Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(101)
“Evan! Why are you being such a dick-wad? This is not how you treat guests.” A woman barrels around the corner and gives Evan a smack on the biceps. She looks about my age, rail thin, with thick, fire-engine-red hair. She’s dressed in an oversize sweater with multicolor patchwork that looks like something Crystal and Tara’s Grandma Flo would crochet. She’s paired it with yellow leggings that give me Big Bird flashbacks.
She must be his wife. Pity overcomes me on her behalf. Having to deal with this man’s mood day in and day out would be a special kind of torture. Maybe I should pull her aside and subtly ask if she needs saving. I’d be prepared to smuggle her over the border in the name of sisterhood.
“She’s not a guest.” Evan crosses his arms, tormented as the woman saddles up next to him, greeting me with a wide, toothy smile that just radiates good intentions.
“I am a guest,” I retort.
“You’re not.”
“I am.” Jesus, I feel like a small child.
“Just because you say it over and over doesn’t make it true,” he says, gaze searing.
“Ignore him. He gets like this when he hasn’t eaten,” the redhead advises with an exaggerated eye roll.
I raise a brow. I get hangry too, and you don’t see me lashing out at innocent strangers.
She goes on her tiptoes, extending her pale, bony hand over the desk. She hip checks Evan out of the way in the process, which gives me a pang of satisfaction. Realistically, her tiny size 2 frame is no match for him. He moves because she wants him to move, which makes me feel guilty for assuming she’s a helpless housewife. She strikes me as a woman who demands to be noticed and gives zero fucks. I like her already.
“I’m Lucy. What’s your name and where ya from?” She has a countryish twang in her voice that’s much different from southern accents in the States. It’s a little slower, with a heavier emphasis on the vowels.
“Melanie Karlsen—Mel,” I say, taking her hand, thankful to be saved from this caveman. “I’m from Boston.”
Lucy lets out an impressive whistle. “An American. What brings you up here?”
I explain my reservation mix-up, determined to ignore Evan’s scowl. “I’m an influencer, so I came to capture some lifestyle content, see the sights, maybe check out some lighthouses.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place, then. We have more lighthouses in our area than the entire province combined. Hook Lookout just got a makeover by Garth. Just in time for tourist season. Though Ruth Fraser’s been lobbying to get it repainted. She claims the stripes are too thin and that it’s damaging her retinas,” she adds with a slow shake of the head. Before I can begin to ask, she elbows an unimpressed Evan out of the way again and starts typing furiously on the keyboard. Her nails are painted lilac, with the exception of her ring fingers, which are a glittery silver. “Don’t mind him. I’m getting you the room with the good lighting, then, for photos. And it has the best view in the whole house.”
Evan casts her a ferocious glare. “Seriously, Luce? Tonight, of all nights?”
“Six nights, you said?” she confirms, ignoring Evan like he’s but a speck of dust.
“Yes, please.” I spare Evan an indignant look before he disappears into the parlor in a blur of fury and flannel.
Lucy photocopies my ID and plucks a skeleton key from the corkboard behind the desk. She grabs both suitcases, hoisting them up the stairs with zero effort, high ponytail bobbing up and down with each step. This tiny woman is freakishly strong. What she lacks in height, she makes up for with boundless energy.
“Oh, um, I can take it,” I offer weakly, wheeling my tote and carry-on at her heels.
She doesn’t seem to hear me as she bounds up the staircase, leading me through a long, narrow hallway of doors. To my left, the hallway juts into an entirely separate wing.
The outdated floral wallpaper from the ad photographs has been unpeeled in the hallway, with random bits and jagged sections still clinging to the wall. It’s as if someone ripped it all off in one careless stroke and didn’t bother to go back for the stubborn smaller chunks.
Lucy parks my luggage outside the farthest door on the left and unlocks it. “It’s our best room,” she whispers.
I try to hide my cringe when the door swings open with a toe-curling creak and the light flicks on. The heavy oak wainscoting is the only thing that breaks up the overwhelmingly blue walls. A hefty-looking four-poster bed with a grandma quilt sits in the middle of the room, flanked by turned spindles. There’s a massive window to the right, draped in the heaviest of fabrics, clad with an Astoria valance that belongs to the 1930s and shouldn’t have left. It reminds me of those heavy drapes in The Sound of Music that Fraulein Maria Project Runways into clothing for the children. I’d have preferred something from this century, but beggars can’t be choosers. And at least it isn’t a construction zone like the rest of the house.
Lucy takes the liberty of flopping on the end of my bed like she’s at a slumber party, eagerly spectating as I deposit my things on the upholstered antique ottoman at the foot of the bed. I plaster on a fake smile and give her an exaggerated nod as I kick my boots off.
“There’s a pamphlet if you need ideas for things to do around the village,” she informs me, pointing to the stack of colorful brochures in a dusty plastic holder atop the dresser. “And if you run into Ray Jackson at the waterfront—which you will, because he loves newbies—always have an out. The man likes to talk. He’ll trap you, and the next thing you know, he’ll have told you his whole life story, from his conception over at the old movie theater to his hemorrhoids.” When she sees the concerned look on my face, she adds, “Don’t worry, I’ll give you the full rundown tomorrow at breakfast, but the next week will fly by. You’ll see.”