A Place with Briar. Amber Leigh Williams
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carefully rolled her head on her shoulders, leaning back against her chair and blinking around the room.
One look at the bills and bank statements spread across the table made her groan. She’d fallen asleep while doing the bookkeeping again. Now there was no time to prep for this week’s guest.
Briar straightened and a sharp twinge cruised up her spine. The chair creaked as she pushed to her feet. Her arches were still sore from the day before, but she slipped them into the shoes she’d toed off under the table and ran her hands over her hair, hoping she looked at least half-decent in yesterday’s clothes. One look at her reflection in the window over the sink reassured her. She didn’t look as fresh as she would have liked, but she wasn’t going to scare anyone off.
With her unawares, it had shaped up to be a glorious morning. The bay water was moody gray and choppy under a stiff breeze from the north. The north wind served as a relief to those on the Gulf Coast, buffering dangerous tropical weather.
June marked the first month of hurricane season, and like all other business and home owners, Briar had already checked the inn generator and readied the storm shutters. If El Niño came knocking on Mobile Bay’s door, she had little to do except stockpile batteries, gasoline, canned goods and water. Then wait for it to be over.
Hanna’s Inn had stood the test of weather and time for over thirty years. Unless any of the tropical waves roiling far out in the Atlantic turned into a storm of Frederic, Ivan or Katrina proportions, Hanna’s and Briar would ride it out like any other.
The four guest suites were quiet on the second floor. Briar’s stomach knotted, the silence pressing against her eardrums. The local small-business economy had suffered hard over the past few years. She had hoped summer would lure tourists and revenue to the Eastern Shore as well as Hanna’s.
It was June and the guest calendar still looked utterly vacant. The only name on the page was a single man’s. Cole Savitt. She rarely booked singles, this time of the year, especially. Fairhope, with its easy proximity to Alabama’s white-sand beaches, was the perfect place to bring a family or loved one for a cozy, Southern-style getaway. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem as if many people were getting away.
The man was probably in town strictly for business, she thought. And with the weather behaving strangely well for June, wouldn’t that be a shame?
As she moved through the swinging door, she shifted her unease to the back of her mind. She couldn’t leave her guest waiting any longer, not to change or ruminate over her financial difficulties and all the uncertainties ahead. Her mother might have died a year ago, but that didn’t change the fact that Briar now singularly owned and operated the inn Hanna Browning had built from the ground up.
“Mr. Savitt,” she called as she walked into the entryway. The room was awash with morning light, and the man who stood with his back to her, backpack slung over one shoulder and motorcycle helmet in hand, slowly turned. There were sunshades over his eyes, but the frown that greeted her stopped her in her tracks.
Her hand fluttered to her stomach and she sucked in a breath. “I...I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”
* * *
BEHIND THE SHADES, Cole’s eyes locked on the innkeeper like heat-seeking missiles, moving only to rove her fair features. Flushed cheeks, honey-brown eyes, a dainty chin and ripe lips he knew would taste sweet just by looking at them.
His throat went dry and his heart rebounded. Her shoulder-length hair fell in natural streaks of gold, blond and fairest brown. Her slender form was covered in a trim khaki skirt and a pink silk blouse.
There was nothing suggestive or mysterious about her beauty. It was vulnerable and soft, a whisper of wind in a rainless summer. Her eyes beamed sincerity and a touch of timidity.
This was the mark, as Tiffany had described her. The woman whose financial ruin would be his ex-wife’s gain.
Cole wanted to touch her. It wasn’t a sensual need—instead, a knee-jerk urge, an instinct from another life to protect, shelter and shield.
When she only stared at him, lips slightly parted, he realized he was supposed to respond. “Oh. No problem, ma’am. I was just looking around.”
All too quickly, she dropped her gaze and walked around the podium. “Welcome to Hanna’s.”
He hesitated before crossing the room, his own greeting lodged in his throat.
“If you’ll just sign here, please.” She shifted the leather-bound sign-in book so he could initial. When he removed his glasses, he watched her lips part again in surprise as she searched his eyes.
He dropped them to the page in front of him, knowing all his secrets lurked there in his eyes—a window to his all-too-haunted soul. Without a word, he scrawled his signature on the line she’d indicated.
“Thank you.” She opened the drawer of the cabinet behind her and palmed a set of keys. “These are yours, Mr. Savitt.”
He pocketed them. “I paid ahead, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” she said, a hospitable grin twitching the corners of her mouth. “Your receipt is included in this packet.”
“I’m sorry the reservation was made on such short notice. I was going to stay at The Grand, but a family member more familiar with the area recommended your place, instead.”
“I think you’ll find Hanna’s more convenient,” she told him. “It’s closer to town—a quick walk if the heat isn’t oppressive. Your stay is for two weeks, but feel free to extend it if you need to. Just let me know a day or two ahead of your check-out date.”
“That’s great, thanks.” His eyes found hers again. They searched for a moment, clinging to the warmth he saw.
She took a short gulp of air and circled the podium. “I’ll show you to your room. May I help with your luggage?”
He shook his head, shouldering the pack he’d dropped at the door. “Thanks, but this is it.”
“Follow me, then.” She led him into a small sitting room infused with more cinnamon and the soothing aroma of fresh coffee. A small half-moon sofa faced windows that beamed soft, natural light.
“This is where most of my guests like to come in the mornings to socialize, read the paper and check the weather,” she explained as she took them past this room and up the staircase to the private suites. “I hope you don’t mind being the only one here for the time being.”
“I like the quiet.” That at least was the truth. He pocketed his hands when they itched to finger the silken hair that fell straight to her shoulders. “I’m not much company.”
“Me, either,” she admitted with a nervous lilt of a laugh. She glanced back at him. “I try to find as many quiet moments as possible. A guilty pleasure, I reckon.”
“I imagine that’s difficult, finding time for yourself,” he said as they stepped onto the second-floor landing. “Operating a place like this.” The antique breakfront standing against the wall opposite the stairs added its own cedar scent to the corridor. The spicy aroma made him feel more at ease than the magnolia at the entrance and the evident polish of the interior. “Do you run it alone?”
“Yes.” Her smile slipped out of place for a moment before she recovered from the slight hitch and her eyes shone again. “It’s been in the family for some time, but it’s just me for now.”
He frowned. Seemed a great deal for one person to handle. Tiffany would be relieved, however, that there weren’t other owners to contend with. For now, at least. “It’s nice,” he offered.
“Thank you,” she said, leading him to his suite door. “This is yours. I reserved the best bay view for you.”
When he stepped into the room, surprise filtered through him.
The wooden floor gleamed under the morning glow just like the bay water visible