three | emberly
THREEEmberly
All I’d wanted to do was leave the wild animals and blue-eyed but judgmental (the eyebrow lift was a tell) lumberjacks behind.
I also wanted an iced mochaccino, extra whip. So, I ignored the route that would have taken me to my planned destination and drove another fifteen minutes until I finally found a town with a coffee shop, where I could put the whole embarrassing situation behind me.
But now he’s here. And I can tell by the expression on his face that he recognizes me, too.
I’m not often at a loss for words—ask anyone who knows me—but at the moment, all I can do is stare at him and, because habits are hard to break, review my options.
Apologize again? I’m not sure he heard the first one over all the muttering that took place while he stalked back to his truck and patted the hood like he was comforting a small child.
Pretend we’ve never met? Because technically, we didn’t. I was introduced to Otto, but I have no idea what my lumberjack’s name is and … no. I hit pause on the internal dialogue. He’s not my lumberjack …
“Hello!”
My gaze bounces to the girl standing next to him. Her hair, pulled back in a ponytail, is a few shades lighter than his, but her eyes are just as blue. The strong resemblance between her and the lumberjack triggers an unexpected (and rather disturbing) pinch of disappointment.
I’m sure a lot of guys marry young and start families, I just don’t know any of them personally.
In fact, I haven’t met very many who are anxious to get married at all.
This could be the reason I’m still single at twenty-eight.
The Sixteens claim I’m too particular, but truth?
I want the one who isn’t afraid to make a commitment. I want … well, the fairytale.
“Is there something we can help you with?”
It’s the girl who asks the question, which I find strange, but I smile at both of them, hoping the person in charge makes an appearance soon. “I’d like to check in.”
“Check-in?” The lumberjack finally speaks. And there’s that eyebrow lift again.
“Emberly Lockwood,” I say briskly. Because I’m confident. In control. Not the type of woman who gets freaked out by toothless old bears. Or shifts a car into reverse instead of drive.
I expect him to move but he crosses his arms instead. “The cabins book out a year in advance.”
“Really?”
It was the wrong question to ask, because he looks a little offended now. Well, his dismissal of Rosie was offensive, but I was big enough to let it go.
I don’t have a chance to tell him that I already have a cabin reserved, though, because he’s shaking his head.
“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing available.”
I’m not sure what I did—other than block the road for a few minutes and barely nudge his pickup truck—but he doesn’t sound sorry at all.
He does sound like someone who works here, though, so I have to play nice.
“I have a reservation.” I’m just not sure which one of the girls had made it. “The Suite Sixteens Reunion? It would be under Holbrook, Talbot, or Benson.”
Name-dropping doesn’t seem to help.
“A party of three,” he says slowly.
“Yes …” Not sure where he’s going with this. “But I wasn’t able to join them right away.”
He’s looking skeptical and I’m tempted to tell him that if I was going to crash a stranger’s vacation, I’d choose Hawaii. Paris. Maybe a villa in Tuscany.
“One phone call and we’ll get this straightened out,” I promise. “I’m allowed one of those, right?”
My attempt at humor doesn’t penetrate the blue-eyed vault.
“They aren’t here at the moment.” He shares this bit of information almost grudgingly. “They booked a three-day canoe trip and won’t be back until Wednesday night.”
A canoe trip? When we’re together, my besties won’t dip a toe in the swimming pool.
“That can’t be right. It’s Holbrook, Talbot, and—”
“Benson,” he finishes. “That’s them.”
I thrust one hand into the Birkin looped over my shoulder and sift through the contents, searching for my cell. “I’ll still call and let them know I’m here.”
Then we’ll check out early and head back to my house in Sarasota. Nona is traveling with a friend, so we’ll have the place to ourselves and plenty of time to catch up while we’re lounging in the bear-free zone by the pool.
“No phones allowed. The excursions are device-free.”
Device-free? With bears lurking in the woods? That can’t be safe.
“I’ll just stay in the cabin until they get back then.” Not an ideal situation, but I can be flexible.
“You aren’t a registered guest,” he says carefully. “If someone in the party had added your name, it wouldn’t be a problem, but …”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I know where this is going. It’s a problem.
I draw in a breath and release it again. “I’d like to speak to the person in charge, please.”
The girl giggles and I shoot at a quick glance at her. Her lips compress but it only shifts the laughter to her eyes.
The Lumberjack doesn’t look the least bit amused. “That would be me.”
“Really?”
His eyes narrow and I realize I did it again.
“I mean, it’s nice to meet you …” I pause to let him fill in the blank.
“Will Hartley.”
Hartley. Pinehart Resort. Creative and appropriate, considering the resort is surrounded by trees. But now I’m wishing he really was a lumberjack instead of the person who holds my fate in his hands.
“Will.” I press out a bright smile. “Rachelle, Olivia, and Whitney—” See? I know their first names, too— “Are expecting me. I—we—plan this getaway every year. They won’t mind if I claim an extra bedroom while I wait for them to come back.”
His measured stare reminds me of Otto the Bear.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Only registered guests are allowed to stay in the cabins.”
I can’t believe this is happening. A work-related situation had popped up unexpectedly, but the girls had to have known I’d move mountains to get here.
I probably should have called and let them know I was on my way, but I wanted to surprise them.
I’m back to reviewing my options again.
“Is there a hotel nearby?”
Is it my imagination or do Will’s lips twitch?
“Define ‘nearby’.”
I take that as a no.
“She can stay in the studio,” the girl interjects.
Will shoots her a quelling look, but she doesn’t look the least bit quelled.
There’s a studio apartment? Why hadn’t he led with that?
“That would be great!” I sound too eager. Rosie’s leather seats are comfortable, but I’d rather not sleep on them.
“No one’s used it since …” He stops. Clears his throat. “It’s not ready for guests.”
Ready isn’t the same as unavailable, though.
“It’s only until the girls get back and I’ll pay double what you usually charge per night,” I hear myself say. Because desperate measures and all that.
Something flickers in Will’s eyes. Disappointment? Disapproval? His gaze focuses on something behind me and I can tell he’s going to say no.
But instead of escorting me to the door, Will Hartley sighs.
“Follow me.”
The girl falls into step beside me as we cut across the lawn.
“I’ve never seen a pink car before! It’s awesome!”
And I’ve never stayed at a resort without valet parking, but there’s a first time for everything. For reasons Will didn’t bother to explain, I was told—rather gruffly—to leave my car parked by the office.
He’s moving at a pace that puts some distance between us and I wonder if he’s already regretting his decision. Or giving me time to regret mine.
Not going to happen.
I stumble after him, aerating the grass with the heels of the open-toed sandals I’d slipped on that morning.
“Thanks.” I smile down at the girl because it isn’t her fault that her dad is missing a few tools in his social skills set. “I named her Rosie. And you are?”
“Iris.”
“I love that name.”
“My mom’s favorite flower.” Iris grins and even though she’s in the gangly, all-arms-and-legs stage right now, I can tell she’s going to make the leap from cute to stunning in a few short years. “At least it wasn’t a chrysanthemum.”
I don’t have a lot of experience with kids, but I immediately like this one.
A squeal of laughter pulls my attention to the lake.
As far as bodies of water go, it doesn’t look very big, but the guests seem to be making the most of it.
There’s a middle-age couple sunbathing and some teenagers playing cornhole.
Kiddos digging trenches in the sand. I also spot a row of kayaks propped against a weathered shed.
Kayaks are kind of like canoes, right? Why couldn’t the girls have used these instead of signing up for a three-day, device-free excursion?
Or chosen another destination.
From what I’m seeing, Pinehart doesn’t have much in the way of amenities.
Eight identical log cabins are scattered along the shoreline. Each one has a screened-in porch and all of them are smaller than our guest house.
An image of the spacious condo in the Keys that I’d wanted to book for our retreat this summer dances in my head. A gourmet kitchen. Multiple bedrooms, each with a private bath. A balcony with a spectacular view of the ocean.
“Do you know which cabin my friends rented?” I ask Iris. “Or aren’t you allowed to tell me?”
I raise my voice a little, hoping Will hears.
Yes, I’m grateful he’s going to let me stay here, but he couldn’t bend the rules for once?
“Serenity.” Iris points to the one with three canary yellow bicycles lined up against the screened-in porch.
Bicycles.
What is happening here? Any physical activity during our previous getaways has been limited to the short walk between the pool and the tiki bar.
I swat at a mosquito that’s hovering like a drone near my left ear. It never crossed my mind to pack bug spray but now it looks like I’ll be marinating in the stuff.
We bypass the cabins and trudge deeper into the forest. Just when I’m beginning to question whether this studio apartment really exists, I spot a wooden structure half-hidden in the trees.
It’s two stories high, but it looks more like a garage than an apartment.
Probably because the double doors on the first floor are open and I can see a lawn mower parked inside.
This can’t be it …
“This is it.” Will points to a rickety set of stairs attached to the side of the building.
Suddenly, Rosie’s backseat looks like the better option.