Chapter 27 KELSEY MEETS THE WRONG CUTE
Chapter 27
K ELSEY M EETS THE W RONG C UTE
I hate when Zachery’s right.
My car chugs for a second as I pull up to the Crater Inn, almost as if it doesn’t want to approach the sad, sagging building that stretches along the back side of a cracked asphalt lot.
The sign over the glass doors near the front reads O FF! , and I can see Zachery snort-laughing in his Jaguar as he parks beside me.
I slam my door as he rolls down his window.
“It’s supposed to say O FFICE! ”
Somewhere along the way, the rest of the word went black.
“When you said Crater Inn,” he says, his face bright with laughter, “I didn’t think you meant Crater ing .”
“Very funny.”
“Come on. Stay at the house. The manager is already there to meet us.” He turns his phone to me. “Just look at him.”
I lean in. The man has curly black hair, a jaw that could rock a movie poster—and is that ... I take the phone for a closer look.
“Yes, he’s in a flannel shirt,” Zachery says.
“Is he single?”
“Only one way to find out.” Zachery waggles his eyebrows, and I’m in awe that he can be so casual about sending me off to find some other man after last night.
He’s a true professional.
“What’s his name?”
“Jack.”
God. A short, strong name. It could be my own Virgin River . Based on the scenery around here, it works.
“Okay, I’m in. Text me the address.” I pass him his phone.
By the time I’ve hopped back in the car, Zachery has sent a Google pin with the location of the house.
We’ve driven all day, but since hitting Wyoming, I’ve fallen in love with the countryside. There are miles of sweeping fields, rolling hills, and so much unspoiled land. We’ve driven through plains, pine forests, and mountains. It has everything.
It’s nothing like LA, of course, but it’s not like the dairy farm in Alabama, either. I roll down my window and take in the air.
Heaven, that’s what it is.
Signs that we’re nearing a small town spring up. I’ve begun to recognize them. A smattering of houses, loose at first, but then getting closer together.
A bar appears, usually, off on its own, as if a hundred years ago when the town formed, it wanted the drinking done well away from the church.
A water tower rises up, a silver cylinder breaking the line of trees and the view of the buttes.
Then the brick buildings begin, crumbling but stalwart, leading to the center of town.
Before we get to actual streets, Zachery signals to turn left.
We bump along a less fortified road until it forks. We pass a lone house, then another a quarter mile later. Then we reach a dirt driveway. I follow the Jaguar almost to the tree line, where a gorgeous two-story redbrick house stands before the wall of great pines.
It’s colonial, with tall white columns on either side of the door holding up a balcony with white rails. When we pull up onto a concrete pad next to the white garage doors, the front door opens.
And there’s Jack, standing on the long porch in jeans and a pale-blue short-sleeve shirt. His black hair stands out starkly against the white entryway.
He’s a picture, that’s for sure.
My meet-cute options are limited here. No elevator. No food order to mix up. I’m feeling skittish about trip and fall.
But then I have it. I snatch my rolling suitcase and get it ready to bump up the stairs.
Zachery moves to help me, but I wave him away.
Up a step. Second step.
“I can help,” Jack says, coming down from the top.
Zachery tries to intercept me. “Kelsey, you don’t want to—”
“Shhh,” I hiss. “Back off!”
I have no idea what Zachery is trying to do here, but right as Jack arrives to help with the suitcase, I kick the latch so that my clothes spill down the steps. Here we go.
“Oh, no!” I cry.
Jack grins. “Don’t worry, little lady, I’ll help.”
We kneel together in front of my exploded suitcase. We both reach for the same pair of shorts and our fingers brush against each other.
It’s working!
Then I realize it’s my white shorts from earlier, the red stains gone brown.
I snatch them away and shove them beneath the pile. More clothes cascade down the steps, all my pretty panties like a pastel rainbow.
God. This scene would never make the cut.
“Kelsey.” Zachery’s tone has a warning in it.
“What?” Maybe he’s trying to thwart my meet-cute after all. Does he care?
But when I look up, he’s standing behind Jack, holding up his left hand and pointing at his ring finger.
I immediately drop my gaze to Jack’s hand.
Blast it all, there’s a wedding ring.
I start shoving my clothes into the suitcase as fast as I can. “Thanks,” I tell Mr. Married. “I’ve got it now.”
But he’s a gentleman, and he carries the bulging bag the rest of the way up the stairs.
“Sure is nice to meet you two,” he says. “This house has been in my family for five generations.”
He leads us into a massive front room with a charming fireplace and a white staircase wrapped in ... Christmas holly? Ribbons? With silver bells?
Jack notices me gawking. “Oh, yeah, there’s a big summer Christmas event at the tree farm coming up in a week. We’ll be using the house.” He rubs his neck. “That’s why we only had this week open.”
“Wait,” I say. “Are you a Hanover from the Hanover Tree Farm?”
He grins. “Sure am.”
Zachery frowns. “So, we won’t have the option to extend our stay due to the Christmas events?”
“It could be all right,” Jack says. “Depending on how things go, and if you don’t mind people being downstairs one of the mornings while you’re here. We don’t book it since most people don’t want a bunch of strangers tromping through.”
“The event will be here?” I ask.
“They’ll be all over town, but we host the Christmas tea here, both in the normal season and now for this.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Although I guess it’ll be iced tea this time around. I’ll have to check with Mom.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine for us to be here for the tea, don’t you think, Kelsey?” Zachery asks. “You wanted to meet the locals and do the festival. You’ll be right in the middle of it here.”
“Sure,” I say. “And there’s other events, right?”
“Absolutely,” Jack says. “The hayride is going to be a lot more pleasant in summer than when it’s ten below.”
“I bet.” I look up the miles of stairs, wishing I hadn’t brought the big suitcase in after all.
“I’ll get your bag,” Jack says. “You have the run of the house, other than the storage areas.”
I follow him up the stairs, mourning that the picturesque butt rising ahead of me is already taken.
But if Jack is indicative of what I can find in Glass, Wyoming, I’m right where I ought to be.