stay here and resent Bluebird Hollow Inn, like her. He wanted me to see the world. He forced me to leave and attend college.”

Her hand lowers and lands on the worktop as if it’s holding her upright. Her gaze drops to her fingers.

“How old were you when your mother left?”

“I was ten. Young enough to still need my mommy. Close enough to being a teenager to need a mother,” she reflects. “But my dad was amazing. And Uncle Joe was great back then as well.”

Tessa cranes her neck, glancing at me over her shoulder and searching my face with those piercing blue eyes. Her voice is so sad.

I slip my hands into my pockets, forcing myself not to reach for her. “And when did your dad pass?”

“When I was thirty-two.”

“Is that when you got pregnant with your son?” The question feels intrusive, but I’m so curious about her.

She looks up at the sun-filtering window. “Everything happened after his death. I was young and foolish and believed in a man who didn’t want the same things as me.”

“What happened to him?”

“Noah.” My name is a warning, and Tessa closes her eyes.

Subject closed.

I inhale, getting a whiff of oil paint, must, and earth. The scent overshadows her meadow-flower fragrance. Based on the dust, this place should be condemned. The inn no longer offers resident artist options, so why keep this structure?

Tessa’s silence unnerves me, zoning out like she does, and I’m compelled to draw her out of her thoughts.

“My father left when I was eighteen.” My nostrils flare at the half-truth. “Although leaving isn’t exactly the correct term. Leaving suggests a decision, a choice to walk away, but my father had been arrested.” I take a deep breath, allowing another second to pass as memories fill my head. I don’t know why I’m telling her this tale. I never discuss my father with anyone but my brother. “Then again, that was a choice as well. He chose to embezzle money from the company he worked for to cover his gambling debts.”

Tessa’s startled gaze focuses on me, and the reaction is what I expected, but she keeps quiet, allowing me to continue.

“He’d gone to prison for nearly twenty years. Now he’s out.” I bitterly chuckle, lowering my gaze and staring at her delicate hands pressed to the top of the workstation. What would it feel like to have her fingers rub against my skin? Would it be electric like it was that first time? Would she cling to me like the night when I kissed her in room twenty-seven? Could she be a comfort I’ve never had?

“Do you see him?”

“I have.” I shift to face the dirty window, placing my hand near hers. My pinky reaches out for hers. “Ironically, he lives near here.”

“Is he the reason you returned to the area?”

“I needed a job.” Twisting my entire body, I face her again, standing closer than when I first entered this space.

“Come here,” I whisper, gently but commanding all the same. When I reach for the side of her throat, the pulse point hammers against my fingers. Her heartbeat flutters faster, and her gaze drops to the graphic tee I wear.

We should make T-shirts for the inn.

“Why do you do that?” Her smoky voice drops.

“Your pulse flutters faster when you want me to kiss you.”

Her head snaps upward, and her eyes lock on mine. “And who says I want you to kiss me?”