The Cottages On Silver Beach. RaeAnne ThayneЧитать онлайн книгу.
always seemed so invincible but now lines bracketed his mouth and his hair was uncharacteristically rumpled. It seemed so odd to see him as anything other than perfectly controlled.
Of course he was tired. The man had just driven in from Denver. Anybody would be exhausted after an eight-hour drive—especially when he was healing from an obvious injury and probably in pain.
What happened to his arm? She wanted to ask, but couldn’t quite find the courage. It wasn’t her business anyway. Elliot was a guest of her inn and deserved all the hospitality she offered to any guest—including whatever privacy he needed and help accessing the cottage he had paid in advance to rent.
“There is a trick,” she told him. “If you pull the door slightly toward you first, then turn the key, you should be able to manage with one hand. If you have trouble again, you can find me or one of the staff to help you. I live next door.”
The sound he made might have been a laugh or a scoff. She couldn’t tell.
“Of course you live next door. I should have known.”
She frowned. What did that mean? With all the renovations to the inn after a devastating fire, she couldn’t afford to pay for an overnight manager. It had seemed easier to move into one of the cottages so she could be close enough to step in if the front desk clerks had a problem in the middle of the night.
That was the only reason she was here. Elliot didn’t need to respond to that information as if she was some loser who hadn’t been able to fly far from the nest.
“We need someone on-site full-time to handle emergencies,” she said stiffly. “Such as guests who can’t open their doors by themselves.”
“I am certainly not about to bother you or your staff every time I need to go in and out of my own rental unit. I’ll figure something out.”
His voice sounded tight, annoyed, and she tried to attribute it to travel weariness instead of that subtle disapproval she always seemed to feel emanating from him.
“I can help you this time at least.” She inserted his key, exerted only a slight amount of pull on the door and heard the lock disengage. She pushed the door open and flipped on a light inside the cheery little two-bedroom cottage, with its small combined living-dining room and kitchen table set in front of the big windows overlooking the lake.
“Thank you for your help,” he said, sounding a little less censorious.
“Anytime.” She smiled, her well-practiced, smooth innkeeper smile. After a decade of running the twenty-room Inn at Haven Point on her own, she had become quite adept at exuding hospitality she was far from feeling.
“May I help you with your bags?”
He gave her a long, steady look that conveyed clearly what he thought of that offer. “I’m good. Thank you.”
What else could she do but shrug? Stubborn man. Let him struggle. “Good night, then. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
“Yes. I do. Next door, apparently.”
“That’s right. Good night,” she said again, then returned to her front porch, where she and Cyrus settled in to watch him pull a few things out of his vehicle and carry them inside.
She could have saved him a few trips up and down those steps by lending a hand, but clearly he wanted to cling to his own stubbornness instead.
As usual, it was obvious he wanted nothing to do with her. Elliot tended to treat her as if she were a riddle he had no desire to solve.
Over the years, she had developed pretty good strategies for avoiding him at social gatherings, though it was a struggle. She had once been almost engaged to his younger brother. That alone would tend to link her to the Bailey family, but it wasn’t the only tie between them. She counted his sisters, Wynona Bailey Emmett and Katrina Bailey Callahan, among her closest friends.
In fact, because of her connection to his sisters, she knew he was likely in town at least in part to attend a big after-the-fact reception to celebrate Katrina’s wedding to Bowie Callahan, which had been a small destination event in Colombia several months earlier.
Megan had known Elliot for years. Though only five or six years older, somehow he had always seemed ancient to her, even when she was a girl—as if he belonged to some earlier generation. He seemed so serious all the time, like some sort of stuffy uncle who couldn’t be bothered with youthful shenanigans.
Hey, you kids. Get off my lawn.
He had probably never actually said those words, but she could clearly imagine them coming out of that incongruously sexy mouth.
He did love his family. She couldn’t argue that. He watched out for his sisters and was close to his brother Marshall, the sheriff of Lake Haven County. He cherished his mother and made the long trip from Denver to Haven Point for every important Bailey event, several times a year.
Which also begged the question: Why had he chosen to rent a cottage on the inn property instead of staying with one of his family members?
His mother and stepfather lived not far away and so did Marshall, Wynona and Katrina with their respective spouses. While Marshall’s house was filled to the brim with kids, Cade and Wyn had plenty of room and Bowie and Katrina had a vast house at Serenity Harbor that would fit the entire Haven Point High School football team, with room left over for the coaching staff and a few cheerleaders.
Instead, Elliot had chosen to book this small, solitary rental unit at the inn for three entire weeks.
Did his reasons have anything to do with that sling he was sporting? How had he been hurt? Did it have anything to do with his work for the FBI?
The answers to those questions were none of her business, Megan reminded herself. He was a guest at her inn, which meant she had an obligation to respect his privacy.
Elliot came back to the vehicle for one more bag, something that looked the size of a laptop, which gave her something else to consider. He had booked the cottage for three weeks. Maybe he had taken a leave of absence from his job at the FBI to work on another book.
She pulled Cyrus onto her lap and rubbed behind his ears as she considered the cottage next door and the enigmatic man currently inhabiting it. That was another component to the mystery of Elliot Bailey. Whoever would have guessed that the stiff, humorless, focused FBI agent could pen gripping true-crime books in his spare time? She would never admit it to Elliot, but she found it utterly fascinating how his writing managed to convey pathos and drama and even some lighter moments.
True crime was definitely not her groove at all but she had read his last bestseller in five hours, without so much as stopping to take a bathroom break—and had slept with her closet light on for weeks.
That still didn’t mean she wanted him living next door. At this point, she couldn’t do anything to change that. The only thing she could do was treat him with the same courtesy and respect she would any other guest at the inn.
No matter how difficult that might prove.
* * *
WHAT THE HELL was he doing here?
Elliot dragged his duffel to the larger of the cottage’s two bedrooms, where a folding wood-framed luggage stand had been set out, ready for guests.
The cottage was tastefully decorated in what he termed Western chic—bold mission furniture, wood plank ceiling, colorful rugs on the floor. A river rock fireplace dominated the living room, probably perfect for those chilly evenings along the lakeshore.
Cedarwood Cottage seemed comfortable and welcoming, a good place for him to huddle over his laptop and pound out the last few chapters of the book that was overdue to his editor.
Even so, he could already tell this was a mistake.
Why the hell hadn’t he simply told his mother and Katrina he wouldn’t be able to make it to the reception? He had flown to Cartagena for the