Blue Moon Bride. Renee Roszel
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cold wall tile. “Get out!”
“One second.” She heard a drawer open and close. “Give me a knock when you’re through.”
“Get out!” she shrieked. She would never be able to look the man in the face again. Though it had to have been only a couple of seconds, it seemed like forever before his door closed with a solid thud. Quivery and shamed, she sank down and huddled in the depths of the cold iron tub. Drawing up her knees, she hugged them. How could she have been such a dimwit, wrapping herself in plastic like a piece of beef? Didn’t she know better?
Or was there something cunningly sinister about Roth Jerric that caused female brains to short out when he came into a room? Whichever it was, it didn’t alter the fact that she was embarrassed to the marrow of her bones. This fiasco was almost on a par with being labeled mediocre. After a moment’s reflection she shook her head. “No, this is worse, Hannah,” she muttered. “Now he thinks you’re an idiot.”
Hannah’s vow of avoiding Roth at all costs was struck another blow at breakfast, when she discovered she would be sitting elbow to elbow with the man. At least she wouldn’t have to look at him. She could eat, keep her mouth shut and let Joan Peterson, Roth and the inn’s one other guest keep the conversation flowing. Her plan was to remain mute, eat as quickly as possible and promptly escape.
She took her assigned seat and focused across the table at the dour-faced, female artist-type. She nodded a hello. The middle-aged woman eyed her without responding. Not a good sign. Please let this stranger be a babbler, she prayed, staring hopefully at the woman with long salt-and-pepper hair, pulled away from her thin face by a tie-dyed scarf. Or was it a paint rag? She wore a paint-spattered T-shirt and no bra. Though Hannah couldn’t see her lower half, she guessed she had on jeans decorated with the same random splatters of paint. What did she do, throw her oils at canvases?
Hannah had a bad feeling that the artist wasn’t much of a talker. On the upside, she knew Joan to be an avid conversationalist. They’d met online in a chat room. It had been a time when Hannah had felt terribly vulnerable, right after her resignation. She’d needed to pour out her heart, and an anonymous online chat room seemed like as good a place as any.
Their fortuitous meeting and acquaintanceship had blossomed into an online friendship, resulting in Hannah winning this free stay. In all honesty, she had doubts that this trip was an actual “win” in any real contest. She sensed it was more like a good deed. She’d gotten to know Joan well enough to know she was extremely kindhearted and caring.
Whatever the catalyst, the “prize” came in the mail in the form of a coupon to be redeemed “in person” at the Blue Moon Inn. At the time Hannah had been so unhappy, how could she refuse a free, two-week stay on Oklahoma’s most beautiful lake? It was a dream come true.
She sighed wistfully. If only Roth Jerric had gone anyplace else in the world for his vacation, it would have been perfect. He could afford anyplace in the world, she grumbled mentally. She reached for the coffee carafe at the same instant Roth did. Their hands touched. She felt a shock and an odd disorientation. “Excuse me,” she mumbled, withdrawing her hand.
“No problem.” He lifted the coffee and poured her a cup. “Cream?” he asked, as he gave himself a cup and passed the carafe to Mrs. Peterson, who had just seated herself.
Hannah shook her head but couldn’t seem to respond. He smelled good, like sandalwood and leather.
“Cream?” he asked again, his hand hovering over the small ironstone pitcher. Apparently he didn’t notice her head shake. “No,” she said, more forcefully than necessary.
Both the artist and Joan glanced her way, appearing concerned. She cleared her throat and smiled lamely. At least she could talk again. “No, thank you,” she repeated levelly, without looking at Roth.
“I’ll have some,” Joan said. “I love lots of good, honest, real cream in my coffee. None of those nondairy, nonfat, non-taste counterfeits for me or my guests.” After pouring herself a healthy shot, she placed the container between her plate and the artist’s, then she broke off a piece of ham and leaned down, looking below the table. “Here, Missy Mis, now be a good girl and don’t beg.”
“I don’t eat fat,” the artist said, her voice low and husky as a man’s.
Joan glanced toward the thin, austere woman. “Mona, dear, I’m aware of that. But you’re a fine artist, so I forgive you that shortcoming.” She patted Mona’s knobby hand. “Have we all met each other?” She glanced at Hannah and Roth.
“Hannah and I have met,” Roth said.
Joan’s expression closed for the briefest second. “Yes, I recall.” Her smile returned, though not as jolly. “This is Mona Natterly, a frequent visitor.” She patted Mona’s hand again. “Every year she abides with me for the entire summer, then an occasional stopover during the rest of the year.” Joan indicated the couple across from the artist. “Mona, this is Hannah Hudson, my dear Internet friend and this…” She hesitated, giving Roth a peculiarly disapproving look. Or did she? It was so brief Hannah couldn’t be sure. “This is Ross—Johnson.”
“Roth Jerric,” he amended, smiling in Mona’s direction. “Happy to meet you.”
Just how do you know he’s smiling, Hannah? She berated herself. You promised yourself not to look at the man, and here you are staring at his profile. She shifted her attention away.
“By the way, Ross,” Joan went on, undeterred, “did you give my message to the sheriff?”
“He called.”
The older woman looked perturbed. “He called? He didn’t come out?”
“He had to respond to a wreck.”
Joan sniffed. “Well, it’s his loss.”
“He said something odd on the phone—apologizing about the blue moon?”
Joan’s attention had shifted to her coffee mug, but at the mention of the blue moon, she refocused on him. “As I said, it’s his loss.”
“What did he mean?” Roth prodded.
Hannah glanced his way, curious about the turn of the conversation. She scanned the side of his face, his sharp cheekbones, slightly arched nose and handsomely sculpted chin. Her gaze caught and held on the slashing dimple in his cheek, sinisterly charming.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss it now,” Joan said, stiffly. “Perhaps in a few days, when I’m less crestfallen.”
The remark surprised Hannah. She glanced at Joan. The elderly woman met her gaze then shifted her attention to Roth. “Fate has spoken.” She sighed loudly. “I’ll buck up.” She patted Roth’s hand. “I’m sure you’re a nice man, Mr. Johnson.”
“It’s Jerric, but thanks,” Roth said.
Hannah couldn’t tell from his dry tone if Joan’s eccentricity of continually botching his name annoyed him or if he was merely unsatisfied with her response. Nevertheless, she refused to check his expression. She’d stared at him more than enough for one morning. Disturbed that she’d noticed him at all, she forced herself to concentrate on her hostess. “Why are you crestfallen, Joan?”
The woman’s smile grew melancholy. “Sweet girl, one of these days we’ll sit down and have a good talk about—everything. But right now, forgive me. It’s too close to my heart at the moment.” She peered at Roth, then resumed eye contact with Hannah. “I just hope Madam Fate knows what she’s doing,” she said, regaining her pleasant expression. “Now, enjoy your breakfast. A sour disposition brings on a sour stomach, and I certainly don’t want any sour stomachs at my inn.”
“But—”
“Eat, dear,” Joan cut in, then shifted her attention to the artist. “Mona, how is your oatmeal?”
“Fine.”
Hannah lost