have the run of the lot,” she said, then immediately could have kicked herself. Right, Kirby, just announce to the down-on-his-luck-looking, lone-wolf biker dude that there are no other guests in the inn. Not that he would have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out, but still.
He opened one of the side compartments on the back of the bike and lifted out a black gear bag, which he slung over his shoulder. Even that unconscious motion was sexy as hell. Seriously, get a damn grip. She was coming off like the stupid cliché of single, sex-starved, middle-aged innkeeper, when she was anything but that. Okay, so she was exactly that. But she definitely wouldn’t have used the term “starved.” Sex wasn’t everything. At least, for the past two years and right up until five minutes ago she’d had herself firmly convinced of that.
She started up the cobblestone walkway, leading to the wide wooden steps, smiling as she always did when seeing the front of her newly restored place. It was probably hokey to some, and she seriously doubted this particular guest would even notice, much less appreciate it, but she loved the lacey gingerbread pattern that scalloped along the edge of the wraparound porch overhang. It made the place look lively and inviting to her. Very ski chalet. She’d painted the house in a flat, Wedgwood blue to offset the cream and pale green–painted adornment, so it wasn’t too over-the-top cutesy, but it looked like a happy house. And that had been her goal. Both for herself and her guests.
She heard his heavy boots on the steps behind her, and a little tingle shot straight down her spine. Okay, so maybe she was a teeny tiny bit hungry. But she was also a well-educated, savvy businesswoman and any second now she was going to start acting like it.
She’d already decided to fax a copy of his driver’s license over to Thad at the sheriff’s office and get him to check the guy out. Smart business even if her hormones were acting stupid…and she was admittedly curious to know more if she could. Her new guest didn’t exactly strike her as the chatty sort.
She stepped behind the small counter she’d had designed and built under the stairs where they made their turn up to the second-floor landing. “I’ll need to see your driver’s license or some other form of photo ID.” She smiled as she turned the antique guest book around, hoping her chatter made him less aware of the fact that there weren’t many names filled in before the line where his signature would go. In fact, other than Aunt Frieda, who’d come up from Florida over the summer to help her with the window treatments and the finishing touches of her interior design plan, and a small group who’d stayed for a wedding in the area around the holidays…well, the page wasn’t exactly full of scrawled names.
“Interesting book,” he said, surprising her with voluntary conversation. If you could count two words as conversation. He lifted the worn and faded leather cover to look at the front.
“I found it at an antiques market. It was the guest register for a hotel that was here back in the late eighteen hundreds when the town first started up. And, don’t worry, I use more technologically advanced record keeping, but I kind of liked the idea of the more personal touch, too.” She’d actually envisioned folks leaving little notes about their stay, perhaps coming back again and again over the years and looking back over previous entries. At the moment Kirby was just thankful that there was a stack of previously signed pages in the book. No one had to know that the signatures on those pages had been signed with a fountain pen. Well over a hundred years ago.
So, of course, he flipped back a few pages.
She kept the smile on her face and busied herself making a copy of the driver’s license he’d slid across the countertop. Great, not only was he the only current guest, but now he’d realize she wasn’t typically booked up. Ever. Made for a great setup for any number of horror movie scenarios.
Kirby turned back, smile still set in place, and handed his license back to him, belatedly realizing she’d been so distracted she hadn’t even looked at it. She’d check out the photocopy just as soon as she was alone.
She began explaining the rates, but he stopped her with, “I just need a