Page 49 of And Now, Back to You

Lottie fills her cheeks with air, then blows it out noisily.

“What?” I ask. “What is it?”

“There are no other rooms,” she says with a wince. “When we received your cancellation, we immediately offered it to the waiting list.” She threads her fingers together and squeezes until her knuckles are white. “When storms this big roll in, the truckers that pass through town usually hunker down. We have an agreement with one of the dispatchers. We’ve got a pretty good waiting list going as we get everyone squared away.”

I rub at my forehead. “All right. I’ll just—it was my room?”

I’d call it bad luck, but I think this particular black cat is six-foot-nothing with a receding hairline and a mean streak.

Lottie turns the monitor back toward her and clicks around. “Just your room,” she confirms. “In the email I received, it said you found alternate lodgings at”—she squints at the computer, mouth moving soundlessly as she reads—“oh, at, um, Liberty Hall across the street.”

“Oh, well, that’s good!” I nudge Jackson with my elbow. “I still have somewhere to sleep tonight.”

Jackson is busy glowering at the computer monitor. “In this email you received,” he says, “did it say who wanted to cancel Delilah’s reservation?”

“There wasn’t a name listed. Just a generic email with a signature line from the station. I thought it was—I’m so sorry, I thought it was legit.”

I wave her off and wrestle my bag out of Jackson’s grip. “It’s no problem. Liberty Hall, you said?”

Lottie hesitates, then nods. Warning bells start to chime, but optimism is a choice, and I’m not letting this trip go to waste because Keith wants to play games. I’m going to kill this coverage, and I’m going to shut him up once and for all. Hopefully, this will be the last time I ever have to jump through these hoops.

“I’ll go check in across the street, and then we’ll meet back here for coffee. Oh.” I glance at Lottie. “Can I still have coffee here? If I don’t have a room?”

“Of course you can. Scones too.” Lottie’s face eases into something sympathetic. “Whatever you need. I’m so sorry this happened.”

I manage a wobbly smile. The look on her face is like I’ve just announced a death in the family. The warning bells turn into an air siren. I don’t have a great feeling about Liberty Hall. “Thank you. I appreciate your help. I’m sure I’ll see you—wait.” I’m distracted by Jackson, turning and wheeling both of our suitcases toward the front door. “What are you doing?”

Mine bumps along unsteadily next to his, that damned wheel still broken.

“Jackson.” I rush to catch up. “I can do this myself.”

He shakes his head. “We’ll come back together, after you’ve checked in at your new place.”

A hot flare of indignation settles between my shoulder blades. “You don’t think I can walk across the street by myself? I can manage crossing the road.”

“I just want to see,” Jackson says, his voice free of argument. I’m throwing a temper tantrum, and he’s out for an afternoon stroll. He pauses at the curb and gives me a long, considering look. Then he rolls my suitcase in front of me. A peace offering. I grip the handle and stare up at him. “I want to make sure you’re okay over there. That you have everything you need.”

The anger leaves me in a rush and I nod. Maybe it wouldn’t be so horrible to have someone on my side for once. “Okay,” I agree.

“Good,” he says, that one word a rough sound in the back of his throat. I shiver, then immediately decide to blame it on the strong northeast wind whipping it’s way over the mountains. Jackson shifts, then holds out his hand, palm up, between us.

I stare at it.

“What’s that about?” I ask.

He glances down at his hand like it’s operating independent of the rest of his body. He clenches it into a fist, then drops it. “Oh. Never mind.”

“Did you want to . . . hold my hand?”

“No,” he says immediately. “I was—” He swallows, staring off at some unidentified point in the distance, his eyes squinting. “I was measuring the wind direction.”

He half-heartedly lifts his hand again, palm facing out.

“What direction is the wind blowing?” I ask.

He hesitates, then lets out a long-suffering sigh. “North,” he mutters.

The winds are definitely moving counterclockwise as the storm approaches. We both know that. I snort a laugh, and he cuts a look in my direction. A man found out. A man defeated.