Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(100)

He widens his stance like the loyal bodyguard of a young pop star at the height of fame. “Who wants to know?” His narrowing gaze is so skeptical, I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing again.

“Um, me, obviously. I just made a reservation on Airbnb. You’re not the owner, are you?” Frankly, I’d imagined a folksy, salt-and-pepper-haired couple in matching Roots sweaters. They’d be in their seventies, though they’d intend to keep running the inn until the day they died (the same day, of course), because it would have been in the family for millennia. Upon entry, I’d be offered fresh-baked banana bread and an assortment of senior citizen candies from a crystal bowl. I’d be charmed by their tendency to add an “Eh?” at the end of every sentence while delighting me with tales of merciless Northern winters past.

Conveniently, the Plaid Giant fails to confirm or deny ownership. “You didn’t make a reservation,” he says matter-of-factly. That flannel is really doing overtime under the swell of his arms. He strikes me as the type who got those Thor-like muscles by doing honest work in the wilderness, trapping animals and hauling logs for the cabin he’s building miles from civilization because he clearly hates humanity.

“Actually, I did. For a week.” Panicked, I bend over to pick up my phone, overturned on the floor at my feet. Crystal has long hung up, though she’s tried to call back four times, along with multiple texts. I pull up the Airbnb email, brandishing the screen at him, as if he can read it from this distance with bionic sight.

A trace of a frown forms under that bushy beard. “Nope.”

“I have my reso right here.” I hold out my phone, extending my arm completely, which only results in a deeper scowl. It’s not like I want to stand here and argue, but I’ve had enough reservation mix-ups for one day.

His frown doesn’t budge as he lumbers down the stairs, wood creaking under each heavy step. As he rounds the desk, I catch a rich, earthy whiff of campfire and maybe a hint of leather.

“Is it possible you didn’t see my reservation? It doesn’t really look like technology is your strong suit.” I wave a hand in the vague direction of the clunky laptop.

“Yeah, technology is real hard to come by for kidney-stealing backroad Canadians,” he grumbles, tapping his calloused finger on the counter impatiently as he waits for the laptop to boot up.

Unease settles along my spine as I mentally replay my call with Crystal wherein I took my sarcasm too far and insulted this place. But what does he expect? And trust, my expectations were not high. But this is a construction zone. There are exposed wires in the parlor.

I consider an apology, but before the words come to me, he grumbles something unintelligible and hunches over the keyboard. Whoever constructed this desk didn’t take someone of his height into consideration. He stabs the keyboard with his index finger, squinting at the screen with effort. “You requested the reservation, but it wasn’t confirmed.”

Crap.

In all the stress, I was just so happy there was any availability at all that I forgot about awaiting confirmation from the host, aka this miserable man, who single-handedly disproves the theory that all Canadians are nice.

“Can’t you just confirm it right now?” I ask, flashing my Instagram smile, hoping it’ll brighten his mood.

His eyes flare with deep irritation. “No. We’re not open.”

“But you are, according to Airbnb.” I point to the link on my phone screen, which he waves off like a pesky housefly.

“Must be a glitch. Sorry, Your Royal Highness. You’ll have to find alternative accommodations. I hear the Ritz Carlton down the street has vacancy.” He conjures up the briefest half-hearted, crooked smile, which makes him look more constipated than smug.

“Can you please just let me stay for one night? I’m desperate,” I plead.

“No. We’re under construction, as you can see. Not open.” He gestures to the parlor. His explanation sounds legit, which makes me feel a little better. Until he swaps his baffled expression for wariness. “Wait—you’re not some developer, are you?”

“Does it look like I’m in the market to purchase a decrepit”—I I bite my tongue when his glare ensnares mine—“an inn in dire need of repairs?”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t respond.

“I promise to find somewhere else to go in the morning,” I plead.

“Best of luck with that,” he says cryptically. “It’s fishing season.”

I drop my shoulders. “So I’ve been told.”

“I don’t suppose you’re here for fishing?” His lips tilt disarmingly, and for a split second, I wonder if he’s joking. Before I can make a judgment call, it disappears, replaced with another glower.

“Yeah, I’m a pro angler,” I say, tone rife with sarcasm. “I’m supposed to be staying at the Seaside Resort outside of Halifax. It’s a five-star luxury resort, actually. It was even featured on the Real Housewives.”

He treats me to a bored stare.

“Can you please just make an exception? I have to pee. Badly. I’ll pay double,” I beg. I even toss in a pouty lip. There goes my last shred of dignity. “You can even have my kidney, struggle free. I won’t fight it.”

The joke doesn’t land. He’s about to wave a dismissive hand at me when a shrill voice bellows from the room off the parlor.