A Cross-Country Christmas(14)

“Got our rooms.” He sat. “Two of them.”

She slid a menu toward him, willing her pulse to slow down.

They ordered—burger, fries and a chocolate shake for him, chicken fingers and fries for her—and their waiter disappeared leaving her to face another meal with Will.

“So, tell me more about your job,” he said.

She’d half-expected him to forget their previous conversation. Truthfully, she half-wanted him to—talking about herself was hard under the best of circumstances, but around Will? Doubly so.

Still, discussing art and television and her job came easily, and she answered all his questions without hesitation. There were several times over the course of the dinner she almost forgot their history.

His dimple made more than one appearance as he laughed at some of her favorite celebrity stories, and when he asked to see the artwork she was sending her boss, she didn’t even hesitate.

She opened her laptop, pulled up the mood boards, and spun it around to face him.

He studied her three variations of the same dorm room with a furrowed brow, like he was actually interested in them.

“Which one is your favorite?” she asked.

“The middle one,” he said without hesitation.

Her stomach flip-flopped. “Really? Why?”

His eyes met hers across the table. “The artwork in this one is a lot more interesting than in the other two. I like that it’s kind of quirky and whimsical.”

She felt the smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

“What?”

“That’s my artwork,” she said.

His eyebrows shot up. “Shut up.”

She closed the laptop and tucked it back in its case, excitement dancing in her belly at his approval.

“Is that what you were doing in the car? Drawing?”

She nodded.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I wouldn’t have guessed you were an artist. I mean, Maddie rambled something about that, but. . .” He shrugged, his voice trailing off.

“But?”

“It’s surprising is all.”

“Because I don’t really fit the stereotype of an artist,” she said matter-of-factly. She knew her artwork reflected a side of her personality she didn’t typically let out. The side that wasn’t completely concerned with getting everything right. In a way, art gave her a chance to play.

“Let’s just hope my boss likes it.”

“Does she know it’s yours?”

She shook her head and dragged a French fry through her salted ketchup.

“Well, if you ask me, it’s the clear winner.” He grinned at her and a tingle raced down her spine, all the way to her toes. Maybe she could be a little bit friendly, but just a little.

She looked up at him, smiled a real smile. Instantly, her internal monologue shifted. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t let herself be friendly with Will Sinclair! He was far too easy to like, and liking him would land her in a not-so-luxurious suite at the Heartbreak Hotel.

She changed gears, quickly, spooked at the betrayal of her own mind. “Uhh. . . I should go. I just got really tired all of the sudden.” She didn’t wait for a response, fished some cash from her bag, threw it on the table and grabbed the key to her room. “See you in the morning.”





Chapter 7





Halfway between Day One and Day Two





A piercing scream filled the stale desert air. Will stirred, taking a moment to remember where he was and how he’d gotten there. Was he dreaming?

He sat up straight at a frantic knock on the door—but it was Lauren’s voice on the other side that yanked him from his bed.

“Will? Are you awake?”

He pulled the door open, and a wave of panic rolled through him. “What’s wrong? You ok?”

She looked pale in the blue light of the moon, her face a blank sheet.

“I need your help—” she glanced down at his bare chest for a split second, seemed to catch herself, then looked up in his eyes. “Hurry!”

“Okay.” He ran a hand over his face, as if that could wake him up. “What’s going on?”

She disappeared from his doorway, leaving him standing there without a shirt or an answer.

She then reappeared, wearing that same harried expression, and waved a frenetic hand at him, motioning for him to follow. He grabbed his shirt off the chair and rushed out after her.

She raced over to her bungalow, stopping at her door, which stood open. He pulled his shirt on as he came up to her side, looking at her to try to gain some semblance as to what in the world was going on. She trembled, and pointed in her room.

He peered inside before stepping in, and his mind got snagged on the sight of her unmade bed. With that single exception, the rest of the space was neat and orderly, just as he assumed it would be. The room itself was identical to his, almost more of a cabin you’d find at a youth camp than a motel, and certainly not luxurious. Wood-planked walls, avocado green carpet, and orange and yellow floral curtains—the seventies décor was so old, it was likely about to come back in style.

She pushed past him and stood next to the bathroom door. “In there.”

“What is it?”

Intruder? Deranged mental patient? Serial killer?