Or to stand beside her listening to the doctors in case she missed something.
Or someone else to plan the funeral.
Or to come to the funeral, so she didn’t have to sit alone.
“Yes, sir, nonsmoking,” Maura said into the phone. “Yes, I have ya down for the twentieth.”
Jennifer half-listened to Maura’s call as she booked a guest. The front lobby was small but newly painted. A rack of brochures for local sights hung on the wall. There was even one for Crimson Tavern with a picture of tater tot nachos. The image made her think of the night before. They’d had a party of seven show up late, which made her shift last longer. It would have been fine except they’d tipped her a dollar apiece—seven bucks for two extra hours of waiting on a one-hundred-thirteen-dollar tab.
Assholes.
After her shift, she’d walked home. A puppy had run in front of a passing car, almost getting hit. She’d chased after the animal to keep it safe, knowing it was stupid to cut off the path and go into the woods alone at night. Then…
Glowing hands.
That was it. Glowing freaking hands.
“All right, sir. Will do. Uh-huh. Ya too.” Maura hung up the phone.
“I thought people booked online these days,” Jennifer said.
“Some guests like talking to people instead of machines,” Maura answered as she finished typing on the computer. She scratched behind her ear. “What were we talking about? Oh, yeah, my crazy family in the mansion.”
“Who are ya calling crazy?” A man came from the back room.
Jennifer stiffened at the sight of him. Even without the Scottish accent, he looked related to Maura. Blond highlights tipped his brown hair, and though neatly cut, it stuck up in a messy style. The lobby felt even smaller with him in it. The air seemed to pull out of the room, and she took an unsteady breath.
The man’s green eyes met hers. A charming smile graced his lips, but his eyes carried a different emotion, a question she didn’t know how to answer. Seeing him filled her with mixed feelings. He wore a tight black t-shirt and a kilt—a freaking kilt!—that showed off his calves and knees. As a single woman who had no prospects for a boyfriend, she instantly noted his attractiveness. The man was doable, in the crassest sense of the word.
Her attraction wasn’t what alarmed her. That much was to be expected. It was the seed of rage that tried to grow. There was an itch inside her hands to punch that smile from Rory’s face.
Seriously, what the heck?
First, she had no reason to want to injure a stranger. Second, she didn’t punch people. Third, what was happening to her?
“Bloody hell, Rory, stop staring at the poor girl,” Maura scolded. “This is my new friend, Jennifer. Jennifer, ignore my brother. For some reason, he was born without manners. I begged ma to trade him for a pony, but for some reason, she kept him.”
Friend? Aside from Kay at work, that was the first time anyone in Green Vallis had used the word in relation to her. And Kay only used it when she wanted something.
“Jennifer?” Maura asked. “Everything all right?”
Jennifer made a weak noise and nodded. “Sorry, I’m a little pre-coffee.” She pushed the rage down and took a deep breath. It did little to calm the emotion. “So, Maura’s brother? You’re responsible for the cupid room?”
“Oh, hell no,” Rory denied. “That’s my brother, Cory.”
“Cory and Rory?” she repeated.
Another man joined them from the back.
“My name is Bruce. Not Cory.” Rory’s identical twin might have looked like his brother, but his hair and manner of dress were completely opposite.
Rory looked like he had biweekly visits to the barber and took time picking out his clothes. Bruce appeared to have rolled out of bed and just grabbed what was closest. Colorful swatches of paint had dried on his hands. They weren’t colors she would expect to see on motel walls.
“Cory and Rory sound like the opening act to Howdy Doody,” Bruce added. “Nice to meet ya, Jennifer. Welcome to Hotel Motel.”
“We’re changing the name,” Maura said. “Hotel Motel is stupid.”
“I think it has charm,” Bruce said. “Kind of an ironic play on class perception. What makes a hotel better than a motel? Or is a motel better? And why do we feel the need to make such distinctions? What do ya think, Jennifer?”
“I think…” Jennifer felt as if there was a conversation happening beneath the surface that she wasn’t privy to hearing. Or, she needed that coffee. Whatever was happening, she saw them all looking at her for an answer, and she felt compelled to say something smart. “I think for some reason motels remind me of a 1950s road trip, or the Bates Motel.”
Well, if not smart, at least honest.
“Oh—” Bruce began in obvious excitement.
“No,” Maura interrupted, lifting her hand to cut off her brother’s idea before it even formed. “Ya are not making a Psycho-themed suite. Your damned cherubs already sent Jennifer screaming from the room. I told ya no one wants to wake up to Cupid’s butt in their face.”
“It’s a play on the commercialization of romance,” Bruce explained. “Like Valentines Day.”
“What you’re saying is the cherub suite has nothing to do with the fact a cherub shot Rory in the ass at Euann’s wedding,” Maura replied.
“Hey,” Rory protested.
“Best Christmas card ever.” Bruce laughed.
“You must be an artist,” Jennifer surmised.
Bruce lifted his paint-covered hands and grinned. “What gave it away?”
Jennifer glanced at Rory. He smiled, and his eyes still questioned. He didn’t say anything to her, merely watched.
“So, I have to ask. Is there a reason people call you Cory? Or is it just a rhyming nickname?” Jennifer glanced around for a coffeepot. The fog in her head had started to clear but could use a little help.
“No reason,” Bruce answered.
“Yes, reasons,” Maura corrected. “We call him that for a couple of reasons. First, because he dressed like a certain actor in the 1980s—there was a lot of gel and makeup involved. It was quite tragic.”
“And second?” Jennifer asked.
“Because it irritates him,” Rory said with a grin.
A chill worked over her at the sound of his voice. Her right hand shook before tightening into a fist. Jennifer grabbed the fist with her free hand and pried the fingers open.
“Which one of you found me?” Jennifer asked, staring at Rory. “Or is there another brother?”
“I did, with my uncle Raibeart,” Rory answered.
Was the reason she was so angry with him in that knowledge somewhere?
Jennifer knew she should thank him, but she couldn’t force the words out of her mouth. “What were you doing in the woods?”
“Night stroll,” he said.
She felt he was lying to her.
She also had no proof of it.
When she didn’t comment, he continued, “When we found ya, ya weren’t making much sense. I honestly thought ya were drunk, so we brought ya here to sleep it off.”
“Drunk,” she repeated, doubtful. She couldn’t drink at work.
“Ya smelled like it,” Rory said.