Reclaiming the Sand(79)

Flynn made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. I glanced over at him and his mouth was curved upwards into a smirk. I don’t think I had ever seen Flynn smirk before. It made me grin.

“You’re right. That’s on the highway,” he agreed.

“Wow, I knew something Flynn didn’t. We need to mark this day on the calendar,” I teased.

Flynn frowned. “Why should we mark it on the calendar? That’s stupid.”

It was my turn to snort. “It’s a figure of speech, Flynn. We won’t really be writing it on the calendar,” I explained.

“Oh. Well that’s a dumb figure of speech and it makes no sense,” Flynn replied.

“Whatever.” I rolled my eyes.

Soon we were pulling up in front of an older but nicely maintained hotel. It looked as though it were well past its prime but was trying like hell to hold on to its relevance. But it was right on the beach; I could see the ocean line from the parking lot. I liked it instantly. We were lucky to get such a good deal because it was off peak and the tourist season was dwindling down. So I wouldn’t complain about the dated awnings and the garish paint job.

I parked the car and looked over at Flynn who was absently scratching Murphy’s head and staring out the window toward the open ocean. The beach was mostly empty. Only a few people on boogie boards were braving the most likely cold October water.

“Let’s go check in,” I said enthusiastically. Flynn’s mood was still off but he seemed to be coming around.

Flynn didn’t move right away. He continued to rub Murphy rhythmically. The dog was loving it, not picking up on his owner’s odd temperament.

“Flynn? Are you ready?” I asked.

Flynn nodded and climbed out of the car, slipping Murphy’s leash over his head. The three of us walked into the small lobby and approached the front desk.

It was quaint and clean. The reception area was decorated with your stereotypical seashells and jars of colored sand. A large fishing net covered in starfish and sand dollars hung on the wall.

“Hello, welcome to Sandbridge Inn! Can I get your name?” the elderly woman with a very impressive blue rinse and whose name tag read Paula, asked, giving Flynn and me a bright and friendly smile.

I looked at Flynn but he didn’t answer her. He was chewing on his bottom lip again and he was wrapping Murphy’s leash around his hand over and over again.

“Uh, Hendrick,” I said, smiling to cover for Flynn’s rudeness.

He was looking around the lobby and he didn’t look happy. He looked upset.

Paula with the blue rinse tapped away at the computer until she found our reservation. “Just two nights right?” she asked.

I nodded, glancing at Flynn again. He was still completely disengaged.

I sighed; I couldn’t help it. I had wanted this to be perfect. But it seemed I overestimated Flynn’s ability to handle this.

It made me completely rethink my earlier frustration about his refusal to move away with me. Looking at him now, anxious and unhappy, I knew that perhaps I was thinking too much about what was best for me and not thinking nearly enough about what was best for Flynn. Being unselfish kind of sucked.

“Here you are. You’re booked for the King Suite with the extra $50 pet deposit.” She leaned over the counter to look at Murphy, who was being surprisingly well behaved.

“My, he’s a big boy, isn’t he?” Paula asked, her eyes widening as she took in Murphy’s massive girth.

“Yeah, but he’s a gentle giant,” I assured her. I remembered how nervous the other volunteers at the shelter had been when Murphy had arrived. He was huge. And his size alone made people nervous. But that was before it become clear his size was the only intimidating thing about him.

“Can I give him a treat?” the woman asked and I nodded.

She came around the desk, holding out the small bone for Murphy to take.

“Don’t give him that!” Flynn barked, stopping her. Paula startled and instantly backed away.

“Flynn. It’s fine. It’s just a treat,” I reasoned, trying to give the now flustered receptionist a comforting smile.

“No, he doesn’t eat until six. Then he has his treats an hour after that. Not before he has his dinner. You know that, Ellie!” Flynn’s voice rose and I recognized the tightening of his shoulders and the rigidity of his jaw.

Great, another meltdown.

“You’re right, Flynn. No treats,” I said calmly, though Murphy had started whining because he could smell the bone.

“No treats, Ellie! He has them after his dinner, not before,” he repeated and I nodded my head.

“After dinner. Not before,” I said quickly, knowing how this looked to Blue Rinse Paula. She hadn’t said anything as she watched us warily. So much for a good first impression.

Flynn thankfully calmed down and started scratching Murphy’s head again. The pair of them settled.

Paula’s smile was now a little brittle as she handed me the key to our room. “Take the elevator and get off at the fourth floor. Take a left and follow the hallway to the end. Your room is number 410. There’s a continental breakfast served every day at seven, though you can’t take your dog into the dining room.” She had abandoned all pretenses of politeness and now seemed ready for us to get to our room and out of her blue rinsey hair.