Chapter 13
Gabe
I drive for several hours before I notice that Izzie’s awake. She’s sitting quietly, sporting a full-out frown. “What’s the matter?” I ask.
She looks up, then sighs. “Actually, I’m considering canceling the tour. Having someone knowing your every move is exhausting.” Her shoulders sag as she blinks back tears.
“Didn’t your fan Ranger Rick remind you of the reason you’ve wanted to keep going? Chin up! We’re not letting whoever this is defeat us!” I bark, taking a page from the General’s playbook.
Izzie’s eyes go wide.
“Listen, Izzie, think of this as cat and mouse, only we’re going to become the cat. We can outsmart the stalker, especially if they keep tipping their hand to us.”
Her spine straightens, and her face brightens. “Do you think we can keep a step or two ahead of them?”
I nod. “Absolutely. What if we exchange this limo for an SUV?” Even though I enjoy driving the oversized vehicle, we certainly don’t need all this room, especially if Izzie’s going to keep riding up front with me.
Her frown reappears. “My fans expect me to ride in a limo,” she says in a snooty tone. “It fosters the celebrity persona. It even helped Rick recognize me.”
I snort. “Other than government and fast-food employees, who gets to see you riding in it? So far, we’ve parked it behind the bookstore, and you’ve snuck in through the back entrance.”
“That’s because Uncle Barnaby didn’t want me to make a grand entrance. However, I’m supposed to show up in style at the Denver and New York megastores. Thus, the requirement for the limo.”
New York is going to be quite a long haul from Denver, but I’m paid to drive and not to comment about the distance. The need to keep up a celebrity facade boggles my mind, but I know Izzie well enough by now to know that once she’s dug her heels in, she’s not going to change her mind.
“What if we change where we’re staying,” I blurt. “We won’t even stay in Reno those extra days. I’m sure there’s plenty of fancy secluded resorts in Utah on our way to Denver. Get on your phone and find us a resort in Utah. Book it in the General’s name, not yours. We’ll hide out there after the Reno signing and regroup.”
Grinning from ear to ear, she starts scrolling on her phone, the defeated expression gone for now. A few minutes later, she says, “How do you feel about staying at a dude ranch, cowboy?”
“Head ’em up, move ’em out!” I reply, trying to speak cowpoke.
She giggles. “We’re not herding cattle.”
True. Pointing to my chest, I say, “This city slicker is ready! After we do Reno, we’ll pack up our kit and caboodle and hit the trail, greenhorn.”
“You’re going to be the greenhorn! I took horseback riding lessons as a kid.”
I’ve underestimated her. “Ah, but I’m a quick learner.” Do they make an extra-large saddle?
She laughs. My backside hurts already.
~*~
We switch where we’re staying in Reno to a small Mom and Pop hotel known for its cleanliness and freshly ironed sheets. Who irons bed sheets? Those seemed important to Izzie. Personally I don’t need my sheets ironed, but I would like them freshly laundered.
“This place is cute!” Izzie enthuses when we arrive. “It looks just like the photo on their website.”
I stifle a groan, wishing that I’d seen the photo and vetoed this place. It’s a little too fairy tale for me. The complex is painted a pastel baby blue with ornate white gingerbread trim. I can envision Cinderella or Snow White sleeping here, and my masculinity takes a hit. Chuckling to myself, I snap a quick photo so the General can see where we’re staying for the night. Izzie sweet-talked him into making the reservation.
The girl at the check-in desk looks like she’s barely eighteen. She smiles widely as we approach the desk. “Welcome to The Cozy Inn. Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes, it’s under Winston Monroe,” Izzie says.
“Oh, right! Winston called and explained the situation,” she says with a conspiratorial wink. “You must be his daughter,” she says nodding towards Izzie. “And you must be her new husband. We love catering to newlyweds,” she gushes.
I’m going to kill Winston when we get home.
Izzie doesn’t even blink an eye as we’re checked into the Newlywed Suite, complete with complimentary champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries.
“I hope you enjoy your stay,” the girl chirps as she hands both of us a key card.
“We will!” Izzie says, fluttering her eyelashes at me. I blush and keep my mouth shut.
My traveling companion is far too cheerful considering the pickle Winston has put us in. She chatters about the inn’s charm and enchanting exterior. She even uses the words fetching , magical , and beguiling as I unload our bags and lug them to the room. After Izzie unlocks the door, we walk inside and I groan.
The centerpiece of the room is a king-size round bed adorned with a plethora of heart-shaped red pillows. It’s draped in a luxurious-looking white spread covered in red rose petals, with the aforementioned champagne bucket sitting in the middle, ready to toast to love and new beginnings. The tray of decadent-looking chocolate-covered strawberries sits on the lone nightstand. There are ruffles everywhere, from the bedspread to the drapes.
A tufted pink loveseat—that looks like nobody except for one of Snow White’s dwarfs could fit comfortably on it—sits on the far side of the room facing the TV with a shiny metal coffee table and a matching end table holding a lamp sporting a fringed pink lampshade. I catch a glimpse of a hot tub in the ensuite bathroom. The room screams intimacy and romance.
Gulp!
“Don’t these look tasty!” Izzie says as she snatches a berry from the tray, ignoring the ambiance of this over-the-top love den.
“I can’t believe you’re not freaking out,” I grumble. “Just look at this room!”
She rolls her eyes. “Gabriel, you really need to learn to roll with the situation. This is going to be a luxurious getaway. And the stalker will never find us here.”
That’s the only upside to this situation, we’ve outsmarted the stalker. But did the General have to go to this length?
“Where am I going to sleep?” I ask, rotating in a 360-degree circle, as I survey the other furnishings.
“I’ll fit on that loveseat. You can have the—” She giggles and blushes. “Bed.”
Although I’m going to feel guilty hogging that king-size bed to myself, I certainly don’t want to have to sleep on that minuscule loveseat.
“Fine,” I say in a clipped tone. Thankfully I’m tired from the long drive, otherwise this would be a long, painful night.
“Since it’s late, shall we order room service?” Izzie says crisply, reading from the red leather-bound menu provided in the room. “They have a wide selection.”
“Sure,” I grumble. “Order me a sandwich.”
“Are you sure? They have burgers . . . or . . . fried chicken.”
My stomach growls at the mention of fried chicken.
“Fried chicken it is!” she says, picking up the in-room phone that looks like something Barbie would use and placing the order.
We each take our turn using the bathroom to “freshen up,” as Izzie calls it, while we wait for the food to arrive.
The same girl who performed our check-in delivers the food. I arch an eyebrow when I notice that the chicken is in a bucket and looks suspiciously like it came from a well-known chicken joint, even though The Cozy Inn plastered a large sticker with their logo on the container. Cinderella meets the Colonel.
Izzie enthuses over the fried chicken and sides of mashed potatoes and gravy as she dishes them onto paper plates.
“If we can go by the aroma, this is going to be delicious,” she says.
“If they were just going to fetch a bucket from KFC, we could have ordered that with Grubhub,” I gripe.
“You’re no fun, Gabriel,” she says handing me a plate along with a plastic spork and knife wrapped in a paper napkin. “Do you want a glass of champagne to accompany your fried chicken?” she asks.
I suppress a laugh at the absurdity of that question. Shouldn’t we be having an RC Cola and a MoonPie?
“I’ll pass.”
She shrugs, pouring a tall glass of the bubbly liquid for herself.
We eat while squished next to each other on the loveseat and watch an episode of Gilligan’s Island. I used to watch this show as a kid but had forgotten how ridiculous the premise is. In this installment, the Professor rigs up a sewing machine from bamboo so Mrs. Howell can sew a new outfit for Ginger.
“I never understood why the Professor can make all these contraptions but can’t fix their boat,” Izzie comments.
“The show would have only lasted two episodes in that case,” I mutter.
Izzie laughs. “True.” She holds up a drumstick. “This chicken is delicious!” she says. “So tender, and the mix of spices they used is pure genius.”
“That’s because they went and got takeout chicken from the Colonel,” I grump.
“Well, that doesn’t make it any less yummy,” she says as she licks her fingers.
After we polish off every piece of chicken, plus all the sides, an awkward silence permeates the room. The romantic setting makes me twitchy, plus my burgeoning attraction to my client doesn’t help matters. From the onset I’ve been attracted to her outward charms, but as I get to know her, her personality is growing on me too. Izzie isn’t just the snooty diva I thought she was; she’s sweet, caring, and funny. This amorous setting is making me want to forget she’s my client, but in order to remain objective in my job, I simply cannot do that. Maybe after the book tour is over we can explore a relationship. If she’s even interested .
What are we supposed to do next? Play a rousing game of Go Fish while trying to ignore the rose petals and champagne?
Izzie hops to her feet. “I need to be at the bookstore at seven in the morning,” she says. “I’ll change into my jammies in the bathroom and then we’ll turn out the lights.” She quickly grabs her suitcase and disappears into the bath, closing the door with a loud click.
The mention of jammies brings up far too many risqué images that I need to ignore. Swiftly removing my travel clothes, I tug on a ratty T-shirt and leap into bed, scattering the rose petals and those preposterous pillows all over the floor. Pulling the covers up to my chin, I pretend to sleep.
When the bathroom door opens, I slit one eye and watch as Izzie tiptoes out, snatches a heart-shaped pillow, and strolls to the love seat. She scrunches herself into a ball, and that twinge of guilt hits as I lie in the middle of the huge bed. Knowing that I’ll never fit on that loveseat, I count backwards from a hundred. Despite my worries about being able to sleep, I drift off with a full stomach and a goofy smile on my face.