“I don’t remember ever seeing you,” Noah says.
“Considering our age difference, I’m certain we didn’t cross paths, old man.”
“Old man?” He snorts. “I’m in my prime.”
He certainly is, and I hate him a little more for looking so fine. His light brown hair with those speckles of gray makes his eyes spark. How can he look so good while I feel one hundred even though I’m not even forty?
Another awkward pause falls between us before I clear my throat.
“So you live in Autumn’s condo. If you need a place to stay, I did offer you a room as part of the manager position.” I’d rather have a paying customer in the guest rooms, but I did mention living arrangements.
Noah scrunches his face. His rejection obvious.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He side-eyes me. “What do you mean?”
“The room included with the manager position doesn’t really exist anyway. When you appeared out of nowhere for the job, I offered the room and said take it or leave it. I really thought you’d leave it.”
“I did have an interview.” He ignores the suggestion of the spare room.
“That I didn’t schedule.” I huff. “Anyway, when I laid out the arrangements, I wasn’t thinking. I mean, why would a big city hotel manager want to work at Bluebird Hollow Inn? You had a look in your eyes that said this-place-is-beneath-me.”
“I did not,” he stammers, taking a sip of his coffee as a distraction.
I focus on Jonas riding ahead of us. My son’s head tips side to side, like he has a song on his mind. He’s probably singing out loud, but I can’t hear him because of this all-over-the-place conversation with the man beside me.
“Okay, maybe I was skeptical at first,” Noah quietly admits. “The inn is so much smaller than what I was used to.”
“And not quite so sparkly, I imagine.”
“Hardly,” he huffs, then clears his throat. “But it has charm, and it’s growing on me.”
“Well, wiggle your roots so you don’t get stuck.”
“That isn’t really fair,” he mutters.
“And neither is life,” I snap.
“Meaning?”
“Noah, just what the hell are you doing in Lakeside?” I turn to him briefly before glancing down the road, focusing on Jonas to warn him once again to slow down.
“Last summer, there were riots in Chicago. Peaceful protesters were overridden by copycats disguising themselves in the crowds, who then destroyed property. One of the places hit by their destructive actions was the Magellen Hotel, which I managed.” Noah swallows, eyes squinting ahead once more. “The lobby windows were smashed. The entrance covered in glass. Some jewelry we had on display near the front desk was stolen. Liquor from the bar confiscated. The place was bedlam, and the owners blamed me.”
I grip his forearm. “How could that be your fault?” How could reckless rioters be the responsibility of a hotel manager?
“They claim I should have been prepared. Do you know the last time a riot happened in Chicago? It was something like 1966. I wasn’t even born then.” Noah’s voice rises.
“I’m so sorry.” I’m truly sorry something like that happened to him. “Were you hurt?”
Noah’s head turns in my direction. “Do you know they never asked? They asked if any guests were injured, worried about a lawsuit, but they didn’t ask about staff. I was at the front desk that night, and I’ll admit, I stood there dumbstruck at first. I’d never seen anything like it. The glass. The chaos. It wasn’t a speck on my radar that something like that might ever happen, especially not where we were located. The Magellen is on the corner of two major crossroads, full of daily tourists and business pedestrians. Still, the owners found fault with me. My management of the situation.” Frustration fills his voice along with a hint of terror.
“You haven’t answered my question, though. Were you hurt?”
Noah stares at me a minute while we walk before glancing away. “I wasn’t physically hurt. But mentally, I was a little traumatized. For weeks, I’d wake up imagining the shattering of glass. I heard people screaming, and I’d replay the chaos over and over in my head.”
He exhales. “Fifteen years of dedication to Magellen Hotels. Wining, dining, scheming, schmoozing some of the top people in the world, and the owners let me go like that.” Noah snaps his fingers. “I was fired.”
“Are you better now?”
Noah stares at me again. His lips twist as they press together hard. He looks away. “You know…I think I am better. Since I’ve been here, I haven’t woken in fear once.”
“Were you afraid?” I ask softer.
“I’ll deny it to the grave, but yes. It was…frightening.” He takes another sip from his coffee cup.
“I’m glad you’re here then if it’s making things better for you. I’m also glad you weren’t hurt.”
With Noah’s revelation, I’d been distracted from Jonas, but he abruptly stops riding his bike. A car pulls onto the road without halting at the crossroad stop sign.
“Jonas,” I holler, rushing for my son. Once I reach him, I’m out of breath and tug him to me while he remains on his bike. “Are you all right?”
“I stopped,” he tells me, proud of his reaction.
“You did good, but that driver didn’t.” My heart hammers, fear overriding everything inside me. Accidents happen. Riots, too, I guess. Inns can be sold out from underneath a person. I don’t like how things can be taken away in an instant. I especially don’t like the loss of people. I’d never survive losing Jonas. The thought makes my eyes burns with more unshed tears.
When I glance over Jonas’s helmet-covered head, the car that narrowly missed him is stopped in the road. The driver and Noah are arguing.
“There’s a stop sign there for a reason. Kids are on this street,” Noah yells, pointing in the direction of the sign.
“You didn’t have to toss your coffee at my windshield.”
“And you did need to stop at the sign,” Noah retorts.
“You’ll pay for damages,” the driver demands.
Noah snaps, straightening to his full height. “You can shove your damages up your ass. You almost hit a kid on a bike. I have your license plate number. Neighborhood watch. I’m reporting your failure to stop to the local police.”
I stifle an anxious giggle as we don’t have a neighborhood watch program in the area, or at least, not that I know of. But Noah sounds official, and he sounds rather angry on my behalf. On Jonas’s behalf.
The driver sticks his hand out the window, flipping Noah off before speeding away.
“Right back at you, man. Double barrel.” Noah starts walking backward away from the accelerating car, flipping off the driver with both his middle fingers raised. Eventually, he lowers his hands and turns toward us.