Chapter Five Take an Unplanned Adventure #2
“It’s good to be a little inconspicuous.” He shrugs.
“And you thought using the word Wincock was the way to do it?” I shake my head.
From the Bozeman airport, it’s a forty-minute drive to the house. Charles mentions that he has an SUV parked there, which I’ll be free to use during our stay.
We drive through a gated neighborhood, passing by houses and sprawling ranches every few minutes. The landscape is vast and serene, with open spaces that stretch as far as the eye can see.
Charles casually shares a bit of trivia, noting that the name “Montana” comes from the Spanish word montana, meaning mountain—which seems fitting.
When we finally arrive, the house surprises me.
It’s actually more understated than I expected.
Sure, it’s probably a multimillion-dollar property, but it has a restrained charm.
There’s a three-car garage, a lovely flagstone porch, and a huge stone chimney.
The real star, though, is the property itself—acres of gently rolling hills with breathtaking views of the Beartooth Mountains in the distance.
Is this really how the other half lives?
Inside, the house is just as impressive. There are four spacious bedrooms, and in mine, a private bathroom that has the prettiest dark-green tiles, and ceilings supported by rustic wood beams. I love it immediately.
May in Montana turns out to be beautiful but chilly. As the sun starts to set, I decide to get to work lighting a fire in the massive stone fireplace that sits at the center of the great room. The warmth quickly fills the space, making it feel like home—if only for a little while.
Charles wanders in with his newspaper. I’m certain he’s read the whole thing cover to cover with how crinkled it is and how much time he spent staring at it on the plane. I find myself wondering again about his other hobbies.
“Have you ever played Wordle?” I ask when he settles into the armchair beside me.
He gives me a confused look.
“Give me your phone.”
He hands it over, and after I do a decent job of masking my shock at how very large the font sizes and icons are, I install one of my favorite apps. When I hand his phone back, I explain the workings of the game. He catches on quickly.
“What’s a five-letter word that starts with O?” he asks me after some time of staring down at his phone.
“Ocean?”
He shakes his head. “No, there’s not an N in this one.”
I check my phone and text Tessa to let her know I’ve arrived in my first destination as a travel companion.
How are things going? she asks.
I consider her question.
If I expected things to feel strained or uncomfortable between us, I’m glad to see I was wrong. We alternate easily between comfortable silences and small talk. We just click.
Great, actually, I write back.
“Occur!” Charles says after several minutes of deep concentration.
I don’t even scold him for ruining today’s puzzle for me, because he looks so pleased with himself.
Look at me, I must be growing.
After dinner Charles and I unwind on opposite sides of the huge plush sectional. The fire has died down to a whimper but still glows and crackles softly as the TV plays in the background.
“For every hour of international news you insist on watching, we’ll watch a rom-com,” I announce, waving a hand at the TV screen that plays scenes from a German newscast.
“I’m not watching a rom-com with you,” he scoffs.
“Come on, old man. Remember the chocolate muffins. You might just like it.”
The words are out before I can stop them. Too much? Maybe. But he just rolls his eyes, and something in my chest eases.
Later, when I glance over, I realize he’s sound asleep in the recliner, his features softened in the flickering glow of the fire.
I remove his reading glasses, and the newspaper from across his chest, then I sink back down onto the sectional, still in some disbelief about this new journey I’m on and the unexpected twists that brought me here.
I pull out my phone and snap a selfie of me smiling on the plush couch while the fire glows in the background and send it to Tessa.
Cutie! she replies.
For the first time in a long while, I feel a deep sense of peace, as if everything is exactly where it’s meant to be.
All of that changes in the morning when I learn that Hayes will be flying into Bozeman today. Any sense of peace I felt last night looking out over the mountains has evaporated. Poof. Gone!
I do my best to ignore him for the first several hours.
I heard him arrive, heard his and Charles’s voices in the living room.
The fact that I needed to stay very busy in my bedroom was beside the point.
What the hell is he even doing here? He was too busy to travel with his uncle before.
Now that I’m in the picture, he suddenly wants the job?
Well, I have no plans of heading back home, so he needs to back the hell off.
Sensing that he’s only here to check up on me, or torment me, doesn’t leave me with any warm fuzzies.
Two hours later, I’m in the kitchen when I hear the deep rumble of his voice.
“Francesca?”
I groan and look for somewhere to hide. But my laptop, charging cord, phone, and notebook are spread out over the kitchen island. I consider shoving myself into a pantry cupboard when I hear him call out again.
“Not today, Satan,” I grumble under my breath. I’m searching for a local restaurant with liverwurst, of all things . . .
“There you are,” he says, stopping in front of the kitchen island.
“What? What now? What could you possibly need from me that you can’t get from someone else? Someone to wipe your butt for you? Or maybe to dislodge the large stick up your rear?”
He stiffens. “As charmed as I am that you seem to be fascinated with my backside, no, my needs have nothing to do with either of those things.”
I give him a once-over. He appears to be unamused, his chiseled features stern and a five-o’clock shadow dusting his square jaw. His intense, stormy-gray eyes seem to hold a thousand unspoken secrets. Not that I care.
“My uncle’s car appears to be blocking me in.”
“Oh.” I smile and blink at him coyly, suddenly aware I just verbally assaulted him. “I’ll move it.”
When I return to the kitchen, I do my best to ignore Hayes, which isn’t easy.
He exudes effortless charm, and the way his broad shoulders fill out a shirt is enough to make anyone’s pulse race. Anyone but me, that is. I’m boy sober. I want to stick out my tongue and taunt him. Tessa would be so proud.
“Do you have the Wi-Fi password?” he asks.
Chuckling to myself for being so clever, I turn to him. “Sure. The network is NachoWiFi. And the password is PrettyFlyForWiFi—all one word with caps.”
Hayes looks dumbfounded, utterly and completely out of his element. “Oh—kay.” He draws the word out, clearly missing my attempt at humor.
But he must get onto the network despite me, because he lets it drop. Heading to the pantry, I help myself to a snack. Good thing I stocked up on all my favorites from the gas station on the way into town, because there weren’t any good snack foods to be found in this house.
Deciding to take the high road, I gesture to Hayes, who’s still seated at the kitchen island. “If you want a snack, feel free to help yourself.”
He looks over my assortment of Chili Cheese Fritos, Easy Mac, Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, microwave popcorn (extra butter), and Cool Ranch Doritos, and shakes his head. “Thanks, but I don’t eat gluten, GMOs, food dye, or processed meat.”
I hand him a Cup Noodles. “Maybe this?”
He reads the ingredients list and shoots me a deadpan look. “I’m traumatized.”
Rolling my eyes, I mutter, “More for me.”
“Are you . . . counting your chips?” His voice rings out behind me.
I turn toward him. “I get eleven. It’s the USDA recommended serving size.”
His eyes widen. “Have you always been this honest?”
I nod, selecting another chip.
“What about those two?” he asks, noticing I’ve taken more than the serving size.
“Everyone knows you get a bonus chip. Two, if the first one you grab is weird.”
“Weird?” He squints. One of the chips is brown. “Were you dropped as a baby?” he asks, narrowing his eyes like he’s mulling over the possibility.
I take my pile of chips, balanced on a paper towel, to the living room, knowing that I won’t be able to enjoy my snack in peace if he’s here to watch me eat. I’ll probably chew too loud or eat too fast for his liking. Plus, what kind of absolute monster doesn’t like Cool Ranch Doritos?
Seriously, I’d like to know.
I can’t wait to tell Tessa about this.
At best he’s a spoiled rich boy without a care or real problem to be found. At worst he’s an egomaniac who takes pride in pointing out how he’s better than everyone else. I don’t eat processed meat.
He can stick his meat where the sun don’t shine.
I snicker to myself.