“He asked about using the gym.”
Molly waggled her brows. “So he’s fit then?”
The image of his muscular biceps leapt into Grace’s mind, complete with the little bit of ink peeking from his sleeve. What was the tattoo?
“Eye color?”
“Brown.” Grace let that slip before thinking twice.
Molly’s eyes gleamed with glee. “You noticed.”
“You can’t help but notice.” Grace turned her attention to the napkin. “You’ll see.”
The silver stopped clinking as Molly stilled. “Okay, you can’t not explain that comment.”
She was like a lion chewing on a bloody carcass. Grace expelled a breath, trying to formulate what it was about him. “I don’t know, he’s very . . . intense, I guess. He takes in everything.”
“Including you?”
Grace ignored her.
“So he’s an observer?”
“Yes, but not just that. It’s like he’s, I don’t know, wired for 240 or something.”
“What does that even mean? He’s hyper?”
“No, the opposite. Wired on the inside, like super alert or something. He’s actually kind of eerily still and quiet—and maybe a little guarded.”
Molly arched a brow. “That’s a lot of impression from fifty words.”
Grace started to reply just as Molly’s gaze darted past Grace to the doorway.
Just as a throat cleared. A very male throat.
Grace sucked in a breath. Please, no. Her eyes widened on Molly, hoping against hope it was their brother with a frog in his throat or something.
Molly’s eyes, equally wide, swung back to Grace. Her expression told Grace everything she needed to know.
How long had he been standing there? How much had he heard? And why on earth hadn’t they shut the door? Grace’s face heated a degree or ten. It had to be a veritable beacon by now.
“Is the restaurant open for lunch?” he asked, in that low, yummy drawl.
Molly gave Grace an Oh! look before her eyes swung back to Wyatt, her lips curving into a professional smile. “Of course. Come on in and have a seat anywhere. I’ll let Miss Della know you’re here.”
Grace gave her sister a pleading look, nuanced with desperation. Don’t you dare leave me! But Molly raced for the kitchen as if a swarm of bees were on her heels.
Thanks a lot, Grace telegraphed to the back of Molly’s head.
Grace resumed folding the napkin, her fingers now trembling. She messed up and started over. She kept her back to the doorway, giving the flame in her face time to extinguish. She heard a chair scrape the floor in the corner of the room. Heard it squeak as his weight settled into it.
She glanced toward the kitchen door, willing Molly to return quickly.
She didn’t.
Long seconds ticked by. One napkin folded. Two. Finally, the last one. She placed it on the table and turned to leave, lifting her chin a notch and arranging her expression into a bland smile.
Wyatt was facing the entry, so she could hardly avoid eye contact without being rude.
“Have a nice lunch,” she said as she scuttled from the room.
“Will do.”
She could’ve sworn the corner of his lips twitched before the menu came up to block his face. When she’d dreamed of seeing his smile before, this wasn’t at all what she’d had in mind.
Chapter Four
Wyatt stared at the unfolded trail map from the comfort of his car. It was possible he’d underestimated the difficulty of his objective in Bluebell. He thought he’d find the place he was looking for in the court records or in the police station’s records. But the former hadn’t turned up the details he needed, and the latter had been destroyed in a flood.
The desk sergeant he’d spoken with was eager to help once Wyatt showed his badge, but there was nothing the man could do. The file was gone, and the officer on duty all those years ago had since passed away.
Wyatt surveyed the trail map. He’d forgotten the thousands of acres that surrounded the little town. Had forgotten how many miles of trails wound through those mountains. He’d only been twelve that summer and was following his mom, not paying attention to where they were going.
But he knew there’d been a waterfall nearby. And a rock formation he could still see in his mind’s eye. That was how he’d found his way . . . afterward.
He looked up at the trailhead, at the sign that read Lone Creek Falls. Had to start somewhere.
He exited his car, shouldered the backpack, and checked the position of his Glock. He didn’t anticipate trouble, but he’d learned long ago that a weapon was excellent prevention.
He started up the trail, glad for the absence of tourists. His company this evening came in the form of nattering squirrels, tweeting birds, and scurrying chipmunks.
The sun was still burning hot, and the shade of the woods was a welcome reprieve, as was the breeze that rustled the treetops. The air was heavy with the scent of pine and the earthy smell of decaying leaves. Strangely, these were not the smells that triggered him. Instead, it was the scent of wood smoke on clothes, which thankfully wasn’t present at the moment.
He turned his thoughts to the lake house—the Bluebell Inn now. Though the exterior looked largely the same, the interior had undergone radical changes, particularly the upstairs. Still, it had been easy enough remembering his mother trotting down the stairs or his dad lounging on the front porch with a book. They’d spent a lot of time outside during those summers, Wyatt swimming or fishing, his mom never far away. And of course, they’d also gone camping regularly.
He shoved the thought from his mind with the determination of a Navy SEAL. He’d have to let his mind go there eventually, but not until he found the spot. Then he would make the memory his playground. He was, after all, trained to do the very thing others ran from.
For now he could find better things to think about.
An image of the pretty innkeeper danced into his mind, loosening his muscles, turning up his mouth. He’d been intrigued from the moment he’d seen her striding down the hall. By way of keeping his mind occupied, he tallied up everything he knew about Grace Bennett so far.
She was young—twenty-one or twenty-two. She wore her heavy mane of honey-blonde hair in a ponytail, a few wisps framing her perfect oval face. A thick fringe of lashes bordered her eyes, which at first glance appeared clear blue. But a closer inspection turned up flecks of silver and an interesting ring of amber around the pupil. One eyebrow arched slightly higher than the other, giving her a sardonic look. But he had yet to see if her personality bore that out.
Her nose was straight and unassuming. Her lips full and pouty. There was the tiniest scar on her chin, left of center.
When she was nervous she covered by standing tall and lifting her chin, but if that didn’t give her away, she had another tell—she rubbed her lips together as if she’d just applied lip gloss.
She was a blusher. That had been a surprise. In the dining room she’d tried to hide her face, but the tips of her ears had given her away. She was probably as embarrassed at having been caught discussing a guest as she was about the content of her dialogue.
He’d heard some interesting things and admittedly took perverse pleasure in making eye contact with her as she tried to sneak away.