“Apparently, she’s checking in until hell freezes over.”
Soleil giggles but when Sandra shoots daggers out of her eyes at her, she covers her mouth and pretends to cough.
“I’ll need a credit card to guarantee payment.”
I stick my hands in my pockets while Sandra taps her foot. I whistle and watch the seconds tick by on the clock. I’ll be damned if she’s staying here on my dime. I don’t want her here, and I’m certainly not paying for the displeasure of having her near.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she grumbles before fishing her pocketbook out of her purse. She removes a credit card and slaps it on the desk. “Here.”
Soleil can’t hide her smile now and she’s obviously not bothering to try. “Here you go,” she says as she glides the room pass across the desk. “Your room is on the second floor. Do you need help with your luggage?”
“Obviously. I’m not carrying it up myself.”
Does Sandra have any idea what an entitled jackass she sounds like? Guessing by her nose stuck up in the air, I’d say she does not.
“I’m out of here.”
“But we need to talk,” Sandra whines.
“No,” I tell her. “You need to come to grips with the fact that I don’t want you back.”
Soleil bursts into laughter. When Sandra glares at her, she rushes off waving her hands and muttering about coming back for the luggage in a minute.
“The people in this town are strange.”
I lock my jaw before I answer her. Answering her will only lead to an argument. I don’t have time for an argument. I need to get back to Ashlyn before she decides to burn my house down. I wish I were exaggerating. And I wish I could fault her. I can’t. Sandra isn’t the only jackass in town.
I wave and walk away before she can speak again and draw me into conversation. I push the limits of the golf cart on the way home. As soon as I’m in the driveway, I leap out and run to my front door. I rush inside.
“Ash, where are you?”
When she doesn’t answer, I go searching for her. The kitchen and living room are empty, as is her bedroom. I peek inside the closet but she’s not there either. The bathroom door is hanging open, but no one’s inside. I finally check the guest room and discover the window wide open and the screen off. Weird but whatever.
I could search the town for Ash, but if she doesn’t want to be found, she won’t be. I guess our talk will have to wait. Maybe the reprieve will give me a chance to figure out what I’m going to say. And maybe I’m telling myself whatever’s necessary to give myself an excuse to stall before we have our conversation.
I check my watch. Two o’clock. In the meantime, I’ll get back to the bakery and make sure Bryan hasn’t given all the food away. Unfortunately, I’m not joking. He once decided to give a free cupcake to anyone who could tell him a dirty joke. As if a dirty joke is a challenge for anyone in this town.
I return to the bakery, but after an hour, Bryan kicks me out for being grumpy. Being grumpy is not a communicable disease no matter what he claims.
I hurry home, but Ash hasn’t returned yet. Where the hell is she? I asked everyone who came into the bakery, but no one seems to know where she is. Should I be out canvassing the town for her? Is she lying in a ditch somewhere? It’s not normal for no one to know where the youngest West sister is.
I’m done waiting for her. I find my phone and scroll down until I reach her name. And I scroll and scroll. Shit. Ash’s number isn’t in my phone. Why don’t I have her number?
Ah, yes. Because I was determined to not get caught in her web. I guess that ship has sailed. I tap on Lyric’s name instead.
“Do you have Ash’s phone number?” I ask before he can say hello.
He chuckles. “About damn time. I’ll message it to you,” he says and hangs up.
About time? I ignore whatever insinuation he’s trying to make. Now is not the moment to revisit my hang-ups about having a relationship with anyone, let alone Ash. Hell, my hang-up drove into town today and is currently staying at the inn.
My phone beeps with a message. Ash’s number. I immediately call but no one answers. I hang up and try again. After five attempts, I give up and fling my phone onto the sofa before stalking to the window. I search the street, but there’s no sign of Ash returning.
Where is she? She shouldn’t be gallivanting around with a broken ankle. I don’t care if she has a walking cast or not. A broken ankle is a broken ankle.
I pace the living room several times before snatching my phone to try and call her again. The call connects as my door flies open.
“Hello,” Ash slurs.