Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(82)

His eyes scanned the reception area, flicking to the stairs he’d ascended only once, the night Laire took him to the widow’s walk and told him she could spend the night. His heart clutched at the memory, and he jerked his glance reflexively to the left. The restaurant was closed for the season, but the old bar where he’d spent almost every night of that summer was aglow with the ambient light of the television, his favorite seat at the corner vacant, as though waiting for him.

“Evenin’. Mr. Rexford, I presume?”

A gray-haired gentleman in jeans and a flannel shirt rounded the corner of the bar area, where he must have been watching the TV, and made his way to the reception desk. He had a mustache and reading glasses, and Erik had a passing notion that if he were casting the role of the Innkeeper for a play, he couldn’t get much closer than this guy.

“That’s me.”

“You made it.”

“Barely.”

“Roads still bad up north?”

Erik shrugged. “Not so bad north of Rodanthe, but after that . . .”

“Blackout.”

“Bad.” Erik nodded, looking around the small welcome area. Several lamps set beside antique couches and chairs bathed the room in soft, warm light. Had there always been a fringed Persian rug on the floor and flowers in a vase over the fireplace? He couldn’t recall.

“We’ve got a generator,” said the innkeeper, sliding a check-in form and pen across the reception desk. “Fill this out, huh? And include your, uh, your car and license plate info, huh?”

“Sure,” said Erik, placing his computer bag on the floor by his feet and letting the duffel slide down his shoulder to join it. He took the pen and started filling out the form. “Got a lot of guests right now?”

The innkeeper shook his head. “Just a few. Let’s see . . . We got two couples what come to visit their family over the holiday. They’re stayin’ until New Year’s Day. Got a couple of year-rounders whose gennies got dunked in the storm. They’re stayin’ until the water gets pumped out and they get their power back. Mother and daughter just come last night. Their place in Hatteras got it bad.”

“Huh,” said Erik absentmindedly, sliding the completed form back to the innkeeper. “My folks have a house in Buxton.”

“Yeah,” said the old-timer, nodding at Erik. “I know who you be. Governor’s son.”

Erik forced a smile he didn’t feel and changed the subject. He wasn’t in the mood for a political conversation. “You own this place?”

“Aye-up.”

“Local?”

“From Ocracoke ’riginally.”

“Islander, huh?” Erik asked, trying to keep the bite out of his tone.

“Aye-up.” He nodded, offering Erik his hand. “Henshaw Leatham. They call me Shaw.”

“That or Grandpa!”

Erik slid his eyes in the direction of the voice and found a young woman coming down the stairs. She was pretty—between eighteen and twenty, he guessed, with blonde wavy hair and a winsome smile. Big tits. Small waist. Bare feet.

Not unlike someone else he used to know.

His face hardened.

“Hi,” she said, grinning at him.

“Hi,” he answered, not grinning back and looking away from her quickly.

“I’m the granddaughter. Kelsey,” she continued, talking to his profile.

Erik nodded, but he didn’t look at her again. He wasn’t interested in the flirting smiles of an island girl. Not one bit. Not at all.

The iciness that covered his heart, that had earned him his reputation and nickname, made his next words sound sharp and unfriendly.

“Can I get my key?” he asked Mr. Leatham.

“Can I help you with your bags?” asked Kelsey at his elbow.

Erik wasn’t looking at her, but in his peripheral vision, he’d seen her move across the room, from the staircase to the reception desk, and he quickly bent down and picked up the bags, throwing one over his shoulder and gripping the other tightly. “No, thanks.”

“Kelsey, honey, ain’t it your bedtime?”

“Grandpa,” she said, scooting around the reception desk and giving her grandfather a kiss on his bristly cheek, “I think I’m old enough to know when it’s time to go to sleep.”

“Well, as long as you’re still up,” said the innkeeper, “how’s about takin’ Mr. Rexford to room 308?”

“Rexford, like the gov’nor?” asked Kelsey, her blue eyes lighting up with unconcealed interest.

He was forced to look at her. “His son.”

“Well, I’ll be,” she said, twisting a lock of blonde hair around her finger. “Royalty.”

“Hardly,” said Erik, increasingly more agitated with her flirting. “I don’t need you to show me up. I’ll find it.” He faced Mr. Leatham. “Just the key, please.”

The innkeeper nodded, turning to the key slots behind him. He grabbed the key and handed it to Erik. “There’s breakfast from seven to nine, and we do a fire pit on the widow’s walk from eight to ten at night. In case you don’t know, a widow’s walk is—”

“I know what it is,” he said tightly. And exactly where it is too.