“We sure do. Where you folks from?”
Texas, I peg.
“Houston,” the woman says.
I smirk. Grandpa would be proud, I think, and it squeezes my heart. Guessing where a person was from based on their accent was our thing. He was the master. Until I was eight, I was in awe of his accuracy. Then I realized our reservations listed guests’ addresses. When I called him on it, he nailed every walk-in’s place of origin for a month. He loved entertaining guests by doing impressions of actors, presidents, and cartoon characters. Compared to Nana, he barely had a Polish accent. Only when he spoke Polish or shared his childhood stories did Grandpa speak with a heavy lilt.
The conversation at our reception desk regains my attention. “We’ll do whatever we can to make your stay comfortable,” Mom says. “What time do you expect to check out?”
“We’ll have to leave by six to make our flight.”
In a blink, my morning plans evaporate. Not only does Mom promise we’ll have a basket with Nana’s cinnamon rolls ready for their early departure, but our guests choose our two best suites with fireplaces and Jacuzzis. By 6:05 a.m. I’ll be turning the rooms over so they’ll be ready for when the wedding party’s out-of-town guests check in by ten.
I grab my phone and text Logan. “Sorry. Can’t meet before school.”
Without waiting for a response, I power off my phone, then head to the lobby to offer to carry the guests’ luggage to their rooms and kindle fires in their fireplaces.
What am I doing?
I’ve asked myself this question a hundred times since I crawled out of bed at four a.m., got dressed, and drove to the Lake Ontario Inn. My debate in favor and against barging in on Cade could fill dozens of notecards. Even as I trudge through knee-deep snow toward Cade’s lit first-floor bedroom window, there’s still no clear winner.
I’ve never shown up at his house this early, which is why I didn’t knock on their apartment door. I stop in my tracks, glance over my shoulder, and follow my trail past their entrance and the inn’s parking lot. There’s still time to flee. Cade never needs to know I was here.
My indecision is resolved by a bitter wind that blasts me from behind and pushes me forward. Okay, I’m going. I pull off my gloves, take my phone from my coat pocket, and text Cade. “Open your blinds. I’m outside.”
I watch for a shift of light, a sign of movement. Nothing. No surprise since my calls have gone straight to voicemail and my texts from last night have gone unanswered. Stepping forward, I tap his windowpane. My heart drums against my ribs as I wait and wait and wait for Cade. I hunch down so close that my breath forms ice crystals on the glass. A bent slat gives me a narrow view into his closet-size bedroom. His open bottom dresser drawer touches his footboard. The sheets on his twin bed are twisted into a mess. Did he sleep as badly as I did? Half the night, I went back and forth between worrying about the assignment and rehearsing what we would say to Mr. Bartley.
Now I’m worried Cade won’t return to his bedroom and I made this trip for nothing. Leave or stay? As I debate the merits of both sides, Cade strolls through his door wearing only a towel around his waist.
I’m frozen in place. Cade stops, scans his room. Did he hear me tapping on his window? He rubs his eyes, confirmation he didn’t sleep well.
Cade’s broad shoulders relax. He takes two strides to his dresser, pulls out boxers, jeans, and a sweatshirt. He really looks incredible in that towel. Look away, I tell the voyeur. And just as I turn, he drops the towel and I get a fine view of his firm butt. I scramble backward and tumble in the snow.
Several seconds later, Cade yanks up the blinds. Kneeling on his bed, he cups his hand over his eyes and presses his forehead to the windowpane. He’s not wearing a shirt, but he has jeans on.
“Cade!”
“Logan?”
“It’s me,” I say, getting to my feet.
He unlatches the window and lifts the sill. “You scared the crap out of me. What are you doing here?”
“Making snow angels and freezing my butt off.”
He laughs, and it warms me to my toes.
He motions toward my path. “I’ll meet you at the back entrance.”
As I retrace my footsteps, I try to convince myself that the shiver that ran down my spine had nothing to do with seeing Cade in a towel. Suddenly, I’m much too hot in my winter coat. Who am I fooling? Best friend falls for her best friend. I am such a cliché and I hate clichés. I so need to shut this down. Besides, I’m pretty sure Cade doesn’t feel anything more for me than friendship. If he did, wouldn’t he have made a move ages ago?
I take a deep breath and let it go, watch the steam float away. The moment I reach the apartment door, Cade opens it for me. He’s fully dressed, including his rare Dimple Zone smile. I melt right there.
“So, you came for breakfast?”
He’s teasing. I’ve never come over for any meal uninvited, even though I’ve been told I’m welcome anytime. I pull off my hat and gloves. “I got your text last night and I texted you back. If you’d had your phone on, you’d know why I’m here.” To punctuate the point, I spread my arms wide, then hang my coat on a hook as I inhale heaven. “Oh man. Nana made cinnamon rolls?”
“Fresh out of the oven.” His eyes shift to my hair, then back to my face. His lips twitch like he’s trying not to laugh. I reach up, smooth down the strands as tiny sparks of electricity make my palm tingle. He shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets and leans against the wall. “What did the text say?”
I sigh dramatically. “It said that I emailed Mr. Bartley and asked him to meet us before school to discuss the assignment.” I reach into my coat pocket and once again check my email. Mr. Bartley still hasn’t responded.
“It said that whatever chores you had to do this morning, I’d help. We’re in this together, a team, and I’m not talking with Mr. Bartley about the assignment without you.” I take a gulp of air. “What should I do first?”
He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me.
“What?”
“You know it’s four-thirty in the morning, right?”
“Really?” My voice is thick with snark. “I had no idea.”
“How many cups of coffee have you had?” There’s that grin again. He knows me so well.
I give him a playful shove, then march to the Crawford kitchen to get a cinnamon roll and my third mug of the morning.
For the past ten minutes, I’ve leaned against the wall outside Mr. Bartley’s locked classroom and watched Logan circle around like a caged lioness. We finished everything I had to do at the inn so I could be here with her. Every so often she checks her email, sighs heavily, then resumes wearing down the linoleum.