Clashing Hearts - Nicky James Page 0,40

my room key. Breakfast and coffee were in order. When I finished eating, I would head to the pool and swim my stress away. Before I left town, I had to return to the brewery and grab an assortment of beers for Christian. I had a feeling I was going to be spending the next millennium using him as a shield against my father’s criticism.

In the lodge restaurant once again, I waited to be seated. It wasn’t busy at this later morning hour, but as the waiter guided me to a vacant table, the heat of eyes on my back made me turn around.

A lodge employee and another server from the restaurant were standing together in the doorway to the kitchen, watching me and whispering. For all the tourism this town saw, they certainly weren’t used to outsiders. Or maybe I didn’t fit in any of their boxes, and they were trying to puzzle me out. Was it really so rare for them to see a well-dressed businessman from the city?

“Probably,” I muttered.

Ignoring them, I took my seat and waved away the menu when offered.

“Coffee. Sweetener, not sugar. Skim milk. Two pieces of lightly buttered toast. Wheat toast, not white. Strawberry jam on the side. Do you have a fruit tray?”

“We do. I believe today’s selections are oranges, grapes, melon, pineapple, and banana. Is that sufficient, sir?”

“It’ll do. Maybe a cup of low-fat yogurt too.”

“Right away.” I didn’t miss the sneer as the man ducked away toward the kitchen to place my order. I was getting sick and tired of all this small-town mentality. They seemed to expect me to be something I wasn’t.

The waiter paused where the other two lodge employees stood chatting. They shared words and more glances in my direction before parting. My waiter disappeared into the kitchen.

I scanned the restaurant, my gaze falling on an abandoned newspaper at an empty table that had recently been vacated. The dirty dishes had yet to be cleared. I slipped out of my chair and grabbed the paper before settling once again.

“The Jasper Times,” I read, chuckling and shaking my head. Who knew such a small town like this had enough news to warrant running a paper.

I unfolded it and skimmed, my amused smile fading away with the splashy headline attached to the article that took up the bottom half of the front page.

“Campbell Stables in hot water. Possible land development coming in the near future.” I glanced around the restaurant. There were no longer eyes on me, but I understood now why there had been. “How the hell does everyone know everyone’s business in this place?”

I read the article. The focus was on the financial instability of the stables and speculation as to what Easton Campbell, new title owner, was going to do about it. Was he competent enough to put a failing business back on its feet, or were there imminent changes coming to Jasper? It implied he’d met with a developer and was seriously considering selling his land. There was a vague suggestion that Easton was being manipulated by a high-end group out of Edmonton—me—and wasn’t smart enough to see through my bullshit.

I frowned. “What bullshit?”

The article cast Easton in a negative light, implying Erwin Campbell had made a hasty decision, signing over his property to his son, indirectly calling Easton stupid. It also claimed Easton was self-centered and would think only of himself when making decisions about the Campbell land.

I was torn. As much as I tended to agree with the bit about Easton being self-serving and disregarding the benefit of my offer and how it could positively affect his community as a whole, there was something in the tone of the article that didn’t sit right. I wasn’t trying to manipulate him. There was nothing underhanded happening. And why did it sound like a bad thing for Easton to accept my offer?

The journalist who’d penned the article seemed to have a grudge or a hate on for Easton, implying he was incompetent and stupid numerous times.

Those weren’t characteristics I would use to describe Easton. Stubborn, yes. Bullheaded, absolutely. Abrasive, defensive, untrusting. These adjectives I could understand, but incompetent? Stupid? No. Besides, this journalist didn’t know what he was talking about. He inferred Easton and I had talked business and were negotiating deals. We weren’t.

My food arrived, so I set the newspaper aside and offered a strained smile as thanks when my waiter set everything down. He eyed the newspaper, and I could see he wanted