The question is why am I being called? Obviously, it has to do with Carter—my late husband. But why here and why is my presence mandatory?
How can the brothers need me? Most of them hate me.
That’s what the lawyer said. I’d be helping people. The Aldridge brothers need me. To say that I’m not curious would be a lie. It shouldn’t matter to me. I just need the money, and we can be done with these people forever. The word help, though … that pulls me like a magnet. I thrive on helping others. My parents say I’m a philanthropist by nature. Not that they like it—in fact, they hate that I dedicate my life to serving others.
The sight of the bakery makes me almost push on the break. They have the best cookies in the world and their croissants are to die for. I drive slow enough so I can look at both sides of the street. There are a few stores I don’t recognize, but others I am familiar with, like the bookstore and the diner.
I hope the small diner still has its original furniture. It was a trip to the past when we dined in that place. The wait staff and the cooks dressed in clothing from the 50s. If I could, I would stay a couple of extra days, but two days is all the time I have. Unless, I get kicked out before I even settle into my room.
Tori booked a room at The Lodge. That’s the family ski resort and where the lawyer is expecting me at noon.
“Ugh,” I groan.
I only have twenty minutes to arrive, check-in, change, and head to the conference room. I pray that it’s just the two of us. I don’t want to see any of the brothers. The last time I saw them, everyone was in a bad place. Words were said, hearts were broken, and friendships forgotten. No, that’s not true. My heart had been broken way before that day. I guess that day those fragmented pieces were pulverized.
As I arrived at The Lodge, I turn off the engine and take a deep cleansing breath. I leave my sleeping bag and my hiking backpack in the trunk and pull out the duffle bag. I’ll come for the rest later. It’s a good thing I’m close to the mountains where everyone is backpacking and planning on camping. I won’t look like an odd tourist.
Is it camping season?
Maybe not. The only time I camped here was during the 4th of July. There was some celebration over the weekend that we skipped while Hayes and I remained in the woods. My cheeks heat just thinking about him and that weekend. We didn’t explore the area, but we explored each other pretty well. I fan myself because I shouldn’t look flustered thinking about sex or Hayes while walking into the conference room.
Am I ready to see him?
No. If the memories of him affect me so much when he’s away, how am I going to react when I see him? My heart stutters at the thought of seeing him again. Back in Brazil, it was an idea that I swept under the rug. When I boarded the plane, it worried me. During the drive, I was brave and ready to attack. But as I step into the lobby, I fully accept that I’m not ready for Hayes.
I grab onto the sting of humiliation during our last encounter. His rejection, his hate. It’s not emotionally healthy to hold onto such nasty feelings, but I don’t have any other options. If I don’t raise some walls, the alternative might be throwing myself into his arms and telling him that it’s been hard to forget him. I learned that in life it is best to forget the bad and stick to the beautiful parts of your life.
He was one of those parts. Not that he’d care, which is why I have to pretend again. Like I did when Carter died. I have to fake that I don’t love him. That he doesn’t affect me. That he’s inconsequential.
“Good afternoon,” the guy behind the desk greets me. “The hostel is on the other side of town.”
“You have a hostel in this town?”
He gives me a shrug. “It’s a shelter, but it sounds better calling it a hostel?”
I glance at myself and sigh. I look and smell like I’ve been in the jungle for two weeks. That doesn’t give him the right to send me to a shelter because he doesn’t like the way I look. I’m a guest.
“Blaire Wilson,” I announce, taking my ID and credit card out of my wallet.
He scrunches his nose and says, “We reserve the right to deny accommodations.”
I slam my hand on the counter. “Listen, I don’t have time to deal with you. I have about ten minutes to take a shower, change, and go into a meeting.”
“If you don’t leave the premises, I’ll call the sheriff,” he threatens me, placing a hand on the telephone next to the computer monitor.
“What do we have here?” My breath stills at the familiar baritone voice.
Please, don’t be Hayes, I beg.
The concierge gives me an arrogant glare and then looks at the new arrival. “I’m explaining to this … lady that we reserve the right to deny accommodations.”
I turn still hoping that it’s anyone but him. My heart stops. Lungs collapse and the entire room spins. I grab onto the counter since my legs can barely sustain me.
Hayes.
Tall, dark, and breathtakingly handsome Hayes Aldridge. His green-eyed gaze focuses on me as my heart thunders inside my ribcage.
Hayes gives me a tight smile, his dimple showing, taking my breath away. He’s still annoyingly handsome. No, he’s even more handsome than when I met him. I want to run a hand through his soft chestnut colored hair and kiss the stubble of his chiseled jaw. Of course, the want has to do with my lack of sleep and lack of human touch. Nothing to do with the man.
Do I want to ask how he’s doing?
Maybe because it’s been twelve years and his father just died. I have no idea how things ended between them, but while we dated their relationship was rocky. Hayes denied how much his father’s absence hurt. I want to just hug him and say, I know it hurts but it gets better.
I don’t speak for several seconds, or maybe minutes. I can’t even move. We just stare at each other. It’s truly painful to be here in front of him as a stampede of memories rush through my head. Stepping back a bit, I remind myself that he’s my past, and he shouldn’t affect me in the present. I loved him, but now, he’s just another guy.
“Oh, it’s you,” I say, trying to mask the plethora of feelings fluttering inside me.
His bright green eyes meander along my body before he speaks, “Charming as usual. Why are you here?”
I can’t help but scrunch my nose. Charming is a word he uses a lot when he doesn’t like someone, but that person is pleasant. Suddenly it’s all too much, his scent, his presence, and the memories.
Reluctantly, I respond, “I’m guessing for the same reason as you.”
He studies me, and I hate that I can’t read him well. “You look like you’ve been in the woods for a week.”
“The Amazon Rainforest,” I correct him, my eyes meet his as I find some balance. Clearly, I wasn’t ready to see him, but I can handle the jungle, I should be able to handle him. “And it was two weeks.”
He frowns and blinks a couple of times.
“Long story,” I answer his silent question, wanting to tell him more.
Everything.
It’s been twelve years, and he’s still the first person I want to talk with after something exciting happens to me. When I started to travel, I created a blog, and every time I write for it, I imagine I’m talking to him. He was the best listener and the best problem solver, too. The thing about Hayes and I is that we just function perfectly together. We fit perfectly until he decided I wasn’t the piece that completed his puzzle.