Driving? To Las Vegas? “I could take you to the airport tomorrow.” It was only two hours away. Not that I had two hours to spare, but I’d find the time.
“Nah. I’ll hit the road. Find a hotel along the way. Get there tomorrow before my interview Friday.”
“Oh. Um, all right. When are you coming back?”
If Jasper heard the desperation and disappointment in my voice, he didn’t let it show. “Next week sometime. I’m not sure. I might stick around Vegas for a while. Check in on my house. Hit the old gym.”
In my imagination, I heard a piece of paper tear in two. Rrrrrip. There went our marriage certificate.
This was Jasper stepping back, wasn’t it? Planning his life. Leaving Montana.
I was supposed to have a couple more weeks.
Guess not.
“Drive safe.” My voice wobbled.
Jasper rounded the corner, forcing me to turn and face him. Then he framed my face with his hands, dropping a chaste kiss to my mouth. “The fridge is full of food. I even made you cookies. Which means there’s no reason for you to turn on the oven.”
I gave him a small smile. “No oven. Got it.”
Jasper’s brown eyes searched mine. So I searched his right back, wishing I could hear whatever thoughts were in that gorgeous head. Would he miss me?
I’d miss him.
Now. Later.
I was afraid that I’d miss him for the rest of my life.
“Will you text me updates as you drive?” I asked. “So I won’t worry?”
He nodded, kissing my forehead. Then he was gone, walking out the door.
To start the next phase of his life.
It was time to plan mine.
The Eloise Inn. That was the goal. I couldn’t let a couple months of incredible sex with Jasper steer me off that path. So I waited until Mateo returned with his coffee, then spent an hour wandering the hallways, up and down each floor, smiling to guests passing by. Taking mental notes of what I’d change when—if—the hotel was mine.
By the time I made it home, I was starving. Jasper hadn’t lied about the food in the fridge. It was teeming with storage containers, each labeled. I snagged the one marked fish tacos. The tortillas were on the counter. So were the cookies.
Everything was set.
For me to eat alone.
For me to stay alone.
How long had he known about this interview? How long had he planned this trip?
“Last minute, my ass,” I muttered.
Instead of taking the food to the table and eating my dinner alone, I balanced it in one hand while I snagged my purse with the other and marched outside, climbing in my car and driving back to town.
Lyla was dressed in sweats when she answered the door to her house. Gray joggers and a matching hoodie. She was also wearing that freaking fake smile. “Hey. What are you doing here? Everything okay?”
“No, it’s not okay. Stop being so nice. And happy. It’s weird.”
“Me being happy is weird?”
“You know what I mean, Lyla. You’ve been acting strange since you found out about Jasper. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I had no idea that you liked him.”
The fa?ade slipped as she crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not. You’re upset.”
“I’m embarrassed,” she corrected. “It was just . . . embarrassing.”
My heart pinched. “I’m sorry.”
Lyla straightened, waving it off. “You didn’t know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” It wasn’t like Lyla to keep her crushes a secret, especially from Talia and me. Usually half of Quincy knew she liked a guy before they even had a date.
“I don’t know.” She lifted a shoulder. “But if you’re happy with Jasper, then I’m glad I didn’t.”
Because had I known she liked him, our night beside the fountain in Vegas would have been entirely different.
That made both of us glad. Otherwise I never would have known Jasper.
“What’s that?” Lyla pointed to the container and tortillas in my hand.
“Dinner. Jasper had to leave, and I don’t want to eat alone. How do you feel about fish tacos?”
“Um, well, that depends. Did you make them?”
I giggled, feeling some of the tension in my frame melt away. “No, Jasper did.”
“He made sure you had food while he was gone? Aww.” Lyla pressed a hand to her heart. “That’s sweet.”
It was sweet. And annoying. Because he hadn’t told me he was leaving.
“This dinner comes at a price,” I told her.
“Wine?”
“And your guest bedroom. Can I have a sleepover?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ELOISE
Blaze, you are killing me. I spun in a slow circle, taking in the hotel room he’d just cleaned.
Or attempted to clean? At what point did people stop giving an A for effort?
The bed was rumpled, the pillows askew against the headboard. The towels in the bathroom weren’t folded into neat piles, but rather tossed together haphazardly. The trash can beside the television hadn’t been emptied and he’d forgotten to vacuum.
“Okay, Blaze.” I turned, ready to rattle off the list of everything he needed to fix. Except Blaze wasn’t standing beside the cleaning cart where he’d been a minute ago. “Blaze?”
Nothing.
I groaned, walking to the door and checking the hallway. Empty.
“Seriously?” I muttered. If I wasn’t correcting this kid, I was chasing him around the damn hotel.
At least this time I had a hunch where he was hiding.
I tucked the cleaning cart closer to the wall so it would be out of the way for people walking by, then headed for the stairwell, jogging from the second floor to the first. As expected, Blaze was at the reception counter, talking to Taylor.
From the strained expression on her pretty face, she was sick of Blaze too.
“Blaze,” I snapped, drawing his attention.
Behind his thick, black-framed glasses, he rolled his eyes. This kid didn’t even try to hide his annoyance. I needed both hands to count the number of eye rolls and muttered insults I’d earned since Friday.
“Go upstairs and fix that room,” I said. “Make the bed nice. Fold the towels in a stack. Empty the garbage can. And vacuum.”
“I did vacuum,” he argued.
“Then vacuum again.” Maybe if I sent him up there to vacuum three times, he’d manage to get the whole floor.
“Fine,” he grumbled, his footsteps heavy as he passed by. Blaze walked with his eyes on the floor, shoulders rounded in. His black hair, severely parted down the middle, flopped into his face, probably hiding another eye roll.
We didn’t have a dress code for the housekeepers. It was more important to me that they were comfortable as they cleaned than to have them in a uniform. Most cleaned in jeans, tees and tennis shoes. Not once had I needed to ask an employee to wear something different. Not once, in all my years as manager.
When Blaze had come in on Friday to complete his new-hire paperwork, he’d arrived in a pair of jeans that he’d decorated with black marker. He’d written line after line of Fuck You Mom on those jeans, down his thighs all the way to his ankles.
Poor Lydia. I hoped she didn’t do his laundry.