“Spends half my monthly salary on hotel rooms?” I mutter, clinging to Mick’s arm as we get in line behind an older couple who reek of money.
The woman’s wedding ring is as big as the acorns my Uncle Tip used to hire me to pick up in his backyard. He paid me fifty cents per bucket, a salary I considered more than fair at age eight and the only way I was able to afford candy after school or the occasional trip to the movies. Mama never had enough left over for stuff like that. Sometimes we didn’t have enough for the gas bill, let alone candy.
“Naomi’s been rich too long,” Mick murmurs. “She forgets that normal people don’t need thousand thread count sheets to get a good night’s sleep.”
I sigh, my ribs tightening. “I’m not going to be able to pay her back, Mick. I mean, this is crazy, I can’t—”
“Don’t worry about it.” He steps forward as the older couple move to speak to the elegant, blond woman manning the desk. “Like I said, she doesn’t expect to be paid back.”
“But—”
“She a billionaire, Faith. Like lots of billions,” he says, making my jaw drop. “She could buy Bliss River if she wanted. She’s not going to miss a few hundred dollars.”
“You’re kidding me.” I blink, then blink again when he shakes his head. “B-but that’s crazy. She doesn’t seem like a billionaire. I mean she’s so nice. And normal. And she eats burritos from the food truck for lunch.”
He laughs. “Yeah, she’s grounded, but she’s also loaded. So, let’s just relax and enjoy the nice rooms she booked for us. We’ll send her a thank you note when we get home and I’ll get the marble countertop she ordered for Jake’s kitchen installed next week ahead of schedule and she’ll be totally happy.”
“Okay,” I agree, but I’m still feeling anxious and out of place when the older couple step away from the desk and the blonde with the aggressively white teeth turns her smile our way.
“Welcome to The Carriage House,” she says in a voice like crushed velvet. “I’m Clarice, how can I help you?”
“We have reservations, the last name’s Whitehouse.” Mick pulls out his wallet and hands over his I.D. “It should be two rooms, both for one night each.”
“Of course, Mr. Whitehouse. Let me pull up your reservation.” Clarice drops her attention to her monitor and types, her nails clicking on the keys. After a moment she pauses, her brows drawing together as she scans the screen. “Well, I have a reservation for you, Mr. Whitehouse, but I’m showing that it’s for one room for two nights.”
He leans closer. “Are you sure? I was certain my sister said two rooms.”
Clarice shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, but we just have the one. And unfortunately, we don’t have another room available at this time. Would you like me to call The Dixie down the street? They might have something free later in the day.”
Mick glances at me.
I sigh. “Let’s take it. I’m so tired the thought of waiting ten extra minutes to sleep makes me want to fall on the floor and cry like a two-year-old.”
Clarice coos beneath her breath and clucks her tongue. “You poor thing. Let’s get you two settled so you can get some rest then.” A moment later she slides a small envelope with key cards inside across the desk. “You’re in room seventeen, end of the hall on the second floor. You can take the staircase to the left of the lobby. Please give me a call if there’s anything you need, or if I can do anything to make your stay more comfortable.”
“Thanks so much,” I say, as Mick takes the keys and nods good-bye to Clarice.
He leads the way around the desk, then reaches back, taking my hand as we walk toward the staircase, which is nothing short of Grand with a capital G.
“Wow. I feel like I’m in an old movie,” I say as we start up the steps.
“I feel like I’m walking through quicksand.” He stretches his neck to one side and then the other. “I didn’t realize how tired I was until we got out of the truck. I’m sorry about the mix-up, but I was going to join you on the floor for that toddler meltdown if we had to wait to book another room.”
I laugh. “That wouldn’t have been very manly of you.”
“My manhood takes a serious hit when I’m this beat.”
We reach the top of the stairs and he swings his arm around my shoulders as we weave our way down a long, eggshell colored hallway with lush oil paintings of the Louisiana bayou hanging on the walls between the rooms.
“Is the carpet moving, or is it just me?” I blink at the paisley pattern beneath my feet. I swear the tails of the paisleys are wiggling like tadpoles.
“It’s not just you.” His breath rushes out. “I see it too. Whoa.” He hugs me closer. “Hold on. Only a few more minutes, angel, and we’ll be snuggled under the covers.”
I giggle. “Angel? Are you kidding me?”
“You don’t want to be my angel?” He kisses my forehead before pulling away to pluck the key card from its envelope.
“I’m nobody’s angel,” I say in a voice that’s surprisingly husky. And sort of sexy, if I do say so myself.
“Behave, Miller,” Mick says as he opens the door. “Just because I’m so exhausted the carpet is crawling doesn’t mean I’m immune to your hot voice.”
I giggle again. “I didn’t know I had a hot voice until just then. I’m delirious.” I pat his cheek as I slip past him. “Come on, let’s pass out.”
Inside, the room is every bit as grand as the staircase, with a four-poster bed covered in a white duvet so fluffy the mattress looks like a cloud hovering in the center of the space. I’m dimly aware of vaulted ceilings, a chandelier, impressive furnishings, and a sitting area with an antique claw-foot sofa, but it’s the bed that makes me sigh with relief.
“Oh, man.” Mick shudders beside me. “Race you to see who can get ready to jump in that bad boy first.”
“You’re on.” By the time I reach the bathroom door, I already have my toothbrush and toothpaste out of my backpack.
The bathroom is swanky too—with marble countertops, two sinks, a shower and a tub, mounds of thick, fluffy towels, toiletries in tiny glass bottles, and a toilet with a separate door of its own—but I’m too tired to properly appreciate the fancy. I feel like a zombie fresh out of the grave. I brush my teeth and wash my face in record time, tag-team Mick for the toilet, and am back beside the bed in five minutes flat.
It’s only then that I pause, realizing all I brought with me was a change of underwear and a spare T-shirt.
“What am I going to sleep in?” I mumble, the problem baffling my exhausted brain. There are fluffy, white robes in the closet, but they’re too hot and bulky to sleep in.
“Underwear.” Mick steps out of his jeans beside me and drags his sweater over his head. “I won’t look. I swear.”
He moves past me, wearing nothing but boxer briefs and a white undershirt, looking so good half-dressed that I almost hate to see him disappear beneath the covers.
I hesitate for a second, a little nervous about stripping down in front of him for the first time. But he did promise not to look, and I want to be in that bed with my eyes closed so bad my bones ache with it. Shoving body insecurity aside, I wriggle out of my thermal shirt, peel off my jeans and socks, and circle around the bed to crawl in beside Mick wearing nothing but my white tank top with the built-in bra and a sensible pair of pink bikini panties.