Chapter 1
ONE
Hazel
I’m bleary-eyed, pressing my hand to my mouth to try to cover the gaping yawn that comes as I grab the iced latte that Kit left out for me on the counter in the inn’s kitchen. I take a sip and savor it. It’s just the right combination of espresso, milk, and caramel to wake my brain and my taste buds up after one of the longest nights in recent memory. I spent the first half of the night running numbers, and I spent the second half wide awake, stressing over them.
We’ll be deep in the red by the end of the year if business keeps up its current trajectory. Anything that might bring in new customers—a renovation, a big holiday event, or pouring some effort into marketing would all require money I don’t have. My stomach turns just thinking about the sales projections for next year, and I have to take another sip of coffee to quell it. I have to pull myself together because I have guests to entertain this morning, including a large group of older women who are making the most of the local antique shops and wineries.
When I walk into the dining room, though, four of them are plastered to the corner window that overlooks the expansive yard between the inn and the ranch house. A round of titters echoes against the glass and across the room, and one of the four clasps her hand to her mouth, turning to hurry back to her table. Her cheeks are a bright shade of cherry red that matches her shirt. There’s another round of cackling and then a gasp. One of the women grabs the other by the arm, her fingers white-knuckling and glittering as her glacier-size ring catches the light and her eyes go wide.
I feel a sudden sense of dread when I watch the woman with the red shirt, Edna, I think her name was, lean over to whisper something to her friend, and she audibly gasps and clutches her chest at the information.
“Well, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.” One of the women at the window snickers.
“Neither would I,” another echoes the sentiment.
“Not with those thighs and that butt. Good lord! I need to take a picture and send it to Jane,” the third joins in.
“You cannot take a picture. It’s rude, and you three are being ridiculous!” the cherry-cheeked woman calls out in a scolding tone.
“It’s the shoulders for me. If I didn’t have a slipped disc, I’d climb him like a tree.” Another round of praising mm-hmms echoes across the room.
I’m trying to think of who the him could possibly be. Sam, the groundskeeper, also known as the kid who mows our lawns and keeps the trails, is barely eighteen and as gangly as they come. My maintenance guy is sporting a beer gut and a bald spot, and while I’m positive he still makes his wife’s blood pressure rise, I wouldn’t exactly describe his flat plumber’s butt as something worth writing home about, let alone photographing for posterity.
As I get close, the scolding woman looks at me and shakes her head. “You’d think they’ve never seen a naked man before.”
“What?” I manage to croak before I hurry over to the window.
“You mean it’s not part of the day’s entertainment? I thought things were finally getting interesting around here,” one of the women at the window teases.
A comment that might hurt if I weren’t too busy racing to figure out how there’s a naked man on my lawn. When I reach the glass and manage to elbow my way into a spot on the side, l lift the sheers to witness a sight that nearly makes me swallow my tongue.
They weren’t lying about any of it. The ass, the thighs, the shoulders, every single bit is sculpted perfection. He’s rivaling the tree next to him for height too, easily six foot five or taller, and the water that’s pouring out of the spigot mounted on the back of his RV is running over every single inch of his naked, glistening skin.
I’m distracted until he turns around, and then I have to close my eyes.
“Oh, wow…” One of the women mumbles in the kind of hushed tone of reverence people use for truly great works of art.
“Good lord in heaven. Can you imagine being on the receiving end of that?”
“Martha!” A gasp echoes against the walls.
“I feel like we should be paying extra for this.”
I feel like I haven’t had enough caffeine yet for this. I reach around for the edge of the drapes and pull it forward, covering the bay window until I run into a speed bump in the form of two gaping women refusing to budge.
“Excuse me.” I start to march forward with the drape, drawing it across the window to the sounds of disappointment. “I’m so sorry about this. I’ll get it taken care of right away.”
“Taken care of? Honey, ask him to come in and have some breakfast with us.”
I smile at her and shake my head. The last thing we need is him in here having breakfast. He might be pretty to look at from a distance, but up close? With that mouth? He’ll ruin any good reviews I might still be hoping to get.
“He’s not… He shouldn’t be here. Doing that. I apologize, and I promise it won’t happen again.” I use my best professional voice, but I can feel the burning gaze of several diners who aren’t loving the morning’s live entertainment.
“Well, tell him I’ll pay extra if it does.” One of the women at the window nudges her friend in the shoulder and laughs as she finally steps back.
“Betty!” another woman admonishes.
“We’re supposed to be having a girls’ weekend, Edna! Loosen up and have some fun,” Betty sasses back. At least I’m learning their names.
I’m satisfied that the blinds are thoroughly drawn, and a glimpse at the breakfast bar tells me Kit has everything under control this morning. The juice dispensers are all full, the breadbasket is overflowing, and the trays are filled with eggs, bacon, and blueberry pancakes. I look longingly at the pancakes as I make my way across the dining room. We’d just received a shipment of maple syrup from Canada and fresh butter from the Johnson’s farm down the street. I’d been looking forward to having a big stack of them with another massive mug of coffee to prepare me for the day.
Instead, I have to march outside and confront my impending nightmare. I didn’t think he was due out here for at least two more days, but here we are on what should have been a quiet Tuesday filled with morning bird-watching and a lunchtime talk with the local historian about quilting.
I’d carefully plotted the afternoon too, from the wine tasting in the afternoon, followed by a five-course dinner, pie and fresh whipped cream for dessert, and some time to read in the library. It was going to be the perfect day. One they’d write to friends about on the postcards they were going to get in the goodbye gift baskets in their rooms. Instead, it’s being interrupted by a giant dick out on the freshly mown lawn.
I excuse myself from the breakfast and politely let them know we’ll be heading out to meet the naturalist at 9 a.m. Not that anyone’s listening to me because every table in the inn is tittering and fluttering with news of the morning’s entertainment—the size, the shape, the general attitude of said diversion are all being discussed— at length .
One of the guests, a mother with two children who’s already complained about the lack of children’s videos in the library flashes me a look of disappointment as I pass her table and shakes her head. I could already see the review from her now; the lack of quality entertainment in the library and the pornographic one-man ensemble would be bolded highlights. I sigh. Another unforced error in the Hazel gets this ship back on track tour.
I pause when I reach the side door, my hand already on the ornate, old-fashioned handle. I have to pull myself together, dig deep, and find a professional way to talk to the naked man because, in addition to being a paroled felon who only nearly missed murder charges, he’s also my husband. The one I haven’t seen outside a football field and TV screen for five years.