Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
RACHEL
I arrive at the resort on the other side of the lake in approximately thirty minutes.
Despite being a complete city girl, I do have my driver’s license and can manage to properly operate a car.
What I didn’t expect, though, was the roads around the lake being so crowded with tourists.
They park their cars along the lake’s edge, not giving the actual road much space, and people are constantly crossing back and forth.
The other cars on the road drive obnoxiously slow or dangerously fast with no real in-between, and by the time I pull into the parking lot of the nicest hotel on the lake, I’m a jittery mess.
Whipping the visor down, I check myself in the mirror, smoothing my hair and taking deep, calming breaths. Driving is stressful. Life is stressful. Feels like I’ve been thrown one roadblock after another, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m the problem.
You’re definitely the problem.
I frown at my reflection, irritated by that negative voice in my head.
You can’t do this.
“Yes, I can.” I say the words out loud, hating how my insecurities try to get the best of me.
Snapping the mirror shut, I flip up the visor and climb out of the car, making my way to the entrance of the Thistlemark Hotel and Resort, which, from what I can see, is rather .
. . quaint. Part of the charm of Foxglove Bay is how small it is.
But that also means you can’t stay at, say, a Four Seasons resort when you vacation here.
That’s fine. I don’t need the Four Seasons.
I can do this. Despite the grimace I feel forming on my face when I notice how run-down the exterior of the main building looks.
The wood paneling that gives it a log-cabin vibe is rotting in spots, and the paint is peeling around the window frames.
But I’m sure the rooms are clean. They have to be so people won’t complain, right?
I throw open the door and glide into the lobby, noting the cluster of children standing near the front door, all of them clad in swimsuits and clutching dripping ice cream cones. Their faces are covered in ice cream as well, and I skate past them, hoping none of them reach out and try to touch me.
By the time I’m at the front desk, I’m breathing a sigh of relief that I remain unscathed, resting my arms on the edge of the heightened counter, tempted to hit the bell that sits there with a handwritten sign taped in front of it.
Ring the bell if you need help!
Glancing around, I hope to catch sight of whoever might work here, but no one else is in the area, save for the messy ice cream–eating kids. I don’t want to be a burden or come across as rude, but there is a sign saying I should ring it . . .
I tap the bell lightly, and it makes a soft tinging sound. No one comes out, so I do it again. Harder.
“Hey, hi! Welcome to the Thistlemark! Sorry I didn’t hear you come in.” A woman emerges from what looks like a back office, brushing fine strands of long brown hair away from her face, and I stare at her, momentarily silenced.
She is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
And I’ve sat in the front row of countless designer runway shows featuring gorgeous models.
I’ve grown up in the midst of polished women who pay lots of money to maintain their exquisite appearance.
But this woman? She looks unreal. I’d guess she’s around my age, and her skin is flawless, smooth and clear with just the right amount of pink in her cheeks.
Her eyes are the most unique shade of bluish green, which reminds me of the Italian sea.
I don’t think she has a lick of makeup on either, and all I can do is stare at her for a moment, transfixed.
The easygoing smile on the woman’s face slowly fades, replaced by a frown. “Are you all right?”
“What? Oh.” I shake myself, putting on a smile. “I’m sorry but you’re just—”
I clamp my lips shut, afraid to say more. I’ll sound like a weirdo.
She tilts her head, her long hair spilling over her shoulder. “I’m just what?”
I decide to just say what I’m thinking. “Have you ever modeled? Or thought about being a model?”
The woman scoffs, shaking her head. “Are you serious? Absolutely not. Unless you count me walking the runway when one of those wedding shows came into town and needed girls to model the bridal gowns and stuff. Though I was never a bride—always a bridesmaid. Such a metaphor, that bridal show. I’ve come to accept that’s my fate in life. ”
A sigh leaves her, and I’m momentarily shocked. “You’re not married? You don’t have a boyfriend?”
She laughs. “Of course not. I’m only twenty-four. Though . . . well . . .”
“Well, what?” I ask after she goes silent for a few seconds. I can’t help it; I’m curious. If she was part of my social circle, all the women would hate her, and all the men would bow at her feet. I’m sure of it.
“A lot of girls I went to high school with are getting married this summer and fall. Including a couple of my close friends. Oh, and then there’s my other friend who just had a baby.”
She whispers the last word, and a shiver moves through me. One moves through her too.
“So young,” I murmur.
“Right? Like I can barely take care of myself, let alone another human being who can’t do anything for themselves. God, I can’t imagine.” She shakes her head, then pauses. Peers at me like she’s confused. “Why am I telling you all of this again? I don’t even know you.”
“My name is Rachel,” I offer with a faint smile. I like this woman. She feels like a kindred spirit, even though we’ve chatted for only about a minute.
Her expression softens. “I’m Paige.”
“Well, Paige, now we know each other.” I grip the edge of the counter in front of me. “And if you ever wanted to model, I’m telling you, you so could. Walk the runways in Paris, appear in magazines all over the world. You’re gorgeous.”
Paige blinks at me, seemingly shocked silent by what I said. “Are you serious?”
I nod. “Totally. How tall are you?”
“Five eight.” She winces. “Fine, I’m five nine. That just sounds . . . so tall. Men hate it.”
“Fashion designers don’t,” I reassure her. “All the runway models are tall. Though you might be a little old to start now . . .”
“Wait a second. Are you a modeling scout? From Los Angeles or wherever? Oh God, are you a talent scout? One of those who needs, like, a thousand dollars to pay for my photo portfolio but I’ll make it all back and then some?
” She gives me like two seconds to speak before she keeps talking.
“If you are, I’m not interested. I live here.
I work here. I don’t want to go to LA and end up in your porn videos, okay? ”
I can’t help it, I burst out laughing, and thankfully, she eventually joins me. “I’m not”—I lower my voice so the little kids don’t hear me—“a talent scout for the porn industry.”
“Thank God,” Paige mutters, her laughter dying.
I decide I need to get back on track and tell her why I came here, though it should be fairly obvious. “I’m hoping to find a room.” A woman enters the lobby, heading straight for the group of children and ushering them back outside despite their noisy protests. “For the next couple of nights.”
“Do you have a reservation?”
I slowly shake my head. “Do I need one?”
“Probably.” Paige starts tapping on her keyboard, her gaze fixed on the computer screen as she presses her lips together, her expression turning grim. “We’re booked solid pretty much through the summer.”
“The entire summer? Like through August?” I find that hard to believe, but this is a popular vacation destination. I guess no one cares about the rotting wood and peeling paint. That’s probably part of its charm.
“More like through mid- to late September. People book here a year prior to guarantee their rooms, especially over holiday weekends,” Paige explains.
“Oh.” Great. Why did I drive here again? If I was smarter, I would’ve called first, but I wasn’t thinking. When am I ever thinking? My father would say never. As a matter of fact, I can hear his voice in my head right now, berating my choices yet again.
“I’m so sorry. We don’t have any rooms available,” Paige says, her voice laced with sympathy.
“What about a cabin?” The resort is mostly known for the cozy cabins they rent out, more than their hotel rooms. “I can afford one, even though it’s just me.”
Well, my father can afford one since I have his credit card.
“Hmm, yeah no. I don’t have any of those available either.
” Paige lifts her head, her kind gaze meeting mine.
“You’re probably better off trying the next town over to see if they have anything.
There are a few hotels located there, but I don’t know about their availability. I’m guessing they might be full too.”
“Really? So you’re telling me you don’t think there’s one available hotel room in this entire area?” I find that hard to believe.
“This is our busiest season.” Her tone isn’t mocking at all, but I can’t help but think she believes I’m silly for even trying to find one. “Did you really drive all the way out here without a reservation?”
“No. No, of course not. I was staying at my family’s vacation home, and I thought I’d have a little spa afternoon, you know?”
Paige nods. “Self-care is important.”
“It totally is! Anyway, I’m in the tub with a mask on my face, and the window is open, letting the breeze blow in.
A candle is burning, and well . . . I might’ve knocked it over and caught the curtains on fire.
Now I have nowhere to stay for the night.
Stupid, right? I can’t believe I was so dumb.
” I snap my lips shut, close to tears. Trying to fight them off with discreet deep breaths and lots of squinting. “But I understand. I do. I just—”
“You’re the house on Rocking Horse Lane?”
I go still, my near tears disappearing at her question. “How did you know?”
“Word travels fast around here.” Her smile is small, but still full of sympathy. “Damaged most of the second story, right?”