Or was he simply losing his mind?
By the time he made it back to the reception desk, Rose and Lilah had turned it over to a night clerk named Peter, who was a cousin of Rose. He nodded to the older man as he turned the corner and walked through the lobby entrance to the Goose. The establishment boasted a street entrance as well, with the old, ornately trimmed oak bar and most of the tables oriented toward that door and the large windows facing the street. Tonight, drawn blinds covered the windows to keep the heat in and block out the blizzard. Unlike the inn, which did the bulk of its business during the tourist season, the Goose generally drew the locals in year-round for food, drinks, and conversation. The evening’s foul weather, however, kept all but the diehards away.
Scarred hardwood floors muted his footsteps as he entered, so none of the five patrons sitting at the bar turned to greet him. They would have, had they sensed him, since the group consisted of Mad, Wing, Jorg, Lilah, and Rose. Instead, they stayed in deep, huddled conversation with Ford Langley—former Army special forces—and current owner of The Tipsy Goose. At the moment, Ford stood behind the bar, one tattooed forearm resting on the surface, listening intently as Rose spoke.
“…very pretty, yes. But very”—she swirled her hands across her face—“fancy. City-fancy. And Shanahan brings her up here in the middle of a March blizzard, I think to help her get to know the town, and he books her a standard room.” She slammed her hand down on the bar. “What kind of Sh kahaadi does that?”
“A standard room would be a step up from most of my nights at the inn,” Wing interjected. “Hell, a room would be a step up. I’ve slept on that pool table”—he jerked a thumb toward the back of the bar—“more nights than I care to admit.”
Mad threw a peanut shell at him. “And you’ve bedded down in the kennel even more nights than you’ve slept on the pool table.”
“Har. Har.” He brushed the shell off his arm. “My point is, a standard room suits most people just fine, right? The inn gets visitors from all over Canada and the lower forty-eight and has loads of five-star reviews. I don’t hear people complaining about their accommodations.”
“But those are tourists. Visitors, as you said. We are not trying to get them to move here.”
“Well, hell, Rose,” Ford laughed, and drew a pint of his own, local brew for himself. “I can’t believe such a modern, independent businesswoman as yourself automatically assumes the girl is going to up stakes and move to the boy’s hometown. Maybe Shanahan’s fancy L.A. woman isn’t moving to Captivity to be with him. Maybe he plans to move to Cali to be with her?”
Jorg straightened on his barstool. “Then who runs the airfield?”
Wing turned to Ford. “Yeah. If Trace moves to Los-fucking-Angeles, who runs Captivity Air and Freight?”
“Not Bridge,” Mad announced with the authority of someone who served as an occasional sex toy for the woman in question—Trace’s sister—but at least Mad had the wisdom and decency not to flaunt the fact in front of Trace, so he wasn’t forced to send his friend and employee to a shallow, unmarked grave. “She’d go batshit in a week if she got stuck behind a desk dealing with payroll and accounts payable and all the other paperwork.”
“Yah. Yah,” Jorg agreed, and everyone, to a person, nodded.
“Would he sell, do you think?” Wing asked, sounding genuinely appalled at the idea.
And this is why you lied about Isabelle’s reason for coming here, he mentally justified, and tried to ignore the stab of guilt that came from hiding his true intent from people who trusted him.
“No way.” Mad shook his head. “The Shanahan family founded that airfield. Two generations built it from a plot of ground to what it is today. For Trace and Bridget, it’s like, their legacy. He couldn’t sell his stake.”
Ah, Jesus. Could and would. And it was nobody’s damn business but his own. He’d disappoint people when news of the sale finally broke. So be it. They’d figure out soon enough that Skyline’s investment benefitted everyone.
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Rose said ominously. “She wears no ring. Talking marriage, but no ring yet. I think this trip is like a deciding time. If we want her to decide yes—yes to Trace and yes to Captivity—we’re going to have to help him convince her. So far, I am not impressed by his efforts.”
“Hey, he got her here,” Mad pointed out.
Rose gestured toward the battened down windows. “This is her first impression of Captivity. Tell me, how is she going to fall in love with the town when it’s buried in snow?” Next, she pointed at the ceiling. “A standard room is nice, but nothing special. A man trying to be persuasive should aim to do the special, right?”
The others nodded in agreement.
“And no ring. Why no ring? Did he not think to get one before he tossed, ‘You should marry me,’ at her? Or did she suggest they wait? Either way, I say he has not properly sealed the deal. Worse, even after I upgraded them to a romantic room, and sent Lilah to deliver champagne, he came back downstairs, alone, in less than fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes!” She shook her head. “Jorg could do better.”
“Hah. I would like the chance to try. That’s for sure.” He clicked his beer to Ford’s.
Well, Jesus. People drew conclusions awfully fast around here.
“You didn’t see their lip-lock at the airfield,” Wing said. “I got chemistry burns just watching them go at each other.”
Wing deserved a raise.
And Trace needed a cold shower just remembering locking lips with Isabelle—the feel of her pressing urgently against him, the scent of her. The taste of her.
“A woman who flies two thousand miles through a blizzard hopes for more than a nice kiss. She wants some fireworks at the end of the journey,” Rose insisted. “Fifteen minutes is not fireworks. It is a dud. No woman travels this far for such a pathetic reunion. She certainly doesn’t stick around for more of the same. If that is the best he can do, he needs lessons—”
“Hey, Trace,” Ford called and straightened. Wearing a deliberately blank expression, he began wiping the bar with a towel.
Five equally blank faces turned to greet him.
He was going to have to up his game, apparently. “Hi, guys. Hey, Ford, can I put a to-go order in for some dinner? My guest needs sustenance after…ah.” He cleared his throat meaningfully. “After.” There. That ought to go some ways toward dispelling any doubts about his ability to set off a few fireworks in fifteen minutes or less.
Rose swiveled on her barstool and faced him. “I can go to our kitchen, make her a nice meal and have Lilah bring it up to you. Authentic Alaskan king crab, pacific halibut, or Chinook salmon? Or a steak, if she prefers? Something special.” She emphasized the word.