Page 49 of The Quiet After The Fall

Below the message she sends a meme image of this little creature-looking thing with a huge smile and its arms extended wide. I can just picture her laughing as she sent it.

Me: Yesss! That’s amazing!

Gia: Want to grab drinks tomorrow to celebrate our first week? I’m out of work at six.

That sounds so nice, I almost text my boss right this second to call out. But unfortunately, I won’t be able to eat or buy gas to drive anywhere if I don’t work.

Me: I wish I could! Have a shift tomorrow…weekends are the worst too.

Gia: Oh man…next time!

She sends a sad face emoji and I send one back and mean it more than she knows.

The next afternoon, I iron my work button-down shirt, which I only do when I’m trying to feel like I have my shit together, and head in.

It’s a slow shift, and I’m dying. Okay, maybe that’s dramatic. When it’s busy, it’s physically demanding, but the hours fly by. Slow means I’m standing at the desk with nothing to do but answer the occasional question and I find myself, repeatedly and against my will, glancing at the coffee station.

I hate that I keep doing that.

He’s not there and he’s not going to be there. I told him not to contact me and apparently Knox Aldrich, for once in his life, is listening. Why can’t I get that through my thick skull?

I chastise myself while I double-check the sugar packets and stirrers for the third time today. Still full, of course.

The next two hours are uneventful enough that I start reorganizing the key card drawer just to have something to do with my hands. I’m halfway through when the door opens.

A guy walks in—maybe thirty-ish years old. He’s got a guitar case in one hand and a duffel over his shoulder. His hair’s dark and past his chin, and his hands are covered in thick silver rings. I take in his faded jeans, hugging thick thighs, and a worn in leather jacket unzipped over a black shirt.

He doesn’t look like Ashford at all.

That’s the first thing I notice.

The second is that his gaze is lingering on me longer than socially conventional.

And I don’t hate it.

I pull up his reservation, Cody Chambers, and go through the standard questions. Room preferences, parking, anything he needs sent up. He answers all of it without looking away from my face, which isn’t something hotel guests usually do. They’re normally barely looking up from their phones, or continuing the conversation with whoever they walked in with.

I process his card and hand it back. Our fingers brush and I feel it everywhere.

Must just be static or something. Happens all the time.

“Is there a good place to eat nearby?” he asks, leaning an arm on the counter. “Not a chain.”

“Main Street Tavern. They do burgers. Beer. It’s—yeah, it’s good.” I slide his room key across the counter and swallow hard. “Or Marcello’s is good for pizza and pasta.”

“What would you pick?”

I roll my lip between my teeth. “I don’t know…I don’t really eat in town much.”

The corner of his mouth pulls up. “Humor me.”

He’s holding eye contact and weirdly it doesn’t feel aggressive…more like decisive. Like he’s the type of guy that takes his time with people and wants to genuinely hear what they have to say. I notice his brown eyes have specks of green in them and I can’t look away.

“Marcello’s,” I finally say. “The tavern’s loud and the menu hasn’t changed since 2010, which is either charming or depressing depending on your mood.” I pause as soon as I feel my cheeks heat. “I don’t know why I know that much about a bar I don’t go to or why I’m telling you all this.”

He smiles at me, and it doesn’t feel like a joke I’m not in on. It reaches his eyes.

“I like it,” he says. “Most people just point me toward the nearest Applebee’s and call it a day.”