Deacon(9)

“Grant’s gone,” I shared, guessing at what he was looking for, and his eyes tipped down to me. “It didn’t work out.”

“Not a surprise,” Priest declared. “He was a dick.”

I blinked.

“A lazy one,” he went on.

“I…” I began but trailed off, shocked not only that he noticed but that he had something to say about it, and further, he said it.

“Eleven?” he prompted when I said nothing.

I pulled myself out of my surprised stupor, nodded, and jogged up the steps to my house.

He followed me, came inside, and did the registering thing while I got his key.

When he was done, he turned to me.

“Still sixty?” he asked and I shook my head.

“Seventy.”

He said nothing, just pulled out his wallet, took out some bills, and handed me five of them. Four of them hundreds. The fifth, a fifty.

“Five days,” he stated.

“Right,” I muttered, not even bothering to offer him change. I knew the drill. A drill which included him shoving the key through the mail slot in my front door as his means of checking out.

“You want my ID?”

I smiled at him. “I think we’re good with that.”

He didn’t look at my mouth to take in my smile. He also didn’t speak further. He reached toward me, took the key from my hand, and walked out the door.

I walked out behind him, stood on my front porch, and watched him move down the lane.

He wasn’t graceful, he was too big to be graceful, but he was athletic.

Men walked the way he walked when they approached the place they’d throw a javelin or when they positioned at the line of scrimmage or moved to the top of the tennis court prior to serving. Loose but prepared. Alert but at ease. It was strange.

It was also hot.

And as with all things John Priest, it was a little scary.

I put John Priest, my top patron and still my only return customer, out of my head, turned to my door, closed it, and then walked across my porch. I hopped down the steps and headed to cabin four to finish stripping the sheets.

* * * * *

“Coming!” I shouted from the kitchen after I heard the knock on the front door.

I hustled out and into my softly lit foyer, going straight to the door. I saw the hulking shadowy figure that was silhouetted by the outside lights through the filmy curtains that covered the windows in the door and knew who it was immediately.

I turned the locks, threw off the chain, and looked up into John Priest’s aloof but handsome face.

“Hey,” I greeted.

“Yo,” he replied.

“Come in out of the cold,” I invited, stepping aside for him to do just that.

He did and I caught a glimpse of his Suburban, stark black against the white tufts of snow in January in the mountains of Colorado.

I closed the door on the chill and turned to him to see he was standing, facing the registration book, but his head was turned toward the kitchen.

“Cookies,” I explained the scent in the air as I rounded him and his eyes tipped down to me. “I’m in the mood. Christmas does that to me. I’m an extreme baker at Christmas and it doesn’t wear off until after Valentine’s Day.”

He said nothing. Showed nothing. Just stared at me.

I forged into the silence.

“We’re pretty full up but eleven is open.”

He jerked up his chin then turned to the book.

I kept talking.

“We have new flat screen TVs, with Blu-ray players. And cable.”

He kept scribbling.

I kept blabbing.

“And I figured out how to take bookings on-line. I did it all by myself. It works great!”

I sounded excited because I was. I fiddled with that for-freaking-ever. So long I thought it’d be the death of me. But in the end it worked beautifully.

He dropped the pen and straightened toward me.

I didn’t stop blathering.

“I also have a library of DVDs. There’s a menu in your cabin if you want to check one out. I usually require a credit card for that service but we’ll skip that part seeing as you’re a repeat customer, so I’m guessing I can trust you won’t take off with my copy of Lake House.”

That got me something. His full, attractive lips twisted in distaste.

“Not a Sandra Bullock fan?” I asked.

He shocked me by sharing, “Keanu Reeves.”

I grinned at him. “This is the difference between men and women. Many men don’t get Mr. Reeves.” I leaned in and finished conspiratorially, “Every woman absolutely does.”

He made no comment and showed no hint of understanding or humor.

Instead, he asked, “I take it it’s no longer seventy.”

I shook my head. “Sorry. And it’s high season so it’s a hundred a night.”

And it was one hundred dollars a night and I added ten dollars a person if there was more than one.

I had eight of the eleven cabins filled, with Priest there was nine.

This meant I was doing it.

Finally.

Utilities and cable were crippling. Not to mention taxes. The day-to-day work was constant and there was still more to do to get the cabins as I wanted them to be. I wasn’t rolling in it and I could use some help, like someone to help me clean and do laundry.