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“No. I want to stay for a while. Find a job.”
“Who’d want to live here?” Her eyes narrow as she looks me up and down, as if doubting my mental capacity. “This place is for rich folk and tourists.”
And for people like me seeking blessed anonymity.
“So you don’t know of any work?”
“Nope. But there are plenty of shops and restaurants if you head into town. Check there.”
“Thanks.”
Digby gives a high-pitched whistle signaling the hotdog is ready as he slides it through the window from the kitchen. It’s oozing ketchup, mustard and those aromatic onions and I salivate as I hand over my money, nod my thanks at the grouchy girl and take my hotdog and soda outside.
My duffel bumps my back and it’s comforting, a reminder of how far I’ve come. I packed light, essentials only—underwear, five T-shirts, three pairs of jeans, two cotton dresses, socks, and toiletries—enough to get by on until I earn a wage.
It should terrify me that all my worldly possessions are in this duffel, but it doesn’t. What I left behind, an oblivious, uncaring mother and her sleazy boyfriend, was far scarier.
There are three plastic tables beneath turquoise-striped umbrellas and matching chairs outside, and I choose the only table in the shade under an awning. I sit, place my food and drink on the table, and tuck my duffel between my feet. I’m almost faint with hunger and the first bite of the hotdog is heaven. The tang of mustard and the bitterness from the slightly charred onions makes my tastebuds dance and I literally groan and take another bite, wondering if Digby is a magician who puts secret sauce on this. I demolish it quickly, wishing I had the funds to stretch to another, and take a sip of soda when a shadow falls over me.
I shade my eyes and look up, trying not to react when the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen smiles. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and looks like he spends all day in the gym.
“Mind if I sit?” He points to the spare chair at my table and I nod before I can second-guess the wisdom of encouraging a stranger to join me. “You new in town?”
“Maybe,” I say, wary yet intrigued.
The guy’s a similar age to me, or maybe early twenties, and he’s rich. I can tell by the logo on his navy polo and the expensive watch on his wrist. Plus he smells incredible, an intoxicating blend of sea and spice, and to smell that good, the aftershave must cost a bomb.
“I’m just asking because my folks run a bed and breakfast near here and lots of newbies stay there.”
He’s offhand, diffident, like he doesn’t care if I’m listening or not, but I feel his eyes watching me. They’re pale blue, like a washed-out sky, striking with a hint of something that has me on edge.
I should avoid strangers offering accommodation to girls sitting alone at roadside cafes at all costs, but I’m poor and desperate. What harm can it do to delve further?
“How far?”
“We’re in Flotilla Firth, about fifty miles up the road. It’s a tiny town and the folks who live at Arcania are basically the only inhabitants.”
“Did you make up that name?”
“Which one?”
He smiles again and I swear my heart skips a beat. He has even white teeth that light up his face, and along with the clean-shaven square-cut jaw, high cheekbones, those peculiar eyes, and ruffled hair the color of burned caramel, he packs a punch.
“English was my favorite subject at school, so I know arcane means keeping a secret, and it makes me wonder what you’re hiding at Arcania, but Flotilla Firth? Where the heck did that come from?”
He laughs, a deep, warm sound that washes over me like the sea in Miami on a summer’s day. “Lots of ships, flotillas of them, wrecked off the coast near Arcania and the place is steeped in history. It’s been in my family for generations.” He taps the side of his nose and winks. “Maybe those secrets we keep involve buried treasure?”
I like his playfulness and relax a little. “If your family has lived there for so long you must be loaded, so why run a B&B?”
I glimpse respect in his gaze. “Because we also have the biggest organic farm in North Carolina and always need workers, so we offer free food and accommodation as an incentive. Working in the orchards is hard work and turnover is high, so it’s good to offer a little extra.”
This sounds too good to be true. I need a job and a place to stay, and here’s this guy offering me both after I barely step off the bus. But I’m not an idiot. I’m not going anywhere with him until I find out if he’s legit.
“Sounds like an interesting place.” I stand, sling my bag over my shoulder, and place the hotdog wrapper and soda can in the nearby trash. “I just need to grab something inside and use the restroom. Back in a minute.”
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
That’s what worries me—does he prey on all newbies to town?—but heading back inside the cafe will give me a chance to slip out the side door if I need to escape. I barely set foot inside when the girl behind the counter says, “Harlan offering you a place to stay?”
